you.’ I know it sounds corny as a holiday card, but I wanted that belief to be rewarded, made whole… that’s the only way I can describe it. I wanted to justify his belief. This man I barely knew. Had only spoken to once.
“Then I saw an opening. The slimmest opening possible. An opening that would add some years on my sentence and would put the ‘hard’ into ‘hard time’ if I got caught.
“See, one thing I’ve come to learn about this job is you gotta look at things from a different angle. I was trying to shadow Nash and pick up on a mistake or a flaw or some way to get inside with him, but instead, I should’ve been watching where he wasn’t. I didn’t say that right. Let me explain.
“I noticed that the guards went into a locker room just off of A block when they checked in. Various guards would be in and out of there all day, Nash included. When he came in, he’d be wearing a pair of khakis and an oxford shirt, but when he walked out, he’d be wearing a different pair of pants and the blue dress shirt that all hacks wore, you know? It came to me then and there. I had to get inside that locker room and see if there was any clue, any anything he left behind in his locker when he went out on shift.
“So there it was. All my eggs in that basket. I only had a day left, and how the hell was I gonna get into that locker room? Prisoners weren’t supposed to be out of A block at all, much less in the bullring.”
Smoke holds up one finger and flashes me a smile. “Except one inmate. One guy, that’s it. Little sawed off son-of-a-bitch named George Yackey. The Yack Attack, my ticket in. This con got the sweet gig of shining the bathrooms, sweeping the floors, picking up the dead bugs off the windowsills in the area called ‘A Extension’ but what the cons called ‘the bullring’ cause that’s where the guards went for break and change. Yack was the only orange jumpsuit allowed back there, twice a day, to clean up the ring and make it look nice.
“Now understand, the bullring wasn’t near the perimeter or even on the outskirts of the building, so it wasn’t like you had shotguns trained on you or the hacks would think you were trying to escape if they caught you in there. In a lot of ways, it’d be worse for you, ’cause if you were in the ring unauthorized, the guards would assume you were trying to fuck ’em in some way. Steal from ’em or what-not. And here’s a little fact about serving time no one talks about: if you make a legitimate attempt at escape… if you get caught climbing the side of a wall, or in a tunnel or gripping the undercarriage of a laundry truck as it drives off the site, the hacks don’t beat the shit out of you. Hell, they’re not even sore. They actually show you a little bit of respect. That’s the truth! Don’t ask me why it’s so.. best I can figure, they put themselves in the con’s shoes and say, ‘why the hell wouldn’t I want out of this dungeon any way I can? How’m I gonna blame this poor fool for trying?’ Sure, they’ll throw you in solitary for a month and take away privileges for a year, but when you walk down the block, they’ll give you a nod like ‘not bad, you crazy son-of-a-bitch. Not bad.’
“So if I was trying to escape, I might’ve had a bit of lenience if I was busted. But caught in their area? Caught in the ring? Those bulls’ll go to town on your flesh until they catch bone, I guarantee that. That’s lesson time to them. Gotta teach a lesson, right?
“Anyway, I went to Yackey’s cell and I told him I needed a favor from him. I kept my eyes square and my hands spread like this, so he’d know I was in the askin’ position, not the tellin’ one, you know? He looked me up and down like I was dirt going down the shower room drain. So I made a play I had no idea would take, a play out of desperation, but what was I gonna do? I said, ‘Yack, let me tell you about your future. In the next day I’m going to be on the inside with Archibald Grant, and if you know what that’s worth, then you should climb on my back now. Do me this favor, and we’ll reap the rewards together. But if you choose to cross me, if you tell me to fuck off and go away, then put your money on the ‘don’t pass’ line and we’ll see what happens.’
“He thought about it for a long minute, maybe the longest of his life, certainly was of mine, and then looked up and asked me what I needed. ‘Five minutes of your time tomorrow,’ was my answer.
“I did my best to clean my jumper and shave my face and trim my hair and do everything I could to blend in, not stand out, not give the bulls a single thing that would call attention to myself if they happened to look my way as I approached the barrier between A Block and the bullring. Five minutes, I told myself. Five minutes, in and out, get something, anything out of Nash’s locker and run like hell back to the block.
“Now every day from two to three, that locker room in the bullring was empty. I clocked this for two straight days and this was the only pattern I could find. It had something to do with the rotation or the way they marked their shifts, but not once did a guard enter that locker room between two and three, and point of fact, the entire ring was empty during that time, save for George Yackey and his mop and bucket.
