“Hi, Dad,” I say, unable to keep the shame out of my voice.

“Howdy-ho, buccaneer! Finally you decide to call, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. How are you holding up? You didn’t drop the soap yet, did you?”

I can’t help but genuinely chuckle. “No, not yet. It’s not like that here because we have single-unit showers. But I did get jumped into a gang, so there’s that,” I respond as seriously as I can manage.

“Oh no, buddy, are you okay? What does that mean for you now? Did you shave your head?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

“Nah, I’m just messin’, got you though!” I feel a tinge of joy getting back at him for his soap joke.

“Oh my goodness, you said it so matter-of-factly I thought you were serious! You about gave me a heart attack!”

I notice there is someone a couple phones over, so I lower my voice. “Nope. To be honest, there’s not much gang stuff going on in here that I can tell. But I don’t like asking too many questions. I once heard in a show or something that cops ask questions, and people thinking I’m a cop is the last thing I need.”

“Ahh yes, very smart. You’ve got to keep your head down. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through in there. What’s jail actually like?” That’s my Dad, always the inquisitive mind. I tell him everything I’ve been experiencing so far: the panic attack, the suicide watch, the turtle suit, the inmates, the coppers, and the terrible food. Before I know it, an automated voice comes through the phone informing us we have one minute remaining.

“Okay, quick, I’ve only got one minute left and I’m using my celly’s phone time. I’m so sorry I got caught up in time, but we order commissary tonight. I need some decent soap, shampoo and a bowl, oh and some ramen noodles ‘cause I’m starving at night, oh yeah and of course some phone time. Jeez, when I say it out loud it sounds like a lot. I don’t know how it works on your end, but it would help me so much to get some of the basics. I’m so sorry to have to ask.” The desperation I feel inside is seeping into my voice.

“They don’t give you soap in there?” he asks skeptically.

“No, they do, but it’s terrible and makes me smell worse, I swear,” I tell him quickly.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Just remember that I love you. We all make mistakes, but one thing you need to know is that I love you. Do you know wh—”

His voice cuts off before I hear the rest, and instead I hear the automated voice: “Your phone call has ended. Goodbye.”

Talking on the phone was like a temporary portal away from the cold cement walls. Now I’m one hundred percent transported back to hell.

I’m stuck sitting with my thoughts swirling around, phone still pressed to my ear, when that damn automated voice says, “If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

I hang up and go straight to my bunk. A minute later my celly comes into the house.

“Yo, how’d it go?”

“Damn, it was nice hearing his voice but so bittersweet. It’s like talking to him let me escape this place for a minute, but when it ended

BAM!

here I am again.”

I can feel the perceived sign of weakness forming in my eyes.

“Yeah man, phone calls will do that to some people. Visits can be even worse. He gonna put money on your books?”

“I think so, but he’s gotta figure it out. He’s smart, I just don’t know if he’ll make it in time for when we turn our orders in.”

“It’s super easy. Remember, all the jail cares about is money. Plus, they won’t run the orders until tomorrow morning anyways. We just turn them in tonight, you’ll be fine.” His assurance doesn’t comfort me one bit.

Filling out the commissary order for the first time feels kind of exciting. After a week of nothing but what the jail provided and a bag of chips from JJ, having anything extra seems luxurious. I assume my pops will put at least twenty bucks on my books, and as I add up the items I want, I quickly realize how expensive things are in here.

There are three main units of measurement for trading: envelopes with a stamp (lopes), ramen (noodles), and coffee (a shot of coffee measured with the standard flimsy white plastic spork). I spend at least an hour going over everything on the commissary list and crunching the numbers to maximize my twenty bucks. In the end, I order a bag of instant coffee, five noodles, a bowl, a flimsy white spork, a bag of hard candy, shampoo, and a bar of soap.

After turning in my order, I look around the section. My celly is on the phone, a couple of groups are playing cards at the tables, a couple dozen people are walking laps around the tables, and a handful are watching TV.

I don’t want to just go back to my cell, so I pull up a chair and start watching the 27-inch TV where the Chicago Cubs are facing the Cleveland Indians in game five of the World Series. I don’t care whatsoever for baseball, but since it’s the World Series I’ll at least give it a watch. I’m half in my head, half trying to figure out what’s going on in the game when a balding ginger with missing teeth takes a seat next to me.

“Yo,” he turns to say to me, “U jus gid in?”

I assume he’s talking about jail.

“Yeah, just a little bit ago.”

“Gawd any?” he asks, raising his eyebrows knowingly.

“What do you mean?”

“You kno…” he looks around suspiciously, then looks at me, then looks around suspiciously again, then looks at me with desperation in his eyes.

