“Prison Scars”

This is an old, true story that I wrote. It’s not graffiti related but enjoy anyway. It seems appropriate to dedicate it to Alan Ket. Here’s to freedom, mydude. Nothing and I mean nothing is more precious.

I was shocked that there was something on the TV, other than cartoons, sports or Soul Train. Neil Constanzo was watching Good Morning America by himself in the recreation room. Neil was the smartest, most normal person looking I’ve ever encountered at Albert C. Wagner Youth Correctional Facility, but considering that he was convicted of murdering and then mutilating the privates of his ex-girlfriend’s corpse, then buried her, only to dig her back up two days later and drag her into a local town tavern to try and dance with her in front of all the town people he grew up, worked and drank with, there was a pretty good chance that Niel was not all that smart and most definitely, not that normal. He seemed like a nice guy though.

The white van arrived to pick up the inmates who worked the farm detail just as I wondered if as wholesome as Joan Lunden appeared, did she take it in the ass or even suck the dick?  Probably not, I decided as I entered the shitty smelling van. Farmer Rich loved his job. He was a fat, red neck with beady blue, hateful eyes. Farmer Rich was a real cracker who never wasted extra words on anyone who wasn’t blonde with blue eyes. He’s been giving me the shittiest tasks ever since I had a fight with one of his favorite workers, a skinny white boy named Paul the week before.

I heard stories that Farmer Rich and some of the guards use to burn crosses on prison property at night. Any inmate who couldn’t sleep at night and had a cell that faced the land was treated to the errie sight. Although I’ve never seen it, the stories were psychologically haunting to me because it confirmed that I was in the hands of people with hateful intentions who could literally get away with murder if they wanted to. Many Black and Latin inmates foolishly disrespected white correction officers regularly. Many of these guys didn’t have a support system outside in society, who could fight for them if anything unfortunate was to ever happen to them. I couldn’t help but think how easy it was for the powers that be in the prison to make an unsavory individual disappear permanently.  As criminally mischievous as I might have been at times, I’ve always made it a point to be polite and respectful when appropriate through out my life.  I made sure to always be appropriately respectful to the guards, especially the shadier, creepier ones.

Mayta! You’re picking soy beans today. Farmer Rich announced.

I’ve shoveled tons of cow shit, milked cows that kicked and shat and pissed without warning and I stacked bales and bales of hay to the top of a barn that was at least two and a half stories tall. I never picked soybeans before, but thought nothing about it. How hard could it be?

A week earlier there was an escape attempt. A father drove into the prison property with tons of explosives in his car with the intent of literally blowing his son out the joint.  His plan was thwarted by the son’s cell mate who snitched the boy out, thinking it would reduced the 12 ½ years he had left on his sentence. Instead, the telling cell mate now had to spend the remainder of his time in protective custody which is the equivalent of solitary confinement. It was rumored that the father was in the mafia. Although exciting for the moment, escapes and more commonly escape attempts brought stress down on everybody from the top prison officials to the guards and right down to the inmates.

The soybean field was acres and acres, wide and long. I was dropped off somewhere in the middle, in perfect view of four guard towers, equipped with bored, sharp shooting correction officers who had extra permission to blow away any inmate who looked like they even were thinking about making a false move. Maybe not exactly, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

The early July sun felt good as I stood, looking at rows and rows of stupid soybeans. The itchy potato sack I carried looked like it held a lot of soybeans. I bent down, realizing how painfully sore my legs were from a heavy leg work-out from two days prior. Fuck! I continued on in slow motion, not caring about the quota of soybeans I had to pick. Half the itchy potato sack had to be filled before noon or I was threaten to be sent back to full maximum custody. Within the hour, the temperature jumped about ten degrees and the sun didn’t feel as good on my back anymore. I didn’t have any clean short sleeve prison khaki shirts, so I had to wear one of my winter long sleeve shirts instead with a white tee underneath. I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off. I didn’t even get to tie the sleeves to my waist when the bullhorn screamed at me.

Put the shirt back on… NOW!

I looked up at the tower it came from to see a shotgun pointed at me. As I hurried to put the shirt back on, I checked the other towers and just as I thought, they all had a good aim on my head. Stressed, I thought about the two and a half years more I had of this bullshit. For a split second, I considered making a dash for it, hoping for a quick death.  I rationalized that the bullets would rip through my spinal cord and render me useless for the rest of my life. It would be better to continue picking the soybeans.

Sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes, burning them. The itchy potato sack irritated between my sweaty fingers. Every time I bent to pick up a stupid soybean, I could feel the micro tears across the muscle fibers of my quadriceps rip a little more. I was beginning to understand the concept of Chinese water torture very well. I was so thirsty with relief nowhere to be found for at least another two hours. My tongue was so dry that I thought I was going to choke on it. My life was at its lowest. I was supposed to be a pretentious Cooper Union student, working nights as a doorman with a hot, horny girlfriend. I probably would have given up the occasional drug deal or quick vamp by now. I looked up at the blaring sun and prayed to the Gods. Please let a lightening bolt shoot down and pierce my forehead and kill me instantly….or give me super powers so I can fly the fuck out of here! I imagined that every time the cops came to get me, I would fly away, shaking my nuts at them. The thought relieved my misery for good two minutes before reality set back in. There wasn’t going to be any lightening bolts, quick deaths or flying. It’s was just me, all by myself at 21 years of age in a fucking soybean field in the middle of one New Jersey’s most notorious prisons with nothing but murderers, perverts and assholes on a 95 degree day with no water. There’s no way things can get any worst than this. So I thought.

For the next two hours, I suffered a range of emotions and feelings from despair to rage. I felt hopeless to murderous. I was severely dehydrated and delirious. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid that if I moved anywhere but where I was at, my head would be blown to pieces. I felt faint. It would have been so easy just to let go, fall to the earth and close my eyes. How nice unconsciousness would have felt. The thing was, I was in prison and there’s no fainting business to be had in prison. I had a pretty solid reputation and nobody fucked with me and I intended to keep it that way. Plus, there wasn’t any way I was going to give Farmer Rich the satisfaction of seeing me laid out in the dirt. I’ve witnessed him the evil smirk on his face whenever other inmates have gotten injured. Fuck that shit! So I stood, weak kneed and all, and just like I knew, the time passed and I was picked up by the white van. Farmer Rich looked inside the itchy potato sack. I knew I was nowhere near the quota. He glared at me with hateful eyes.

Mayta, what were you doing all that time… whacking off on the damm soybeans?

Two Puerto Rican Uncle Tom inmates who happen to be cousins found this hilarious and laughed with exaggeration. There was a fire burning in my stomach. I remained silent as Farmer Rich continued.

I ought to send your ass back in the building.

A little H.I.V. infected dope fiend Puerto Rican named Louis laughed. I glared at him. H.I.V. and dope fiend and all, Louis was a tough kid and glared at me back. Another time I thought, as I imagined grating his face across asphalt, disfiguring him for life.

What do you think about that, Mayta? Farmer Rich pestered on.

I looked at the cracker in the eyes and took in a deep breath.

I think you’re going to do whatever you’re going to do, regardless of what I say or think.

Fair enough.

Farmer Rich drove a group of us back to H-Wing for lunch. I was sure that’ll I’ll be back in maximum security by no later than one p.m. It was a hot summer and tension inside the building would be high. Summer was the most dangerous time to be in prison. It was shanking season.

As soon as we got to H-Wing, I got to the nearest sink and drank water from the facet till I thought my stomach was going to explode. Lunch hadn’t arrived from the building yet, so I went to my bunk to lay down, trying to ignore all the shit talking that was going on around me. A Puerto Rican kid from South Jersey was talking about how he would infect as many bitches as possible, if he ever contracted the AIDS virus. One by one, the other inmates on my tier agreed that they would do the same. They asked me what I would do. I blurted out that they were all devils. This gave them a good laugh at my expense, as one of them continually mocked me. You’re all devils! You’re all devils! 

Lunch arrived and it was the same old meat patty with mashed potatoes and overcooked string beans. This was on the menu, no less than four days a week.  Every now and then, they’ll put a slice of cheese on top of the patty.

I didn’t tell anybody about my traumatic morning picking soybeans. This wasn’t a sympathetic crowd.

After lunch, I worked out with Scrappy Doo, Charzan and White Boy Chris. Scrappy Doo was a black guy from Newark. Not only was he built like a professional body builder, but he was amazingly strong, agile and fast. Charzan was a little Mongolian guy with thick glasses and a long pony tail. He weighed a buck forty with maybe two percent body fat. He was a Crystal Meth chemist. White Boy Chris was the least impressive of the three. He was 6’3 and about 240, but he had high body fat. He was marginally strong for his size.  These guys were the biggest and strongest weight lifters H-Wing had to offer. All three was on the power lifting team when they were in maximum security.  I felt honored to be on their work-out squad, as it made the rest of H-Wing consider me elite. The work-out pit was out doors and there was only one rule.  That you worked out.  We worked out when it was 99 degrees and when it was below 0 degrees. If it rained or snow, we still worked out.  As much as this sucked at times, I liked the hardcore status that it gave me. I sandbagged the work-out and did as little work that I was able to get away with. I also kept going back inside the wing to pee. Scrappy Doo and White Boy Chris ragged on me about my performance. I was usually sensitive about people talking down or disrespectfully to me, but I was way too spent physically and emotionally to care.

