Thomas Flynn said, “Why would a father let his little boy or girl go nude in front of those men? You don’t know what’s going on behind their sun-glasses.” Amanda had said, “Don’t be rude, honey; we’re guests here,” and his dad muttered something about “bored rich people” and left it at that. That was their first and last vacation with the Rubinos. Years later, when Steve Rubino cashed out of his law firm and left his wife and kids for a twenty-two- year-old GW student, Thomas Flynn said, “You know what Rubino was doing up on that beach? He was shopping. I told you that guy wasn’t right.”
Chris smiled, thinking of his old man. They had a word for the way he was. Crum-something. Always complaining but doing it in a funny way.
“What you grinnin on, White Boy?” said Lawrence Newhouse, standing beside Chris in the shower.
Chris shrugged, giving Lawrence nothing.
“Thinkin about your home?” said Lawrence. “Bet you got a nice one. A real nice family, too.”
Chris recognized the mention of his family as some kind of threat, but it had no weight or meaning. For a moment, but only for a moment, he thought, Bughouse is right. But to let himself dwell on what he’d had, and on his mistakes, was not productive. He was here now, and it didn’t matter where he’d come from; he was the same as everyone else inside Pine Ridge. Locked up and low.
“Why you never speak to me, man?” said Lawrence. “You too good?”
Chris did not answer. He stepped out of the spray and reached for a towel smelling of body odor that hung on a plastic knob.
“We gonna talk, Christina, ” said Lawrence.
Chris dried himself off and walked away.
A man who had done time at Lorton, and who had written poetry there and eventually a series of popular street-lit message novels aimed at juveniles, came to speak to the inmates of Pine Ridge late in April. The residents of Unit 5, wearing maroon, and Unit 8, wearing gray, were ushered into the auditorium, having walked from the school building through a cold rain. Many of them were soaked and shivering as they sat in their too-small chairs and half-listened to the speaker, who started his talk with the usual I-came-from-the-same-streets-as-you, I-made- it-and-you-can-too platitudes that went through them faster than the greasy Chinese food they used to eat in the neighborhoods they’d come up in.
Ali Carter and Chris Flynn sat in the row of chairs farthest back in the room. Ali was wearing his glasses, a piece of surgical tape holding them together at the bridge, and a kufi skull cap, finely knitted. The cap was allowed for religious reasons, despite the facility’s no-hat policy. Ali had confessed to Chris that he had been named by his mother after the boxer and held no Muslim beliefs. He wore the skull cap just to mess with the guards, who didn’t like the boys asserting their individuality, and to take a minor victory where he could.
“When I wrote Payback Time, ” said the writer, whose nom de plume was J. Paul Sampson, “I was thinking of young men just like you. Because I was once where you are now, and I understand that revenge is a natural impulse. I understand that you think it’s going to make you feel good.”
“Not as good as gettin a nut,” said Lonnie Wilson from somewhere in the crowd, and a few of the boys laughed.
J. Paul Sampson, immaculate in a custom-tailored suit, plowed on. “But revenge, my young brothers, is a dead-end street.”
Ben Braswell was a row ahead, seated among gray shirts. He was listening to the book writer and nodding his head. In the front row sat Lawrence Newhouse, defiantly slumped in his chair, arms crossed. A half-dozen guards, including Lattimer, and a few teachers, including the school’s earnest, bearded young English teacher, Mr. McNamara, were standing around the perimeter.
“Where I was,” said J. Paul Sampson, “in lockup? It was full of men who felt they’d been disrespected, and because of that, they acted on impulse and got violent. With the passage of time, as the years went by in prison, they couldn’t even tell you why they’d killed. Because what they did was unreasonable. You know what that means, don’t you, gentlemen? There was no reason.”
In one of the rows ahead, a young man in a gray polo shirt had turned his chair slightly so that he could look to the back of the room. His gaze was focused steadily on Ali.
“Why’s that dude eye-fuckin you?” said Chris, keeping his voice low.
“Calvin Cooke,” said Ali, leaning in close to Chris. “Boy’s from Langdon Park, over there off Rhode Island Avenue. It’s a Northeast-Southeast thing. I guess he feel the need to stare.”
“So?”
“He just bein unreasonable,” said Ali with a small smile.
Ali often got singled out for intimidation because of his short stature and, due to his eyeglasses, his studious appearance. Some called him Urkel as he passed. The ones who said nothing had taken note of his big chest.
“I’m here to tell you that the life I have now is better than the one I had,” said J. Paul Sampson. “I made a choice when I got out of prison, and I’m a successful and productive member of society today. You can make the same kind of choice.”
Luther raised his hand. “Do you get paid?”
J. Paul Sampson chuckled nervously. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you get pussy?” said another boy, and the auditorium erupted with laughter. A guard pulled that boy roughly out of his chair and led him from the room.
“Show respect to Mr. Sampson,” said the English teacher, McNamara. “He took valuable time out of his day to come here and talk to you. Listen to what he has to say.”
There were murmurs in the room, and the boys’ posture slackened further.
“I got a question,” said Lattimer, stepping forward from the back of the room. “I knew you were coming to speak, so I read one of your books. You know that one, Brothers in Blood?”
“Yes?”
“The boy in that book is bad, almost all the way through. He’s in a crew, he gives other kids beat downs, he drops out of school. To him, all the authority figures, including the police, is hypocrites and fools. Then in the last chapter, the boy comes to his senses and turns his self around.”
“That’s right. The message is, you can make many mistakes, but it’s never too late to change.”
“See,” said Lattimer, “I kinda figured out what you’re doing. What they call the formula. You’re getting kids all jacked up on one hundred and eighty pages of violence and disrespect, and then you add ten pages of redemption in the end that they not even gonna read. What I’d like to see is a whole book about a kid who doesn’t do any wrong at all. Who stays on the straight even though he may be living in a bad environment, because that’s the right thing to do. Because he knows the consequences of being wrong.”
Scattered mumblings came from the crowd: “You stupid, Shawshank,” and “Why you got to talk?” and “Sit down, Mr. Huxtable.”
“I try to tell the truth, sir,” said the author amiably. “My books reflect the reality of the street.”
“A little more respect for authority is all I’m looking for,” said Lattimer. “That’s what these boys need to read about and learn.”
“I appreciate your comments.”
“Got to give Shawshank credit,” said Ali, staring at the boy from Langdon Park, who was still staring at him. “Man believe what he believe, and you can’t move him off it.”
“Shawshank’s a rock,” said Chris.
Luther raised his hand. “Can I be a book writer, too?”
“You can be whatever you want to be,” said J. Paul Sampson. “If there’s one thing I want you gentlemen to take away from this today, it’s that.”
“I want to be one now,” said Luther.
“It’s a goal to strive for,” said J. Paul Sampson, exasperation replacing the fading brightness in his eyes. “But it takes time. Like anything worth having, you need to work for it. Being an author is like having any other job.”
“I don’t want no job,” said Luther. “ Fuck that.”
Lawrence Newhouse had been put on heavier meds, rumored to be in the lithium family, and when his behavior improved it became contagious. Unit 5 was more peaceful when Lawrence was subdued, and at times the atmosphere was nearly congenial. There were arguments, but the fire in them died quickly, and people laughed at Luther’s dumb jokes and listened patiently to Lonnie Wilson’s boasts and three-way fantasies though they had heard them many times before.
