"But that shit only happens to punks and queers," my brother told me. "To punk ass bitches that don't know how to take care of themselves."
I could never tell Rick how scared I was to be in prison, because I didn't want him to look down on me. How could I tell him how little I could fight? He must have known how much I relied on him as a kid. I think he even resented it at times, they way he always had to stick up for me. Perhaps that's why he had that look of terror on his face the night before I came to prison. I could never tell him how cowardly I felt or about the sexual thoughts I sometimes had.
"You don't want to be a punk," Rick said. "And you never want to be a snitch. Punks get fucked, but snitches get killed."
When he used to write to me from inside prison, he described daily life there. He told me about the fights and stabbings and about inmates who were set on fire. He described how he made a bomb by scraping off the sulfur from books of matches into a jar. He added nuts and bolts and bits of metal that served as shrapnel. And he told me about the rapes and gangbangs, and how a helpless newcomer was held down while several guys took turns fucking him. "The Bible says that the meek shall inherit the earth," he once wrote, "but inside these walls-they're doing their boyfriend's laundry." He said prison was a sea of restless sailors who were eager to assist the helpless land lovers gain their sea legs, as long as they were lifted high in the air.
The raw masculine barbarity of it all completely aroused my imagination. Yes, I was terrified, but at the same time fascinated. Prison sounded repulsive, yet my reactions made me wonder about my sexuality. Rick's stories gave me an adrenaline rush. My breath seemed to quicken, and my heart raced. Then cane the shame and disgust-the humiliation and self hatred that I was picturing myself having sex with a guy. I could never tell anyone what I was thinking. Why did I have to be so different? Is prison where I truly belonged?
We were in the north side card room. Chet and Taylor had brought the spud juice in a thick black plastic bag. There was a gray flannel blanket over the table. Red and Slide Step joined them a couple of minutes later. Chet dipped a Maxwell House instant coffee jar inside of the bag. The juice was a dark red color. Chet handed it to me.
"We don't use cups because the stain don't come out," Chet said, referring to the plastic tumblers everyone seemed to have.
There were prunes and orange bits at the bottom of the glass jar. The label on the jar read, GooDD TO THE LAST DROP. I took a drink and gagged, not sure I'd be able to drink more. It had a pungent odor; its taste was sharp and acidic. The guys laughed. They seemed to be studying inc, acting supportive and encouraging at the same time. I enjoyed the attention more than the juice, but the warmth in my belly was inviting. The burn that went down sent coolness back up. It was like stepping into a hot bath, and the feeling you get as the chill in your body rises up through your spine.
"You eat the fruit," Taylor said, "that's the best part."
I couldn't get past the bitter taste. It was sharp and caused shivers in the back of my neck, my eyes watered. There was no way I could cat the fruit.
"Where it at? Where it at!" a short skinny black man echoed as he entered the room, giving Slide Step a high five from the side. He extended his arm, pulled it back behind him and then brought it forward, slapping his hand. He was wearing an all-white kitchen uniform.
"Hey Ed," Slide Step said, slapping him back with the same sideways motion. "Where's your goblet?"
"Right here," hoisting his instant coffee jar into the air. "Now you didn't think I'd miss a party? Did ya?"
Taylor took Ed's jar and dipped it into the bag.
"But don't give me none of that fruit." Ed grimaced. "That shit is nasty!"
He grabbed a chair and sat next to me. "You must be Tim!" He looked down at my now half-empty drink.
I smiled at him, "You don't eat the fruit, huh?"
"No way, that shit will grow hair on your ass," he said. "Ain't nothing worse."
"NASTY," Chet chided, shaking his head with a hint of Louis Armstrong in his voice, "NASTY ASSEY!"
"Well, if it's anything like the juice," I said, "I'm not sure I want any."
"Oh, lie's talkin' about hair on your ass," Red quipped, "not the juice."
They all chuckled.
"Now you just leave this boy alone," Ed said, putting his arm around my chair. "This is my homeboy."
He picked up his jar and clinked it with mine. "Cheers!"
I took another swig, this time it only stung a little. Chet was sitting across from me. Slide Step was in his usual place, his back to the wall and legs crossed and propped on another chair, slowing nursing his spud juice.
"Why do they call it spud juice?" I asked. "Are there potatoes in it?"
"Nah," Chet said, "probably a long time ago. We use orange juice or grapefruit juice and whatever fruit we can get our hands on."
"But it can't have no preservatives," Taylor added.
"We add sugar and yeast," Chet continued, "and then let it cook for a couple of days. I'm not sure how they did it with potatoes."
"It's hard to get the juice anymore," Taylor explained, "since they started bringing in orange juice with preservatives and shit. So we have to rely on fruit, which there ain't a lot of around here."
Chet and Taylor had been friends for a long time.