It was time to go back to the farm before I realized that no one had came to escort me back to the building. I lingered around the Correction Officer’s station to see if Old C.O. Sydney had anything to tell me. It was rare to meet a C.O. as pleasant as Old C.O. Sydney. I’ve seen rookie guards come in, being genuinely nice guys. Within a year, they transformed into cold, jaded assholes. Not only was Old Sydney an elder, but he was black and the black inmates would never tolerate any disrespect towards him. Even the foulest, most ignorant inmate paid Sydney respect.

The white van made three trips back and forth from the farm to H-Wing to pick up inmates. I got on the last van, expecting to be stopped. Farmer Rich didn’t even look at me as I got in.

On the farm, Farmer Rich handed out assignments. I procrastinated to receive mine, trying to kill time. My turn eventually came. Farmer Rich looked at me with squinty, soulless eyes.

Mayta, I’m taking you back to the soybean field.

He tossed me the itchy potato sack. My stomach turned.

You better fill this here whole bag up or not only will I be sending you back into the building, but I’m going to make sure you go to the hole!

Not the hole, anything but the hole!  I did thirty days in the hole once before. It’s where I learned to talk to myself. I wanted to cry right then and there. Farmer Rich smiled when he noticed that my bottom lip was trembling. Evil thoughts filled my head.

Right then, Salaam Lewis approached Farmer Rich and asked him for another man to help him and the guy I fought with, Paul to retrieve some lumber. Farmer Rich looked around, but there wasn’t anybody in sight available.

You and Paul are going to have to make due, Salaam.

Salaam looked at me. What’s up with Mayta?

He’s picking soybeans.

Salaam Lewis was well liked by both inmates and the prison administration. He seemed to have a lot of influence, even over the guards. Someone told me that he was the nephew of someone big in the Department of Corrections, but it wasn’t suppose to be public knowledge.

Fuck those soybeans!  Let me get Mayta.

Farmer Rich grew red on his cheeks and ears. He knew that all Salaam had to do was get to a phone and he would have some explaining to do.

Mayta, go with Salaam.

I couldn’t believe my luck. I walked with Salaam to hitch a flatbed to a red Farmall 501 tractor. I never got to either drive or ride any of the tractors. With the exception of Salaam, tractor jobs were reserved for Caucasian inmates like Charzan, Neil Constanzo, Chris and Paul. I felt giddy and child like. I didn’t even mind that I had to work with Paul.

Paul was a tall, lanky white boy who I got along with really well until the week before. He blasted his radio with Heavy Metal music while I was trying to take a nap. I asked him if he could please lower it and he gave me the finger and turned up the volume instead. I got out of my bunk and laced on my work boots and marched to his area. Paul lit up a cigarette.

What are you going to do? He challenged me. I couldn’t understand his attitude, but didn’t care.

The exit door by Paul’s bunk area was jammed open. I snatched his radio from his shelf. He tried to stop me, but I was able to push through him and get outside to slam his radio on the concrete. He rushed me and we both fell to the ground and wrestled, punching each other at every opportunity. The skinny white boy was stronger than I imagined and got me in a choke hold that I couldn’t power out of. He squeezed tighter and tighter, his boney forearm blocking my air way. Fuck! I was in trouble. Nobody was around to stop the fight. Paul was free to choke me to death. I kept slamming my head back, butting him in the face, but this only made him squeeze tighter. He started gouging my face with his free hand. Two of his fingers made their way into my mouth. I did the only thing I could have done and bit down on two of his fingers as hard as I could. Paul screamed and freed me from his choke hold. I bit harder and shook my head violently like a pit bull. I tasted blood and felt my teeth break through flesh. Paul screamed louder and louder in agony. I was afraid that Old C.O. Sydney would hear the commotion and bust us, so I released Paul’s fingers from my mouth. To my relief, Paul was in too much pain to continue to fight.

You fucking animal!

I wiped Paul’s blood out my mouth in dramatic fashion. Then I hurried to the recreation room to watch TV and pretend nothing had happen. Paul claimed that he was bitten by a raccoon that he was trying to pet and had to get a series of rabies shots. I heard that Paul described them to the other guys as extremely painful.

Paul and I silently rode on the flatbed as Salaam Lewis drove fast. It was a fun and bumpy ride. Salaam made a game out of trying to make us fall. I felt like a kid having fun, trying not to fall off. We got to the lumber yard which was completely desolated without any kind of supervision. It had been two and a half years since I felt this free. I approached Salaam.

You got to let me drive this. Just for a little while! Please!

You know how to drive?

I lied.

