The Prison

"The Prison"
by D.J.Granger

Strained vocals summoned a few curious men to the shrouded end of the prison courtyard, where Prophet sat, like Buddha, against concrete walls that ran as high as five men.
“These bars took my breath away, miss her like a memory of yesterday. Breath is life, a wife that’s true, but these bars took my breath away,” Prophet sang.
The wiry old man with storm cloud hair closed his eyes as his facial muscles softened with each note scratching and stretching through weathered lungs. Once free, his melody wafted over the entire muggy courtyard.
Testosterone waned in a ballgame on the worn half court a stretch away. The breaking players caught their breaths while taking refuge under the beaten backboard with a bent chainless hoop. The cracked brown leather ball silently glided through the metal rim. A young shirtless man, blood still pumping, held his after-shot pose as the ball bounced and rolled under a faded No Dunking sign. Sweat slid from his frizzing cornrows down his face, curving around his lips as he smiled when the others took notice. He flipped his wrist, practicing his jump shot, then glanced towards the singing Prophet and frowned.
“These bars took my breath away, and if I could go back to yesterday, I’d see them come, I’d hear them say, life’s too short, you lost your way,” Prophet continued.
“Crazy old head, singing Negro spirituals and shit.” He remarked to the laughter of a few. “Ain’t got time for that shit. Let’s go.”
Another man walked onto the court, ball in hand, and checked it to him as the others got into position. The outspoken man dribbled forward, then left, stopped and forced a shot. The ball hid in the glare of the sun before clattering down off the side of the rim into an opponent’s sweaty palms. It was passed out and back in for an easy lay.
“Damn. Pass the rock M.C.!” A shorter man yelled.
M.C. frowned and sneered as he grabbed his shirt lying off court to wipe his face.
“Get open then nigga!” He replied.
A larger light-skinned man took the ball out, checked it to M.C., then passed to a lanky man who clumsily dribbled three steps and had the ball stripped away by M.C.’s teammate. The larger man shoved M.C. as he tried to breakaway. M.C. beamed at him, and picked and rolled into position as the ball was lobbed his way. His calves contracted like a bound spring, releasing as he clutched the airborne ball and shoved it down the invisible throat of the rim.
“Point!” One man yelled.
The larger man threw his arms up.
“Fuck that!”
M.C. turned towards the man.
“What!?”
“No dunking nigga. You see that sign?” The man exclaimed.
“That racist shit? Nah.”
M.C. turned and started walking towards the ball when the larger man grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around and looked him dead in the eye.
“I said no point.”

M.C.’s blood curdled in the heat and his eyes jumped into a wild glare. In an instant he knocked the man off him, then lunged at him like a lineman, sending both their bodies crashing to the ground. The larger man’s elbow bone popped as its thin flesh covering slammed against the concrete. M.C. straddled him, locking him on the ground, then sent his right fist flying into the man’s bewildered face.
“Don’t you!” His fist smacked into the man’s left cheek sending blood sailing through his teeth and into the air! “Eva!” Smack. “Put!” Smack. “Your!” Smack. “Hands!” Smack. “On!” Smack. “Me!” Smack. “A-gain!” Smack. Smack.
He climbed off the man, his bloody fist shaking and still clenched tightly shut. As he glared down, the man seemed to roll to his side in slow motion as he spit up the gooey blood and saliva mix that had collected in his cheeks. Between the heat and the adrenaline rush, M.C. zoned out for moment, delaying the dream-like shouting around him until the touch of a guard snapped him back.
“You’re going to the pit!” A voice yelled.
A guard grabbed at his arm, slipping on the heavy perspiration. M.C. jerked and swung at him.
“Fuck you!”
Two other guards converged on him from behind, one knocking him over the head with a dull black beat stick, sending blood spurting out of the back of his head. The other two secured him in a strong hold as he struggled a bit more. A loud bell in the yard went off, signaling it was time to move back inside. It drained out slowly as the glare left M.C.’s eyes and he begun to black out. All the inmates watched the guards drag him inside soaked in blood and belligerence. Prophet shook his head as his lifeless body passed by. The last of the men made their way through the prison doors, leaving the courtyard in solitude to quietly continue baking in the blazing sun.