“At 2:15 on the last day, I walked from A block bathroom over to that barrier. Now, Yack Attack told me he’d meet me there at that time, swipe the card, get me inside, and that was that. But I’ll be damned if he wasn’t there.
“Now I’m standing next to the door and if a bull walks out of the cafeteria or out of the gym, I’m going to be looking like a big orange sign saying ‘this fucking con is up to no good.’ And I’m sweating and under my breath I’m cursing ol’ Yack, this passive-aggressive motherfucker who told me what I wanted to hear but really placed his bet on the other side and the sad thing is he was right to do so. By noon tomorrow, I’d be powerless and he’d still have his sweet gig, so why the hell should he do me any favors?
“I’m stewing for a good couple of minutes, trying to figure out my next chess move, knowing that I need to vacate immediately, get the hell away from this barrier and get back to my cell and figure out what the hell I was gonna do in the next ten hours to get my ass out of this spot, and then I see the door to the locker room open inside the bullring and Yack shuffles out and heads to the barrier and opens the door to let me inside.
“He mutters something about wanting to make sure the coast was clear and for me to get the hell on with it, and if I don’t start moving instead of gawking in the passageway, he’s gonna slam the barrier back in my face.
“I move like a jackrabbit, into the bullring, one, two, three steps and I’m through the locker room door, my heart beating so hard I can feel it in my throat, and there I was feeling as exposed and vulnerable as a naked baby.
“The locker room was pretty much what’d you’d imagine, sort of in the shape of a domino, two rooms really, a half partition in the middle, with rows of lockers along each wall and wooden benches in the center so the bulls could change their socks or whatever needed changing.
“The clock in my head was already ticking as I stood dumbfounded in that off-limits room, and it hit me that I didn’t know which fucking locker was Nash’s. What the hell was I thinking? Walking in here blind like this. I moved around the front room looking for a clue, but all the lockers were the same, just steel outsides, shiny and clean, no tape or nothing marking whose was which. Fuck me, my head was telling me to just bail out now, slip back outside and through the barrier before I catch a beat-down the likes from which men don’t come back normal, but my feet kept moving me on. I was between a rock and a bigger rock, I’ll tell you that.
“So my feet walk me into the back part of the room, and there it is, a mop set right up against one particular locker. Yack Attack, who had no reason to do me any favors other than knowing I’d owe him if I did in fact find myself riding high after this, played me an ace. I moved the mop out of the way and even though the locker was locked, I slipped it open as easy as eating cake. I had one set of skills coming into this place and this baby lock wasn’t going to stymie a man who knew his way around opening things up that needed opening.
“I get the locker unlocked and it makes more noise than I mean to make because I’m so fucking jumpy and my hands are a little sweat-soaked I have to admit, and I let the door slip and it bangs against the locker next to it. I hold my breath but no one comes a-calling, and I’m staring inside at his clothes, those same clothes I saw him come in with: a pair of khaki pants, neatly folded on a hanger, hanging next to a red striped oxford shirt and a blue blazer. Down in the bottom of the locker sit a pair of brown Cole Haan loafers. That’s it. That’s what I’ve risked my hide for… a set of clothes and nothing else.
“I fish through the pants pockets but they’re empty, then I try the blazer but nothing in the inside pocket and I swear this headache springs up on me all of a sudden like when you drink something cold too fast, and I realize that my body’s telling me emphatically and wholly that I’ve screwed the pooch and right then I notice some heavy coughing coming from outside the locker room door, like a fit, like Yack’s out there choking on his lunch and through the murk of this headache I somehow realize this is a signal, a warning, and I shut the locker and dive behind the little half wall divider that separates the front part of the room from the back and press myself up against it as I hear the door open and a guard whose voice I recognize as this black bull named Propes is saying ‘You okay, prisoner?’ to Yackey as he enters the room.
“I got a fifty-fifty shot, that’s all I got. Either his locker’s in the back part and he’s going to catch me there looking like a fish out of the tank or his locker is in the front part and I might, just might, be okay if I can keep my teeth from chattering. You know how many times your life comes down to such a clear-cut, fifty-fifty chance? Maybe five, ten times, and there it was: white marble and I’m okay, black marble and I’m gone, baby, gone.
