The Seventh Slice
“Twas' once the Ss, now the ING, which makes the serpents SING.”
CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK
First wake-up of the day. Stand in line. Eat breakfast. Put spoon away. Get back on bunk, stuff earplugs in, pull blanket over head. Reflect on the night’s dreams before drifting back to sleep.
CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK
Second wake-up of the day. Make a cup of coffee. Wait in line. Eat lunch at the tables. Put spoon away. Get back on bunk, start recording dreams.
“Merry freaking Christmas.” My celly of one week says, without looking away from the window. “Such a damn depressing day in here. Ya know dood, Christmas used to always be my favorite holiday. Even though Ma never had much money for presents, she made the most bomb ass cinnamon toast for me every Christmas morning. Dood, I’ve tried to make it before by myself, but it just ain’t the same. There’s just sumthin bout the way she cooked ‘em that slaps! The lil top layer of sugar all crispy but not burnt. Ya know? Now my older bro didn’t love em so Ma would bake up—”
I stopped really listening after his first few words. He says he goes by Rare, but his name is Darrell, and that’s what others call him. Holy hell can this guy say a lot of words in a row non-stop. He just impulsively talks and talks and talks. It’s a form of anxiety, I think, which is probably not helped from sampling every drug known to man since he was a teenager.
It’s been over six weeks since I’ve written anything in my notebook besides dreams. It’s also been about six weeks since my old celly Vaughn left. In just that time, I’ve already gone through three cellys. The first guy came in obviously still coming down off drugs. He didn’t say much, just slept pretty much all day and night. His girl posted bail for less than a thousand bucks and just like that, he was out of my cell and out of jail. Boy, I sure wish my bail was in the thousands instead of one million fucking dollars. And seven. $1,000,007. The wonky extra seven dollars fits perfectly in this place where nothing makes sense.
Anyways, he’s gone, and I don’t even remember his name.
The guy after that, Anthony, was a big fat mess. I mean, he was probably five foot eight but had to have weighed close to three hundred pounds. He made the cell feel so claustrophobic, and he was constantly asking if there was any extra commissary I could spare.
As petty as the annoyances were, I still felt bad for him because of the story he cooked up about taking care of his mom and aunt. Allegedly, he’s just a kid in his thirties with a huge heart. He also has two strong mothers who do all the thinking for him, both of whom are so heavy they can’t get out of bed.
According to Anthony, the only thing he loves more than food is black. Which is strange to me, because before coming to jail I thought heroin was responsible for always making skeletons out of people. While he was my celly, I always brought my tray to the cell just so I could give him the stuff off it that I didn’t like.
On Thanksgiving, the jail provided a meal that seemed to be double the amount of food compared to our normal trays. Anthony couldn’t help but comment, “These are the size every dinner tray should be.” It still bothers me that it’s against the rules to pass food or commissary, but not nearly as much as when I first got here. It’s just another slice of life that’s been normalized by routine.
I wouldn’t have minded keeping him as a celly for his remaining couple months before being released to drug court, but he got accepted to work and live in the kitchen.
It took just two hours from the time Anthony rolled up and left my cell, to being replaced by another new celly. I was sitting at the tables playing chess with Dan, when the main door clack-clacked. In walked a tiny Asian fellow who was already looking around for people he might know. I knew he was headed to my cell even before he started walking toward it.
I made a move that put Dan in an awkward spot, the kind of move where many minutes can tick-tock on by while he tries to figure out how to maneuver out of the trap. After making it, I told him I’d be right back after going to go meet my new celly.
I walked into my house and he greeted me with a hyper positive energy. He laughed at the end of most sentences, which lifted my own mood. One of the first things he asked me was about the tables are like in this section. He wanted to know if there’s poker and what kind. After I told him I hadn’t seen any games going, he asked if there’s a Pinochle table.
“I actually think there is.”
It had been the same four guys playing cards at one of the tables for weeks. Apparently, Pinochle is much, much harder to grasp than spades, so a lot fewer people play. Not only is it harder, I’d heard, but also a lot more expensive.
He asked if I play, and I told him I hadn’t learned yet because it’s “pay to learn” and I didn’t want to get scammed out of milks and commissary like when I first started playing spades. He excitedly offered to teach me, then proceeded to start to sell me on how much fun it is. “Absolutely I want to learn,” I told him, “but I’m in the middle of chess right now.” “Tonight in the cell,” he said.
After I went back to my chess game with Dan, I watched Chang Money (as he said his name was) walk right up to the people at the Pinochle table and start cracking jokes. Before long, he was playing in the rotation. I learned a lot from watching how he flowed so easily and comfortably into this harsh environment. During my chess games with Dan, I kept my eye on what was going on over there, studying their interactions like I was a student preparing for a test.
That night, after final rack in for the day and after clothing exchange, C-Money (as he said his friends call him) taught me how to play Pinochle. I made an extra thick cup of coffee to share with C-Money by pouring some into his state-issued cup. He ended up teaching me the game for hours.
Pinochle:
Each hand starts with someone trying to win the bid. The person who wins then has the other two players team up against them, trying to prevent them from scoring enough points to make their bid. It’s a complex game with so many moving parts, but I learned quickly because he had me play both my own hand and the ghost hand that a third person would normally play.
That night I had trouble falling asleep because my mind was restless. It wasn’t the usual suspects, or because my brain was swimming in the nuances of Pinochle either. C-money told me right before bed that he needed me to help cover the very small debt he’d racked up at the table earlier. “Don’t worry,” he told me. “I’ve got money already on my books, I just need you to cover me until commissary day.”
The more I thought about it that night, the more it pissed me off. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he’d actually asked differently, instead of just assuming I’d cover the cost automatically. After a while though, I chalked it up to his personality and chose not to believe he was trying anything shady.
Everywhere there are reminders not to let my guard down.