Oh

I arrived at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institute at Smithfield in May of 2010. After I was processed by the intake sergeant, he told me my housing unit assignment, and handed me a bedroll. I looked at it with curiosity. “What’s all this?” I asked, setting it atop my property box.

“Pillowcase, sheets, blanket, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, pen and a few envelopes,” he recited, as if the contents were burned into his brain. He gave me directions to my new block, then sent me on my way. I entered the massive military base-like compound, made a few wrong turns, but eventually found my destination: F Block. As I trudged onto the unit, I was immediately greeted by the block correctional officer.

“You’re in cell 51, top tier, top bunk,” he said, pointing in the direction I should go. I followed his finger with my eyes, and slowly began walking. When I came to an ominous metal stairwell, I forced myself to ascend. A weird metallic “ping” rang out with each footstep, and the dread in my chest started to rise. If you’ve ever been to prison, and had no clue who your cellie would be, then you know the emotion that I was experiencing. My climb up the scary steel skeleton felt like it took hours, as anxiety crept through my veins and my stomach did back flips. I feared the worst: my cellie would be a violent Goliath who would rip my head off and eat it for dinner the minute I walked in. I pictured a maniacal psychopath who would tie me up and torture me at night, while hiding me under the bunk by day. Maybe he would just murder me in my sleep! Or worse, try to rape me!

At last, I reached the top of the “Stairway to Hell.” I glanced at the number of the first cell that I saw – 33 – then turned to my left and took the first step towards my certain demise. Suddenly, a miracle occurred! I regained my courage and strength! I pushed aside all of the bad thoughts and got ahold of myself. I am a grown man, and there’s not a soul on this planet who can rape or pillage ME without a fight!

I lifted up my head, puffed out my chest, and picked up my pace, exuding confidence with each step. When I found my cell, I put down my bedroll by the side of the door. It was already cracked open a few inches, so I opened it further and stepped in, only to be immediately taken aback.

My cellie was an extremely thin, older white man. Not wiry-strong thin, but fragile-weak thin, so debilitated that at a wrong step, I feared, he might break. The frailness of his body accentuated his large head to the degree that he resembled a character from Tim Burton’s animated film The Nightmare Before Christmas. Had he stood erect, he could’ve passed for an upside-down exclamation point! With a full head of gray hair and a scraggly, unkempt beard, I would have mistaken him for a derelict had I passed him on a city street. But these disturbing features were not the only reasons why I was shocked by his appearance. No, what really shocked me was his bright, freaking yellow complexion!

I couldn’t make this up had I tried, nor am I exaggerating, but I swear that my new cellie was “Homer Simpson yellow!” I thought to myself, Is this a joke? Have I been pranked? The darkness in the cell exacerbated the tone of his skin, to the point that he literally seemed to glow in the dark!

The man stood up to greet me as I entered the cell, extended his hand, and said with a slight Southern twang, “How ya doin’, young buck? My name’s Gary.” I reluctantly shook his hand and asked him to call me “J.J.” Of all the unpleasant, imaginary fears that had haunted me, never in a million years could I have guessed that something this strange would occur on my first day in the state penitentiary. Had the intake sergeant said, “You’re going to cell up with Homer Simpson,” I would have laughed in his face.

Seeing that it was safe, I brought in my property. Gary pointed out my locker, and in one fell swoop, I stowed away my pathetic belongings. I undid my bedroll, and started to make up my bunk, while Gary remained silent. Safely atop my bunk, glancing periodically at my cellie, I formulated the questions I wanted to ask, while attempting to wrap my head around my unique situation. After slipping the pillowcase onto my pancake-thin pillow, and adjusting the sheets on my paper-thin mattress, I spread the itchy, threadbare, wool blanket over everything, and jumped down. I sat on the seatless toilet, full of questions and their follow-ups for my human-highlighter cellie. I must confess that I’m an extremely curious individual, one who must know at all times the why, what, who, where, when, and how. In short, I’m just plumb nosy! I also dislike awkward stretches of silence.

I looked at Homer/Gary as he was watching ESPN, and ventured, “So… uh… Gary, I don’t want to pry, man… but… uh… why are you like… yellow?”

He looked at me and chuckled. “Well, young’n’, my liver ain’t workin’ too keen no more. I gotta liver disease that causes jaundice.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, then asked another question. “Is it like… contagious or anything?” (You might laugh, but I was genuinely scared of turning that bright, too!)

Gary chuckled again. “Naw, man. Not unless you got some dope and a syringe you wanna share with me,” he joked – I think.

“Oh,” I managed to blurt before asking if his ailment hurt.

He looked at me for a few seconds, eyebrows lifted. “Yeah, kiddo, it hurts, but not as much as you probably think.”

“Oh,” was all I could say. I sat quietly, then decided to change the subject. “You gotta lot of time to do, Gary?”

He took a deep breath. “Well, kid, that’s a tricky question,” he replied. “I don’t believe I do, anymore. I got ten to twenty, but I got eleven years in. I seen parole last year, but they denied me. Said I was a threat to society and gave me another year hit. I seen ‘em again three weeks ago, though, and I think it went pretty darn well. Now, I’m just waitin’ on my green sheet. It should come any day.”

“Oh,” I said. “What’s a green sheet?” I asked.

Homer/Gary raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief. “Why, it’s the parole board’s decision, along with the reason for their decision. For some reason, it’s printed on an ugly green sheet of paper.”

“Oh, I see. Why did they think you’re a threat to society? Did you get into trouble here in prison or something?” It didn’t make any sense to me. Anybody who took one look at this guy would know he wasn’t a threat to anything.