Salaam shrugged his shoulders. I don’t care. Just stay on the road.

I climbed on to the driver’s seat ten feet above the ground. Even though the tractor was old, it was a big and powerful machine with wheels that were taller than me.

I asked Salaam to remind me how to operate the vehicle because it had been a while since I driven. Salaam climbed on top and explained something to me, but because he was a boxer and a little punch drunk, it was difficult to understand him. He mumbled his words a lot.

I stepped on the gas and the thing took off, immediately driving off the road. Salaam yelled at me to come back, but I didn’t have any control. Holy fucking shit! I thought with the biggest smile plastered on my face, too stupid to realize the danger I was putting myself in. I turned the steering wheel aimlessly, hoping for some kind of positive result. Instead the tractor headed towards a steep hill. This is when I first realized that I was better off picking soy beans. In a panic, I slammed on the gas, mistaking it for the brake. The tractor flew down the hill. There were oak trees scattered about. My heart dropped, knowing the trouble I would be in if I smashed into one of them. I saw the sunken log in the tractor’s path but didn’t consider it a threat. Then suddenly the tractor was in mid air, tumbling. I didn’t even finish thinking, Oh my God before I heard the crash and everything turned black and silent on me at once.

I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t see or hear. I thought I might be dead, but realized I wasn’t because I couldn’t breathe. I inhaled and tasted mud and dirt. Little by little, different parts of my head started to burn. My eyes burned. Then I smelled and tatsed Diesel fuel up in my nostrils and inside my mouth. I didn’t know what was going on, except that I felt like I was burning to death and couldn’t breathe.

Daylight appeared and suddenly I was able to hear myself screaming. My head was moving about violently. The rest of my body from my neck down was pinned under the wheel of the tractor, which was now on its side.

I was able to make out Salaam and Paul’s blurred, distorted images looking down on me.

I heard Salaam’s telling me that everything was going to be okay between my screams. It was nice to hear his voice. Salaam ran to get help while Paul fetched water from a nearby cabin that was used to store supplies. I was consumed with pain and fear. Paul poured water over my head. This relieved the burning from the diesel fuel and I stopped screaming. I asked Paul if I was going to die. Paul kneeled by my side and in a soothing voice, told me that this was nothing, and that I’ll be lifting weights with Scrappy Doo later on in the night. My eyes felt tired and I shut them. Paul snapped at me to stay up and not close my eyes. I obeyed. Tears came to my eyes because I felt death was trying to get me. I prayed to God and begged him to please not to let me die, at least not in here. Please don’t let me always remembered as that guy who died in prison. I didn’t care if I died the day I was released from prison, just as long as I died a free man. Please God, please. My eye lids closed. Paul yelled at me, Vincent! I opened them wide and kept them open.

Farmer Rich and Salaam Lewis arrived with about twenty inmates. In a group effort, they lifted the wheel up enough so that I could be dragged out from underneath. I was placed under a tree. It was a nice place to be. I heard people say that I looked like I was in shock. Everybody stared at me without much subtlety. The H.I.V. dope fiend said “Oh shit!’ and covered his mouth. I wondered what I looked like and what was going to happen to me. Would I be sent to the hole for wrecking the tractor? I saw Farmer Rich look at me, shake his head and smirk.

He’s lucky it rained all day yesterday. If that land was dry, his head would have popped like a grape. He told Salaam.

I must have been in shock, because I realized I was as emotionless as anyone could be.

An ambulance arrived. Two armed correction officers drove behind them in an inmate transport car usually used for escorting inmates to funerals.  I was put on a stretcher and put inside the ambulance. I was taken to Saint Francis Hospital in Trenton, New Jersey. As I was wheeled inside, I saw my reflection through the glass entrance doors. One side of my head was almost twice as big as it was. I had cuts opened wide enough to put three fingers through without touching any flesh. I looked like the Elephant Man.

Fortunately, no major harm was done. I got away with a broken rib, nose, jaw and about 135 stitches. I was put in the prison ward in a room with two gay black inmates with full blown AIDS. I was handcuffed to the bed and both ankles were in shackles. The nurse dressed and made herself up like 1985 Madonna. The two drag queens didn’t stop bickering with each other. Sleep came over me. I had horrible nightmares.

The next morning when I woke up, my whole body was in pain. One of the drag queens was being wheeled out with a sheet over his head. Good Morning America was on TV. Joan Lunden introduced a segment about the most dangerous occupation in America. Farming was on top of the list because of the number of tractor related deaths a year. Joan Lunden definitely sucked dick I thought to myself. That fucking bitch!

Posted on October 19, 2007 at 01:06 PM   |   Previous Entry   |   Next Entry   |   Entry List   |   Email Entry   |    Digg

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