*****

M.C.'s eyes peeled open slowly revealing a blanket of darkness. His head throbbed, still warm from flowing blood. He blinked, unaware of the events that had transpired or where he was. Then the rest of his organs resumed functioning. He was lying on his right side for awhile, which had cut off his circulation, numbing his body from his shoulder down to his leg. As he slowly peeled himself up from the chilled floor, a collection of particles stuck to his face and shirtless body. The throbbing shot through the back of his neck as he tried to turn his head straight. Gradually the stiffness subsided and he propped himself up against the rough cinder block wall. A slither of light came into view from a rectangular slit atop of a reinforced steel door. The dimensions of the room were brought into focus. It was a fortified closet, barely enough room for a person. The pit. Solitary confinement.
"You awake?" A voice called out to him.
M.C. managed a weak grunt as he felt the back of his head. It was bandaged, and the spot where he had been hit was crusted and dry. Another slit, this time at the bottom, slid open. A metal plate came through, clattering on the floor. He couldn't make out its contents.
"Eat." The voice spoke again.
He breathed in and out, gathering breath and trying to blow it out of his clogged nostrils. One unclogged as the stench of body odor followed by cheap gravy rushed through his nose. The bottom slit slid shut again. As he reached out towards the plate his hand crossed into the light, the brown of his skin was stained with splotches of fading red. He turned his hand, then brought it close to his face. It had a metallic smell to it, and he suddenly remembered what had happened. He slouched down into the corner at his back, rested his eyes, and slowly drifted into the past...

Metal guardrails, timeworn with twisted beginnings, apart in spots from a flaking yellow wall, spiral to the top of an aged row-home. Light penetrates on flats dividing rising stairs, revealing dust and dander breathing lungs would already detect was in the air. Every conversation, every cry, and every shout the tenets made penetrates the cheap plaster walls. Footsteps echo and the stairs whine out under pressure as a younger M.C. slowly proceeds up. Through a deep auburn door, he walks half a hallway down and right into a room. A jacket, t-shirts, and a bra are scattered over an unmade double bed lying under a slow turning, once white, ceiling fan. In a scratched wood top dresser, he pulls loose drawer handles which wobble the nightstand and a flimsy lamp on top.
"Who's here?" An older woman's voice calls out from another room.
"Me ma.”
"Do you work today?"
"Yeah."
In the second drawer, he shuffles through socks, trojans, and ink filled papers. Underneath a worn black spiral notebook,"Manny Mindz" etched on the cover, lay a crinkled brown bag. Buried within, a steel piece, chilled to the touch, and he can feel its weight as he lifts it. He sifts through clothes, and finds a grey hoody clean enough to wear.
"Are you leaving now?" Ma questions, “You-know-who called again.”
He slowly looks over the clothes and the empty room once more without answering.
"Bundle up, it's cold out there."
"I know ma."
The bag disappears into his front pockets as he hurries out of the unkempt room. Bumping pots ring out from the kitchen followed by the weak latching lock of the door behind him. He proceeds swiftly downstairs, past lingering wrappers, cigarette buds, and unwanted change. At the stairwell's bottom, a soft glow emits from the cloudy window on the entryway. Howling wind freely rushes through the cracks of the opening door and the brisk afternoon air smacks at his face as he enters the light.

The ruffling sound of a turning newspaper penetrated the heavy steel door and M.C.'s mind. His eyes slowly readjusted to the blackness before him, focusing on the circular metal disk at his feet. He reached down, digging into goo covered contents, which had taken on the more apparent qualities of the room. The gel and dry powder concoction slithered down his throat prompting an inner body shudder. He rubbed at the crusted spot on his bandages again, then inched closer to the steel door. Under the light, he examined his upper body, a perfecting prison physique, smooth toned and hard to the flex. The newspaper ruffled again.
"How long I got to be in here?" M.C. called out to no answer... "I know you there man."
Just outside the cell a bulky man sat in a folding chair barely able to support his weight. He continued reading as he responded.
"I don't know. Just sit tight."
"Can I at least get a shirt man?"
"Yeah I'll see what I can do." He answered flipping to the next page.
The guard didn't move and continued to read. M.C. tried some of the food again and fidgeted with his bandage a bit more until growing impatient.
"Yo man. It's cold in here."
The cell guard shook his head, folded the paper and reluctantly stood up as his chair breathed a sigh of relief. He lumbered towards M.C.'s door, crossing into view.
"You just don't get it do you?" The guard spoke. "You're in there for a reason, I shouldn't even be helpin you out."
M.C. jerked his head back into the darkness.
"Nigga, why you care?"
The guard frowned and left M.C.'s sight. Then the unlatching of another basement door echoed through the hall and into M.C.'s dark confines.
"Ey, let me get a smoke too!" He yelled out. "If I got to be waitin in here awhile and shit." He mumbled. "…Newports!"
The barred door rattled shut behind the guard. M.C. knew he wasn't going to get his cigarettes, but hoped the guard would at least come back with a shirt. He leaned back against the wall as his other nostril popped unplugged, sending a strong rush of must and mold over stagnant food straight to his head.

