Bronx Noir

I consider hanging up, ending it all. Believe it or not, it’s hard to pull off in a place like this. I go back to my cot and sleep another eight hours.

“On the chow!” the CO barks, alerting inmates it’s feeding time again. I drag myself out of bed and kick on some slippers. I have no idea what day or time it is. I try not to think. My thoughts lead only to one place.

On the way to the mess hall I notice a door with the words, New Beginnings…Create a new life and a new future today. Why does the name resonate so much? I repeat it to myself over and over— New Beginnings, New Beginnings. Then, like some prizefighter’s left hook, it hits me. It is one in a long line of stories Billy’s told me. Last time he was locked down on the Island he managed to weasel his way into being a trustee. He was assigned to sweep and mop some program office. Bits and pieces of his tale are coming back to me. All he kept telling me is that he was so smooth he could find a vic anywhere, even on the inside. “Simple, old-fashioned justice,” he called it. It was his way, he thought, of sticking to the system that stuck it to him so many times. The last thing I want to think about is that world.

God works in mysterious ways, I think, but did he really expect me to join a stupid jailhouse program? Been there, done that. I shuffle along to the mess hall.

I get my food, some kind of slop meant to be meatloaf, and walk to a gray steel table that’s probably been painted for the twentieth time. I sit down and bury my face in my hands. I consider throwing the tray against the wall. I’m filled with rage and desperately need a hit. I haven’t felt my emotions in years and the pain is unbearable.

“Hey.” The guy sitting next to me tries to start a conversation, but I wave him away.

“Don’t wanna talk, man,” I tell him.

“Listen, I know where you’re at,” he says. “I’ve been there. I can see it. New Beginnings is what you need, brotha.” As he goes on about the program, how cool the counselors are, how they help you find a job and get clean once you’re released, I just want him to shut up. I don’t have the energy for hope.

To get him off my back, I grab an application for the program from a table and fill it out. He tells me he’ll give it to the director. The next chapter of my life suddenly has promise, however slight.

I pick up my spoon and take a portion of the meatloaf and place it in my mouth. I chew once or twice, then slowly open my mouth, letting the disgusting fodder fall back onto the tray. This isn’t the first jailhouse meal that has repulsed me, but it’s the first time the pain has run so deep. I push the tray aside and sit there staring at the New Beginnings mural and wondering what that phrase means to me.

I return to my housing unit and wait for the count to be cleared. The jangle of keys attached to the belt on the spreading waist of a CO signifies the change in shifts.

Clank! The crash of metal against metal, bouncing apart, then meeting again with another steely thump tells me that the day is beginning. Soon it will be business as usual in the facility.

By 7:30 a.m., the facility count of inmates will be complete. As I lie on my bunk, I look toward the east and catch a glimpse of the rising sun. I think to myself that no matter what, the sun will always rise and the world is given a chance at a new beginning. What we do with it is up to us.

“Laundry crew!” a CO blares as inmates move toward the front gate. I’m yet to be assigned a work detail, but maybe I’ll get into that program, I think, and I won’t have to do some grimy jail job.

As soon as the dorm CO appears to have nothing to do, I’ll approach him and ask for a pass to the New Beginnings office. Getting the officer on duty to assist you in any way requires a skill all its own. Timing is everything. Miss that opportunity and you’ll be forced to sit in the house all day, wasting away. I’m not one to let that happen. Like I made things happen on the street, I’ll make things happen here.

I’m given an “OK” and a pass to the New Beginnings office, where I hope to be screened for admittance into the program. This is my chance to make good. Redemption, they say, only comes once in a lifetime.

I enter the office and the first thing I notice is how down-to-earth the counselors seem. They’re like everyday people, hardworking and dedicated to what they do, probably like my victims, I think. That’s one thing about jail, your conscience works overtime. The guilt and shame you’ve suppressed for so long come bubbling to the surface. As I wait for the screening process to begin, I’m overcome with these thoughts. What does this all mean?

Unlike the rest of the jail, with its dreary gray walls, the director’s office is painted a calming beige. Fresh flowers sit in a vase on her desk. The sign on the door tells me her name is Ms. Frey.

“Nice to meet you, Tron,” she says, extending her hand. The office is snowed under with books. Books on the wall, books on the floor, books to the right, and books to the left. Framed photos and artwork line the walls. A picture of a smiling little girl on a swing with Ms. Frey catches my attention. The warmth of the photo has a disarming affect on me, and anyone else who enters here, I think. The picture defines the bond between mother and child. No matter how “hard” you think you are, the image softens you.

She gestures for me to have a seat and instantly I’m attracted to her. If for no other reason, please let me be accepted into this program because the director is fuckin’ fine. I pray to whoever’s listening.

She looks at me with emerald-green eyes that make me think how easily I could fall for this woman. As she tells me about the program, I fixate on her face. Oddly, a fleeting thought tells me I’ve met her before.

The interview goes well and I’m told I’m accepted into the program. I never share my deep thoughts with anyone, but somehow she got me open. I’ve seen the inside of jails and rehabs from here to Los Angeles, and bullshit-talking counselors are a dime a dozen, but I may have found the one therapist who truly cares. My life is a mess and I desperately need the help of this program.

Days go by in this jungle, and as in any jungle made of concrete and steel or gnarled green vegetation, only the strong survive. By no means am I the super thug type; my IQ earns me respect and is regarded in much the same way as a seventeen-inch bicep. Behind these walls that’s all you’ve got, and both will earn you props.

I find solace in the New Beginnings office, exchanging feedback with others in the program and building on ideas with positive people. One-on-one sessions with Ms. Frey keep me afloat and I have found an oasis. She will rescue me from the sea of toxicity I’m floating in.

I tell her about the dark places my drug addiction brought me, about the hookers and the drugs, but I don’t tell her about the scams, spreads, and the dirty checks—I’m too embarrassed and don’t want to scare her off. Her office is where I dump my guilt and shame, and she willingly carts it away.

“You don’t have to live that way anymore,” she tells me.