The Coat

“Where´s my fucking coat, asshole?

Ah, there it was.  Jeremy had just stepped through the door and I knew I only had to wait a few seconds to hear those exact words. This was how Butch had greeted him every night for a solid week now when Jeremy got back from work.  The only difference seemed to be a slight escalation in intensity – as though Butch knew the passage of each day made it less likely that we would see the coat every again.  With this escalation came a swell of low-level tension that grew and expanded until the small space where we lived was an eight by twelve pressure cooker.  And Jeremy´s smart-ass responses did nothing to smooth things over.

“Oh, hold on”, he said, “let me pull my pants down and I´ll pull it out of my ass for you.  Here, just a second…”

And then he would actually pull his pants down and pretend to be digging the coat out of his rectum.  It was funny the first couple of times and had great shock value, but now I just sighed and looked away.  I was surprised Butch never attacked Jeremy and took him down when he was in such a compromised position; Jeremy was a big strapping dude—6´3” at least and 230 pounds, maybe.  I´m quite sure this would have been Butch´s best move.

I was sitting with my back to the bars while all this was going on.  Jeremy did not have the coat but what he did have was a strong stench of rancid grease and rotting vegetables that clung to him like an invisible suit of miasmic funk.  Pots and pans was the best job to have in the kitchen if you liked to eat and didn´t mind hot, sweaty work.  This was the funnel point of all extra food –hard-boiled eggs, hamburger patties, powdered milk—all essential if you were trying to put on some size on the weight deck.  The major downside was the smell, though.  Jeremy dragging this into the cell with him was not conducive to helping create a more relaxed environment in an already simmering stew pot ready to boil over.

The rest of the cellblock was bedlam, as usual.  Dominos slammed on wooden locker boxes, the loud drack reverberating off concrete walls.  Screams of pain and shouts of anger interspersed with loud farts and raucous laughter seemed to ring off the massive wall of steel cages.  Five or six radios competed with each other – an up-tempo Mexican tune was blasting trumpets and accordions juxtaposed with the heavy bass of self-adulating lyrics of a rap song.  Somewhere in the middle of it all, Tommy Araya from Slayer struggled to be heard, his demonic shrieks all but lost in the pandemonium.

I looked at Jeremy´s empty hands; had he brought the stupid coat that was getting everybody all riled up, I would have snatched it from his hands and kissed both lapels before gently placing it in Butch´s hands to end the matter once and for all.  Only its return would extinguish the fuse that burned closer and closer to the powder keg.

Said coat belonged to Butch who had loaned it to Jeremy.  Jeremy had no coat of his own because someone had swiped it off the rack in front of his GED class.  So Jeremy had hung up Butch´s borrowed coat in the same place the next day and—you guessed it—that one got jacked too.  This happened a week ago.  It was early spring in Walla Walla so the air still had a bite to it, especially in the morning.  The coat was state-issued and easily replaced, but honor was not; this clearly fell within the boundaries of the Convict Code, and in order to save face, Jeremy had to make every effort humanly possible to not only find out who had stolen the coat but retrieve it at any cost.  This in itself would seem an exercise in absurdity if one were to consider the condition of this hideous garment; the coat was the color of a russet potato just pulled out of the ground and just as dirty.  It smelled like a locker room at the Eagles Club that had been used as a break area by chain-smoking bikers.  The holes in the pockets were so big that if you tried to smuggle an orange or apple back from chow hall at lunch, come 3 o´clock you would wish you had eaten it while you had it in your hand.

When Jeremy came in that evening, I was absently watching the TV up on the stand in the back of the cell, above the toilet.  The Simpsons, I think. I had only been in the penitentiary for a few months and I was struggling to acclimate to this new environment where the words and actions of every person was amplified and intensified.  Everything and everyone was heavily scrutinized and the personal status of each individual seemed to be in a constant state of flux. And here was a textbook example of this drama unfolding in front of me, two dudes squared off, neither one willing to back down even slightly for fear of losing a sliver of face, all over this piece of shit coat.  But like I said, I just got here.  I was still blindly groping around for a toehold so I could anchor myself to this new reality, and I wasn’t familiar enough with the rules to know when it was appropriate to voice my opinion as opposed to just minding my own business – or established enough as an elder statesman to be able to tell them both to sit the fuck down and knock this shit off. So my role was to just sit back and let things play out.  Still, we were at the threshold of resolution, it was in the air; every molecule of free space between the two was pregnant with violent intent.

Butch was sitting at the desk in the back of the cell drawing up a tattoo pattern or something.  He was watching Jeremy make a mockery of the situation, having just pulled up his pants after not getting the laugh he had hoped for, and I could see the wheels turning.  Finally, he nodded then laid the pencil down with slow deliberation.  He stood up and turned to face Jeremy who was still eight feet away, up by the front of the cell.  Butch had his shirt off and his arms hung ape-like at his sides.  He was shorter than Jeremy but outweighed him by 30 pounds. He was also 15 years older and had a lot more practical experience in this particular arena – as in potential violent prison conflict.  I had seen Butch fight a couple of times, and besides having a devastating left hook in his arsenal, his ability to withstand punishment was impressive.  He just refused to give up, ever.  He preferred a torn tendon rather than tap when a cellie had him in an arm bar, I once heard.  His face was a road map of scars and half his teeth were gone from not only fists but also police Maglites, prison guard batons and once even the heel of a shoe thrown by a pissed off ex-wife, so the story went. Jeremy was big and tough too, but I didn´t see him being able to go the distance that Butch would surely take him.  Jeremy would probably have to kill him to beat him.

