CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

Many days came and went, packed with hours of Pinochle. One morning between breakfast and lunch, I was awoken by Dan’s voice outside my cell telling me he’s rolling up. Apparently, he got caught selling one of his pills, and the write-up was enough to push his points above a certain threshold, so he’s getting sent to medium security population.

*Snap.

Just like that, someone I’ve just spent hours and hours everyday with is now gone from my life. He gave me his jail number and his legal name, but I seriously doubt I will ever see him again. I think after all the talking we’ve done over chess; I’ve subtly been able to get him to think about other people’s point of view. And more importantly, how his actions may be coming across to others even his intentions are not malicious.

The points system this jail dictates which level of the jail you go to and is apparently based on your crime, your previous jail visits, and other aggravating or mitigating factors. How I ended up in minimum security while facing a murder charge is as much a mystery to me as it is to anyone who hears my story—at least until they learn it’s literally my first time in trouble. Even then, new inmates in the section usually carry a bit of skepticism, until someone vouches for me who remembers seeing my case on the news or has people on the outs look it up.

Once again, a reason not to ask too many questions outright. It’s clear I’m not from this underworld, so I can’t have any sort of association with what might be considered “snitch” affiliations.

Since Dan left, my daily routine has completely changed. So has my attitude. Instead of spending hours lost in thought and occasional conversation with one person, I’m now talking non-stop and laughing while playing cards. Even after Chang Money disappeared, leaving me to cover his small debt, the table banter has never stopped.

Two of the guys at the pinochle table are active gang members who’ve each done a few trips to the big box. Even though I laugh and joke with them, I stay hyper respectful, because there’s an inherent sense of danger that both exude. Simple things like not celebrating too boisterously when winning are crucial to be mindful of. The flash of “I want to unalive this guy right now” I saw in one of their eyes after I celebrated too hard one time, is a chill down my spine I still feel.

Fear. What a concept. I’ve never considered myself a softy, but I also don’t typically use brute force as my first reaction when my pride gets tested. Well, not since I got deeper into adulthood, anyway. But the fear I have in this environment is that if I get in trouble for a fight—or anything even remotely connected to violence—the judges will categorize me accordingly and naturally increase the amount of time I spend locked up. Any problems I make could add extra years to my sentence. So as much as I thought the most important thing to do with my time was fight boredom and not go crazy, it’s actually most important to stay in my lane and out of trouble.

But I want my honeybun and to eat it too, because if I follow such a strict self-preservation ideology, the safest thing for me to do would be avoid all social interaction and spend all day in my cell.

Which is something I cannot do.

I need to take the risks required to fit in. I need to gamble at the card tables, I need to pass commissary, I need to talk shit and banter back and forth with real killers, gangsters, and thugs.

“—and that’s why we can’t ever have banana pancakes again on Christmas,” Darrell says, finishing his story.

The whole time he was speaking, I was thinking and writing. He didn’t notice and doesn’t care. I think if no one were in the cell, he probably would have said it all the same. Just talking to talk. The silver lining is the fact that he’s teaching me to tune things out on levels I never thought I’d be able to achieve. When library came again, it was a most glorious day. The big phat books that make up The Wheel of Time series, take me out of the cell each night and into the magical world created by Robert Jordan.

I’ve never had time fall asleep while I stayed awake. Until now. In here, with no alarm clock to clock out of, I can finally read slow enough to savor every sentence. Each chapter turns into a small brick to be placed in the escape tunnel I’ve been carving out of this box. How many books will it take though, until I finally stop seeing darkness at the end of the tunnel.

End of Chapter 7