I was too ashamed to admit it at the time, but the fact that she was a black woman, or that she had on way too much make-up-had nothing to do with it. It was because she was a woman. I couldn't tell this to my brother; I could barely admit it to myself It was usually only when drunk that I could face this truth about myself, and even then, it was difficult. I could always blame it on the booze, since it was only when I drank that this desire would surface. Well, sometimes it came up in my fantasies, but then I'd tell myself it was just a phase I was going through. There weren't any queers in my part of town, and I didn't know of any other part that had them either. It was the Midwest in the 1970s and people didn't talk about these things, especially not in my neighborhood, unless it was the butt of a joke.
Queers were what you called a sissy, or a friend that pissed you off. Or it was something you heard about that happened in prison. Maybe that's what my brother was so concerned about. Perhaps that's why he seemed so afraid. Or maybe that was why I felt so drawn there. I don't know. You just didn't talk about these things. That's why, the next morning, I couldn't tell Rick what happened that night, or rather, what didn't happen.
My head was hurting from the hangover of my last dance.
3
The Absence of Drama
As I was leaving for court in the morning, Rick came out of the house and called to me.
Sharon started to say something, but stopped herself. Instead, she got into the car and started it. Rick handed me a carton of cigarettes, and Sharon looked away.
My brother and I stared at each other for a long moment, neither of us knowing what to say. It had all been said before. He looked down at his feet and back up again. As usual, he was trying to hold it together. None of us were anygood at emotional stuff.
"Remember what I told you," he said. It was his last piece of advice. "No matter what happens in there, Little Brother. It'll be your memories that hold you together."
I looked at him and nodded.
"Up here," he said, thumping the side of my head. "And in here, " be gently pressed my chest.
"Not more than four years," the judge ordered, "and no less than two and a half." He scribbled in the folder and passed the file to the clerk seated on his left.
"You are hereby remanded to the Michigan Department of Corrections."
I was disappointed that I didn't get a May God have mercy on your soul, or even a May you rot in hell final admonishment. It all seemed so horribly lacking in drama. I was just another number. The bailiff was calling the next case before the Sheriff deputy could get his handcuffs on my wrist. The judge didn't look up at me. There was a huge stack of manila folders and dark brown files in front of him. It was sentencing day, and the court had a full docket. They were using an abandoned wing of the Wayne County Hospital as overflow to the congested courts in downtown Detroit.
I looked over at Sharon, she was blowing her nose into a hankie as she turned and walked out. Our eyes didn't meet, so I wasn't sure if there were tears. Dad couldn't get off work that day, or perhaps he couldn't bear towe knew I was going to prison.
The deputy took me into the back, through a large set of double doors, to a holding cell. A long metal bench was attached to the wall. He unlocked my handcuffs and ordered me to take everything from my pockets and place it onto a table. I removed my wallet and a pack of gum from my right front pocket. I had three quarters and two dimes in the other. I took a pack of cigarettes and a green lighter from my shirt and placed it onto the table next to the carton my brother had given me that morning. He said they would hold me at the county jail a few days until I was transferred to the state prison.
The deputy told me to remove my belt and shoe laces, so I couldn't hang myself, and to place my hands on the wall while he patted me down. He unlocked the cell, ordered me in, and closed the barred door with a clunk. The vibrations echoed off the walls. I tried to ignore the metallic sound of the turning tumblers and the thud of the locking bolt.
I fumbled for a cigarette and asked the deputy for a light, not knowing how long it would be before he'd be back again. He kept my lighter, which was considered contraband, and gave me a book of matches from his shirt pocket and told me to keep them.
"Thanks," I said. My hand slightly shook as I took the matches.
Behind him, a deputy entered with another prisoner. As each new inmate was placed inside the cell, I tried harder not to think about the sound of the turning bolt that slammed into the steel jam I'd gotten myself into. It had been almost a year since I was arrested for
