Prison Camp: Crossing Lines

A Forum for Stories of Incarceration, Justice, and Redemption

The theme for this week’s Posts is remorse. I’ve chosen an excerpt from my essay, Crossing Lines, published in Minutes Before Six, a literary journal that publishes writing by formerly incarcerated writers. This piece describes one of the confrontations that occurred in prison during my incarceration.

CROSSING LINES

There were many lines at the camp. The meal lines, the shower lines, the pill lines, and the most important lines, the ones not to cross. However, the lines often blurred, especially in the mess hall, which was designed for 72 inmates but served 128. Seats were currency, and inmates bequeathed them upon release. It took me two weeks after my arrival to finally find a seat. I finally found one between Nicky Roast Beef and Jack. Primo sat across from me next to Dr Death. Not ideal, but I was happy to find it. Nicky Pizza told me about it. Both owned Greek restaurants, and both were in for payroll tax violations.

“Little Mohammed is leaving tomorrow,” he said. “You should grab his seat.”

There were two Mohammeds in the camp. I never learned why they were called Big Mohammed and Little Mohammed. They both looked average size to me.

“Can I do that?”

“Sure, you can,” said Nicky Pizza. “Just be there for breakfast before anybody else, and it’s yours.”

I arrived early and claimed my prize. It felt like a winning lottery number. It’s the little things that are big things in prison. In the summer, we could sit outside in the visitor’s area on picnic tables. No seating there. It was okay to poach. The tables and seats in the mess hall were institutional and minimalist. They looked like something designed for an elementary school dining hall. Oval-shaped tables with stools attached. You sat shoulder to shoulder, and your knees ended up snuggled up under the table top. You had to be careful not to nudge the guy next to you. There were lines at every meal. It was best not to cut in. Some tried, but rarely, usually a new inmate. It was never a good outcome. You took your tray and then waited again for cutlery (plastic) and water. Then, a straight line to your seat. You had to eat quickly, and everyone did the same. Just stuff it down, carry your tray, dump the refuse in the garbage, put the tray on the counter, put the plastic cutlery in the pan with the water, put your cup in the holder, put an apple or banana in your pants if the CO was back in his office, and exit.

Breakfast was quiet and never crowded. The six am service tends to stifle much conversation. It was a polite table. Nicky Roast beef always finished first. He was in his late sixties, with thick, salt-and-pepper hair and a pronounced Greek accent. He was in for tax evasion. The story was that his small take-out in the South End of Boston grossed two million a year. That seemed like a lot of roast beef sandwiches to me. But many guys ate there over the years, and Jack confirmed the number.

“Good morning, Nick,” was the most I ever said to Nicky Roast Beef.

“Goo mawning John,” he’d answer, in his thick accent, and go back to his oatmeal and banana. Bananas were a treat at the camp. Kitchen workers stole extras and gave them out to friends. Nicky always had an extra one in his locker.

A few more of those from the others, and that was the end of the conversation most mornings until Jimmy arrived. Jimmy worked at a family company that sold seafood internationally. He had been a good friend of Jack. They also owned some restaurants. Jimmy was a principal and head of sales. I never knew what happened, except he was in for wire fraud and some kind of financial malfeasance. There were a lot of us. Jimmy was the quintessential salesman, full of stories, personality, and fun. He had been in the main prison for a few months when he arrived.

“No fuckin way you want to get transferred there,” he said. “This place is the Four Seasons compared to that.”

“That bad?” I asked.

“Shit, yeah. But I learned a lot of things there.”

“Like what?”

“Restraint. The most important lesson in prison. Restraint. I come across as easy-going here. But believe me, I was a pain in the ass in my old life. Doesn’t work here.”

Jimmy transferred to the kitchen when one of the bakers left, and he showed a lot of restraint there. He knew nothing about baking, but he taught himself somehow. He was always joking and making light of everything. He gave no shit to the staff or anyone else. He’d give me a fresh muffin during my shift.

“Heh, Big John. You look like you eat too many salads.” And he’d slip it on top of the washing machine so the CO wouldn’t see it.

But one day, he crossed a line and showed us his teeth. Shaw, a moody Black inmate who had worked in kitchen maintenance for a while, had a problem with the TV in the mess hall. There were two TVs there. Usually set to news on one and sports on the other. Shaw would turn the sports TV to a black talk show when he arrived in the kitchen. The rest of us just put up with it. Jimmy too. Except one day, he called Shaw out.

Shaw was in the mess hall taking a break. The kitchen TVs hung from the ceiling. There was no remote for them. A pole from a broom lay in the corner under the TVs to change the channels. Jimmy came out and, without saying a word, grabbed the pole, shut off the TV, and went back to the kitchen. Shaw just sat there for a minute like he couldn’t believe what happened. I was washing trays and was the only guy to witness this. Finally, Shaw reacted and stormed into the kitchen after Jimmy. The CO was in his office and never came out.

Shaw didn’t touch him but went nose to nose while everyone stopped in still frame.

“Heh, you little fucker. I’ll waste you’re fucking white ass if you do that again.”

Jimmy didn’t push back, walked away, and, fortunately, Shaw went back to the mess hall and turned his program back on. Shaw was serving his last year. Guys don’t want to scuttle their release. Especially long-termers like Shaw, who was in for twelve years. That was the end of it. The whole episode didn’t make sense, and Jimmy never talked about it. There was something about it that I admired, but it didn’t change any of my ways. If anything, I just committed to a low profile all the more. It didn’t make me feel any better about myself, though. It’s almost an oxymoron in prison. Feeling good about yourself. There were a lot of moments like that. Opportunities to reframe the narrative about yourself. Do something heroic. Defend Jimmy. Confront Shaw. But nothing like that ever happened. I just knew I let everyone down in my former life. So much money lost, lives shattered, especially those of the people I loved the most and those who relied on me the most. It didn’t seem like I could ever make up for that. And the worst part is that I didn’t even try.

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The above excerpt is from an essay, Crossing Lines, published in Minutes Before Six, a literary journal that features work by formerly incarcerated writers. Read the complete essay here Minutes Before Six.

Up Next on White Collar Journal:

Wednesday (Justice Notes): Remorse

Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections

Sunday (Prison Camp): More portraits from prison