“Nope, I’ve not had so much as a reprimand in eleven years. I had a real bad heroin habit, ya see, and I was convicted of robbery – stealin’ a laptop from a closed-up warehouse. I pled guilty, hopin’ the judge would show me a little mercy, maybe get me some help for my drug problem. But I was a fool, in for a rude awakenin’. The judge didn’t see it my way at all, claimed that since I was a repeat offender, she wanted to teach me somethin’, and hit me with the maximum sentence allowed! I could hardly believe it. I didn’t recall offendin’ anythin’, but then I remembered that I did thirty days in county prison twenty years before. But I was only nineteen, fer Christ’s sakes! Plus, I didn’t actually steal anythin’ – I just took back somethin’ that was mine.”

My question had apparently touched a nerve, so I resisted an urge to press him further. “So, they’ll definitely give you parole this time, right?”

He rubbed his chin in thought. “I’ll put it like this: because of my condition, I asked a doctor to speak on my behalf. He told the board that I needed twenty-four-hour medical care, and that if I didn’t get it, I’d die, sooner rather than later. Trust me, kid, the State hates being responsible for stuff like that. The doc also told ‘em good ‘n’ proper that if they didn’t either pay for my treatment or release me to my own devices, my liver is gonna fail one way or another.” I noticed how his country twang increased with his growing excitement. “Yup, doc even staked his reputation by swearing that I wasn’t a threat to even a fly! So, based on that alone, I would say that – hell, yeah! – they oughta be droppin’ that good ol’ green sheet off any day now, along with my eviction notice from this hellhole!” Gary said, cracking up at his own wit.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I hope they let you out so you can get the medical treatment that you need, Gary.”

“Yeah, at least they can’t use that ‘threat to society’ excuse no more,” he laughed, punctuating his statement with fingered air quotes. “I just wanna see my daughter as a free man before I die,” he mused.

Again, all I could say was, “Oh.” As I mulled over Gary’s history, I realized with some anger, that after hearing his woes, I could no longer feel sorry for myself. Hey, here I am pouting and crying the blues, and this guy’s sitting on his deathbed, looking like a birthday cake candle! As I considered his dilemma, I couldn’t believe that the people in charge of our so-called “justice” system could be so cruel. I later realized that I was just too young and naïve to understand. Little did I know…

We spoke for a few more hours that evening, before I fell asleep. I woke the next morning for the six a.m. head count, then went to chow at seven, and came back at seven-thirty. Homer/Gary was still sleeping, but he started to stir about ten minutes before I left for my eight a.m. orientation call-out. On my way out, I jokingly asked if he needed anything from the corner store.

Between chuckles, he said, “I’ll give you one thing, young buck – you’re a funny kid, for sure.”

“You gotta laugh in here to keep from crying,” I replied, walking out to meet the day. When I returned from orientation at ten, Gary wasn’t there. Morning yard was called, and I went out for some fresh air. I met a few guys who joked that I was “Homer Simpson’s new cellie.” When I came back to my cell, Gary was gone, and I figured that he was out on a call-out. But he didn’t return for lunch, or for twelve-thirty count, so I thought that he had made parole, and had decided to leave all his stuff behind, which is what I would do.

Afternoon rec was called at one-thirty, and I went out to exercise. I came back at three-thirty, took a shower, and returned to my cell. Gary wasn’t there, nor did he appear for four-thirty count or five o’clock dinner. When I came back from chow, the block sergeant was waiting by my door.

He handed me two clear plastic garbage bags and told me to pack Gary’s belongings. “Lemme know when you’re done, and I’ll find you a cart to take his stuff to intake.”

As he turned to walk away, I asked, “So, he finally made parole, huh?”

The sergeant looked at me as if I were crazy, and said, “I wouldn’t call it that. You just got here last night, right?”

I nodded yes.

“This your first rodeo?”

I nodded again. “If he didn’t make parole, where is he?”

“What? You weren’t here this morning?”

I shook my head no.

He shook his head in disbelief. “UN-FREAKING-BELIEVABLE!” he said, angrily. “Listen, kid, your cellie wasn’t feeling well this morning, and the first shift C.O sent him to medical. They felt that he needed special care, so they took him to the hospital in town, where he died an hour later. It’s too bad, kid, but that’s how life is. Look, I need you to hurry up with the packing, because another guy is moving in soon. They shoulda had you do this earlier, but, as usual, no one does their freaking job around here.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.

“Welcome to the penitentiary, kid. This is the D.O.C. at its finest!” he noted, as he walked away.

Absentmindedly, I started to pack Gary’s stuff in his locker, before I remembered the garbage bags the sarge had given me. There wasn’t much, and as I worked, I experienced mixed emotions. On one hand, I barely knew the guy, and on the other hand, I felt that the system had handed him a raw deal. I wished that his loved ones would tell the world what had happened to Gary once they learned the truth. I understood that we prisoners needed to pay society the dues we owed for breaking the laws, but that doesn’t mean that all of us are bad people who deserve to suffer a horrible death. And all because of a freaking laptop!

As I was finishing up, I heard a noise at the door. The C.O had slid some mail into the cell. When I picked it up, I saw a green sheet of paper protruding from an envelope that had been opened and examined by the prison censor. I suspected what it was, but had to know for sure… I withdrew Gary’s long-anticipated green sheet and read these sentences: “The Parole Board will NOT grant you parole at this time. You will remain in the D.O.C. for an additional period of SIX (6) months until you are re-evaluated. The Board has deemed you a high threat/risk to society at this time.”

I put the folded-up “joke” of a decision back into the envelope, and inserted it into Gary’s property bag. Then I put the bags in the cart and pushed them to intake, to be delivered to his family. The intake sergeant looked up as I came in, and said, “Back already?”

I shook my head no, and explained that I was delivering the property of my cellie who had died that very morning.

“Oh,” he replied, looking down at his paperwork.