A desperation that reminds me of the crazy story about when Cortez burned the boats upon arrival in South America, and a dude named Fred. Poor Fred thinks the idea is terrible and is losing his shit, yelling at his comrades like, are you guys all crazy!?!? Can you imagine being Fred, watching everyone around you just let the leader burn everyone’s passage back to good food, loved ones, and a comfy bed?

I mean it had to feel like if Elon Musk went to Mars with his astronaut homies, dropped some acid, and was like, “We’re not leaving until we find the aliens!” then blows up the rocket to get home.

That kind of desperation Cortez had in his eye though, when he told his crew what needed to be done…that’s the same gleam of mania I see in this hollow shell of a man sitting beside me.

I’m pretty sure only one thing evokes that kind of desperation: hard drugs. But I have no idea how it would even work. Do they shove the drugs up their butt before processing? I don’t see how you could swallow then retrieve them afterward either.

“You actually get that stuff in here?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

“Yeh, neva mind,” he sighs, turning his head away. “Wha’cha in fo?” he asks automatically, then starts staring straight through the TV.

I pause for a few moments, watching him chew air, and I wonder if he’d even notice if I don’t respond. “Well, they charged me with murder because the guy I hit with my car ended up dying.”

“Oh shid!” he says, suddenly lighting up and turning to give me his full attention. “Ywa high?”

Oops. I didn’t mean to make him interested again. I’m really not in the mood to get into the whole story, so I keep it short. “I was drunk leaving a party and this homeless guy was standing in the middle of the freeway.”

“Dooooood, shid sucks, mane. Dees judges mane, dey have id oud fo us drinkin ‘n drivin DUI shid, so hippo uhhhhh hippoaaaaa hippofidical! Yeah. Hippofidical. Dey always be dwinkin and dwivin too.”

“You mean hypocritical?” I can barely follow his rambling. Not only is he hard to understand, but I also keep getting hit with his rotting dragon breath.

“Yeh, das whad I said. Hippofifical.”

“Hip. a. Critical,” I say slowly.

“Hippa crifaful Hippa... Yeh. N. E. Ways.. Yeh.” He suddenly starts cackling out of nowhere. “I play shpades. You play shpades?”

God, I cannot stand this guy. How do I make him go away? “Nope, never played,” I say, turning my attention back to the TV, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He doesn’t. “All gud, lez go play, yull lurn.” He immediately gets up and shouts across the section, “Hey Los, god one fer shpades.”

“Hey, keep it down, Johnson.” The copper at his desk says to the balding ginger trying to get me to play cards.

“Yeh yeh yeh.” he responds and dismisses the cop with a shooing motion.

A heavyset guy from the tables walks over. “Sup fool, you tryin’ to play some cards?”

“I mean, I don’t know how to play, but I’m down.” Like I said, I’m a sucker for games. Plus, what else am I doing with my time?

“No worries, I got you.” He turns and walks back to the tables.

I follow and as I sit down, Los calls out to the people doing laps, “We need a fourth.”

No one responds. Los keeps shuffling and without looking up, he says, “Bones, let’s go, hop in.”

A very tall, very skinny black dude who just passed us doing laps comes over. “And what are we playin’ for?” he asks smoothly. “I know Straggle Tooth over here ain’t got shit on his books. I believe he still owes Trigger one milk?”

“Nah, nah, nah.” Straggle Tooth shifts nervously. “I jus won ‘em back.”

“Dude’s new over here. What’s your name, homie?” Los asks me.

“Knight. Good to meet you... Bones, is it? And Los?” We each punch knuckles.

“Gonna teach Knight the game,” Los tells Bones. The way he says it though makes me think there’s more going on.

“Alright, I’ll shuffle first.” Bones sits down kitty-corner from Los.

Los teaches me the game and it seems simple enough.

SPADES:

I’m on a team with Straggle Tooth, and we bid our hand based on how many points (books) we think we can win that round. Then we play out the hand and try to hit our bid as close as possible. The game starts with the 2 of clubs, so whoever has it leads. Then, going clockwise, everyone plays a card from that suit. If you’re out of that suit, you can play a spade (the trump suit) which beats everything else. Aces are highest, then kings, queens, and so on down the line. By the time Los and Bones hit 35 points and win, I’ve got a decent handle on the game.

“You picked that up quick,” Bones says. “Wanna play again?”

“Sure.” I’m actually having fun.

“K, let’s say a shot of coffee?” Bones wants to make the game worth his while.

“Sorry man, I just got here. I don’t have anything.”

“All good brotha. What about tomorrow’s milk?” he says in that smooth, buttery voice.

“Sure, let’s do it.” We lock it in with another fist bump.