*****

“Number 051924." The warden mumbled. The balding man with a double chin sat in a ornate red leather and gold rope embroidered office chair, carefully flipping through M.C.'s file on his highly polished mahogany desk.
“One… two… three times this month.” The warden softly spoke to himself.
M.C. sat across from him, unbandaged and fully clothed, without saying a word. A large man stood over M.C. like a looming black sentinel. M.C. pressed his lips together, pulled them in and tongued them of chapped skin. The office had library shelves, rows of dark colored books on the east wall near the door. A window, behind the warden, over looked the more scenic field area which ran into the woods beyond the prison. Paper shuffled again, drawing M.C.’s eyes back to the desk. Everything on top formed a ninety degree angle, an old fashioned dial phone, the pencil sharpener with the desk calendar and the black and gold name plate simply inscribed Warden. Even the way he flipped through M.C.'s papers was meticulously done, the discard pile reshuffled on the desk each time he overturned a page.
“ You’re getting worse. What have we got you in here for anyway...?" The warden questioned, breaking silence.
M.C. slide back in his chair, and leaned slightly forward.
“You see it was--”
“That was a rhetorical question.” The warden cut him off. “I don’t care why you’re in here. Fact of the matter is you’re in here. That’s enough for me.”
M.C. swallowed and tongued his lips more vigorously than before. The warden continued to flip through papers as the uneasy lull of silence returned. M.C. picked at the number on his shirt until the warden reshuffled and spoke again.
“Control. I run a prison that functions, and I would like to have it functioning efficiently -- at all times. Whatever baggage you brought from outside gets dropped when you enter my front door. Whatever shit you collect here gets dealt with real quick or I have a problem. But you don’t seem to understand that. You’re hard headed and ignorant and I don't like you in my prison.” The warden preached.
He returned to his papers momentarily. M.C. scratched then rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the guard behind him who hadn’t moved. The warden spoke again, eyes locked on M.C. as if he were ready to leap into his soul.
"A week of solitary." He paused. "You should be getting tired of this by now."
"Yeah." He flashed a quick smile. "I mean, yes sir."
"Readmittance into general population. That's what you want don't you? But is that what is going to benefit me?"
M.C. nodded his head slowly. The warden reluctantly pulled a stamper from a drawer to his right and stamped some of M.C.'s papers. He shuffled the papers back into the folder, looked up at the guard and neatly laid them on the corner of his desk.
"Take him out of here."
"This way." The guard's voice bellowed out for the first time.
Biting his bottom lip to keep from grinning, M.C. slowly got up as the warden eyed him over one last time. He turned his back to him and was ushered out of the room by the towering sentinel. The warden waited a moment, then dialed out on his phone.
"Cellblock D. Yes. A readmittance. Number 051924 is returning to general population..."

*****

Cell block D, Row 5. Above the confines of the pit, steel and concrete cells spiraled three floors up. In for the night, M.C. laid on the bottom bunk of his cell for the first time in nearly five days. He took in the pleasant smell of ivory soap sheets to forget about the metal coils burrowing into his back. He closed his eyes to forget about the walls around him a little more than an arm’s length away. He could’ve been anywhere in the world in that moment, but latent footstep echoes from above quickly brought him back. He noticed two towels, neatly folded, placed next to a small cardboard box containing his belongings. Next to it was his cellmate’s box, taped, with a few unopened envelops sitting on top. The footsteps approached his door now. His door unlatched and his bed whined as he turned to see his cellmate return via escort.
"What up Kula?"
"Que pasa? Cuanto tiempo ese?"
M.C. sat up in bed as the stocky little Cuban man with a fixated grin shuffled through his mail.
"Gettin that good mail, I see."
"Ha. Goo-d. Goo-d es mi as a free muchacho en one month."
"Damn, you for real? Nah. You ain't gettin out early."
"Si, it's true."
Kula struggled to lift himself to the top bunk. He laid down and the mattress drooped down on M.C. under his weight. The sound of opening letters filled the air. M.C. yawned.
"So what you gonna do, you goin back to Cuba?"
Kula paused and unfolded a letter. A photo was inside: a woman in a yellow dress standing next to a brown stucco wall.
"Cuba? No. There es no opportunity, I stay in America. Eh, work a little, then maybe I see."
"Aight, aight. Do you." He gave his nod of approval and yawned again.
M.C. closed his eyes. Kula continued to read.
"So...why you keep getting in much trouble ese?"
Startled by the question, M.C.'s eyes quickly opened. He smiled an open tooth grin, then looked down and his eyebrows bunched together. He laughed aloud and waited for a moment. His fingers rubbed over the stubby oval shaped scab protruding from the back of his head.
"Damn." He paused. "I don't even really kno. Trouble just be followin me for real..." He picked at his scab. "On some deep shit, it just be livin up in me."
M.C. flinched as he brought his hand back to see a little blood on his finger tip. He put it in its mouth. It had a metallic taste. Kula held his letter by his side, and looked down at the picture again. His lips slowly curled up at the ends, and he laughed aloud. M.C. frowned.
"Maybe you just miss the muchachas too much ese?"
It was quiet for a split second. Then the cell erupted in laughter, pushing back the walls and softening the beds momentarily. Then the laughter came to an abrupt stop. M.C. shook his head, rolled to his side, and gripped his pillow.
“Kula got jokes...”
Gravity slowly overtook his eyelids and he returned to the past once again.