After a protracted silence, Butch finally spoke.

“Okay, I get it,” he said, “I see what´s going here.  Now I understand everything.”

Jeremy sighed, weary.

“Here we go,” he said, “Let´s hear it. Let´s hear your latest big coat conspiracy theory.”

Butch took a step sideways to position himself in the middle of the cell between desks and just in front of the stainless steel sink and toilet.

“You haven´t found the coat because you ain´t been looking for it,” he said, “You ain´t been looking for it because you´ll have to go head-up with someone in order to get it back.”

Jeremy took a step forward.  He lowered his chin and his eyes glowed like cigar embers.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It ain´t supposed to mean anything.  I just said it like it is.  You´re scared.  A fucking Charmin-soft pussy.  Don´t worry, though, daddy will go and get his coat back and everything will be all better.”

I had been rolling a cigarette and now it hung suspended in front of my mouth, my tongue sticking out to lick the delicate paper and this is how I froze.  Here it comes, I thought, this isn´t just the usual hateful banter.  Jeremy could not abide this insult without being labeled a full-on coward.  Word would spread like a prairie fire and he would be shunned and ostracized by anyone who mattered.  I didn´t even get a chance to finish rolling my cigarette before shit hit the fan.

Jeremy charged like a bison, knocking the tobacco out of my hand and upsetting our expedient locker-box coffee table with a crash, cups, ashtrays, and all kinds of shit clattering to the floor.  When Jeremy connected with Butch, the fleshy collision vibrated up through my feet from the concrete.  The two grappled for a minute and I caught a glimpse of Butch´s face, crimson with rage and his eyes bulged to the point of bursting.  Both of them struggled to establish an immediate advantage until one of them lost his footing –Butch, I think – and down they went.  Five hundred pounds of punching and clawing man hit the floor, the concrete room shuddering with the impact.  The steel bed frames, sink and toilet rang with an eerie high-pitched hum each time they were struck with a stray boot, fist, or occasional skull.  My cellmates fought like wild beasts locked in a ferocious battle to the death.

My heart was pounding and my mouth had dried up, but I suddenly remembered my role; I grabbed a cassette case off the floor and used it as a mirror to check the tier for guards.  So far, all clear.  An inmate walked by and didn´t so much as glance in the cell or show any indication that there was a death match taking place.  I kept watch until the brutal sounds of the fight ceased.  When I looked back to determine the outcome, my heart sank.  This was something I hoped I would never have to see – much less do – during my 30 year sentence, but here it was, and I wasn´t even a year down.  Butch and Jeremy were in the back of the cell, in front of the sink and toilet.  Jeremy was on his hands and knees, wobbling back and forth like an extremely sick drunk person, his head hanging in defeat.  Butch stood over him, his bare chest heaving and sweating.  In his right hand he held two pencils taped together, his knuckles white from holding them so tightly.  Butch glanced over at me, maybe to make sure I was watching, then went to work.

Butch brought his arms high in the air, pencil tips protruding from the bottom of his fist, then down violently with deadly purpose and accuracy.  He struck several times like the sting of a scorpion where Jeremy´s liver would be.  A deep red stain spread quickly on his T-shirt, as fresh blood poured freely from the wounds.  I opened my mouth to speak, to protest – anything – but nothing came out.  I was stunned to paralysis.  I felt like I was in an already bad dream that turned into a horrible nightmare.

Jeremy managed to slowly crawl the three feet to the lower bunk – Butch´s bunk – and sat down.  His quivering hands covered the heavily bleeding area at his lower right flank while he looked at Butch with complete shock and disbelief.  I thought he was going to cry, but not because of the pain or fear of death; betrayal was written all over his face.

“You stuck me?” he said, “I can´t believe you stuck me.”

“Yeah, well, fuck with the bull, you get the horns, motherfucker.”

They both looked over at me as if they suddenly realized I had been practically in the middle of a bloody fray.  I was still standing there with my mouth open, holding on to a wrinkled cigarette paper with my hand shaking.  Butch looked at Jeremy then back at me.  I was missing something.  Then I watched as both of their faces transformed.  First, traces of smirks appeared, then became half smiles which slowly turned into full-fledged grins.  I couldn´t understand anything.  Jeremy was bleeding to death while they both stared at me like it was all they could do to not burst out laughing.  They looked at each other again as if to synchronize some pre-arranged cue then said in unison: “April fools, motherfucker!”

Jeremy lifted his shirt.  Taped to his side was an elaborate blood bag they had created using latex gloves.  They told me Jeremy jacked the corn syrup and red food coloring from the bakery.  An ingenious system that implemented thread and tape used the action of the shirt being pulled away from Jeremy´s body to let the “blood” flow copiously at the precise moment.  I know that had he been there to witness the gruesome spectacle, Francis Ford Coppola would have certainly given a somber nod of approval.

While Butch and Jeremy had their laugh, I went through a host of emotions as I replayed all the conversations and coat-related events of the past week.  Finally, a feeling of overwhelming relief washed over me and I chuckled weakly.  I suddenly felt very tired.  Then something hit me.

“Yeah, but what about the coat?” I asked Butch.

At first, the both stared at me, confused.  After a moment, though, Butch nodded and grinned, exposing several vacancies.

“Oh yeah, the coat.”

He reached under his bunk and pulled out a bundle.  Folded neatly and wrapped with a string, laundry slip still attached, was the coat.

“I had to send it in to get it washed,” Butch said, “It was starting to smell like a dead goat.”