CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

I’m at the Pinochle table when Tad draws our attention to my celly Darell, who keeps glancing our way while watching T.V.

“Yo Killian, what’s up with your girl dawg?” Tad asks.

The rest of the table doesn’t really like my celly to begin with. Number one, he never gambles. Number two, he comes across as a know-it-all. And number three, he talks too much. They also clown on him for his more-or-less dainty ways. Both Darell and I have a trim frame, but a completely different version of trim. For the most part, I carry myself with confidence and a straight back, made comfortable by the toned muscles I’ve spent my whole life sculpting. He slouches slightly, head bowed, giving off the sense he’d start shaking after ten push-ups.

“Maybe lay off him a bit. I had to get in his face earlier cause he wouldn’t shut up.”

“Look at you go, Killer,” Brock says.

“Oh watch out, we got a new enforcer in the section. Big bad Killian is layin’ down the law!” Tad chimes in.

I point to Brock and Tad. “Fuck youuu, and fuck youuu.”

At that very moment, Darrell turns his head and looks over at us again. After seeing us all staring at him, his scowl deepens.

“Oh, he’s mean muggin’ you, Killer. Better watch out!” Brock doesn’t bother keeping his voice down, and a few inmates around us start chuckling.

Tad blows a kiss his way, making Darrell quickly turn his head back to the TV.

“You just love to stir the pot, don’t you guys? I already apologized to him. Now he’s gonna be extra butthurt.”

“You what?” Tad swings his head to stare me down.

“You’re joking, right?” Brock adds.

“What the fuck you do that for?” Tad follows up.

“Oh come on, guys. It’s not like I got on my knees and begged forgiveness. I just said sorry for snapping earlier.” I can feel the tempo ramping up from playful to serious, and I don’t like it at all.

“Sounds a lot like getting on your knees to me. You wanna apologize to someone who insulted you? That’s some pussy-ass shit right there, boy.” Brock sounds like he’s talking from prison right now.

“He didn’t really insult me, he—” I get cut off before I can finish.

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t fucking understand what’s going on right now. It’s you who’s not getting it.” Brock leans forward. “The way he’s looking over here means you guys still have shit to handle. And this ain’t the female pod where everything just goes away with a few nice words and some scissoring.”

“I get it. Tonight, I’ll handle it after rack-in.”

I’m scrambling to buy some time to figure out how I can get out of this. But for the first time in months, I have no time.

“Nah, this gets handled now. We’re not gonna let one of our boys get got.” Brock looks at Tad, and he nods. “This is what’s gonna happen. You go back to your cell, and when little miss Darrell comes in, you piece his ass up good and proper. Don’t worry about the CO, we’ll distract him. Remember to throw punches in bunches.”

This is happening, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“I know how to fight,” I say defensively.

“Everyone thinks they know how to fight,” Tad retorts. “But I’ve got your back and will be right outside your cell ready to jump in if he pulls a blade.”

A blade!? No way he has a shank. Or does he? Shit! This is no boxing ring with a ref to keep you safe if you get knocked out either.

“Go.”

I stand up and walk to my cell, keeping Darrell in my peripherals the whole time. After a minute, I hear Brock upstairs shout to the CO something about the shower door not closing all the way. I walk to the doorway and see the CO leave his station to head upstairs. I also notice Tad over at the TV talking sternly to Darrell. I leave the doorway and head to the back of the cell.

He must be getting Darrell to come over right now.

BMM BMMM, BMM BMMM, BMM BMMM

I feel my heartbeat in my eardrums. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. And again.

The fog and fear clear out of my head, I already know what to do. I visualize the whole scene like Sherlock Holmes. He comes in ready to start swinging, I dodge his wild hook and hit him with a body shot, then follow up with a hook to the jaw. Nice, clean, and quick.

With adrenaline heightening my senses, I think I can hear Darrell’s footsteps approaching. As I’m exhaling another big breath, my eyes lock on the front of the cell when Darrell walks right into view. He stops just inside, with Tad’s large frame right behind him.

He’s not mean muggin anymore. Instead, he resembles a deer in headlights.

“So, wuss up?” he asks, his voice half there.

I don’t have time to respond because Tad shoves him from behind with a force that makes me react quicker than I can think. I step in and try to meet his nose with a straight jab, but I miss, glancing his cheek instead.

The fight is on.

His first move, he tries to kick me in the nuts, but I’m too quick. I grab his leg and lift. He hops up and down on one foot until his hand grabs the bunk for stability. I try to sweep his planted leg with my own, and as I do, his other hand grabs the bunk. We dance awkwardly as I’m shoving one of his legs in the air while keeping the other foot from planting, him gripping the top bunk for dear life. I’m not going to win the fight by just holding his leg, so I let go and swing as hard as I can at his ribs. The momentum from getting his leg back makes his body twist away from me so my fist connects with his back instead. He lets out a little grunt, then I grab him from behind by the shirt and pull him down to the ground. He lands mostly on his side, and I see an opening to his face. My left fist rises and falls with gravity lending me some extra power. The first strike lands true with a sickening smack. Same with the second. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth.

But not a sixth.

Because there is no sixth punch thrown.

His defensive arm, as well as the rest of his body, has gone limp. For just a brief moment, I think I’ve killed another man. But it’s short lived as he starts to move around, moaning in pain.

Tad’s voice enters the cell in a loud whisper. “Get him up, the CO’s coming back downstairs!”

“Hey, get up,” I say to Darrell, grabbing his upper torso to try and pull him into a sitting position. He doesn’t fight it and seems to be getting his wits about him again, albeit rather slowly.

I stand up and extend my hand. He takes it, and I help him up. Then I steady him with a hand on his shoulder while he takes a seat on his bunk. He starts touching the left side of his face tenderly and speaks like he’s got a mouthful of food. “I think you broke my jaw.”

“Good, now maybe you’ll shut up. Plus, you’re the one who tried to kick me in the nuts.”

He snorts through his nose, and we both half-chuckle at our stupidity. The laugh makes him wince in pain.

Tad’s voice once again enters the cell with a warning, “CO’s doing his rounds, don’t look suspect!”

Tad’s back is to us, so I tap Darrell’s knee to get his attention. Once I’ve got it, I point to Tad, make two punching motions in the air, and shake my head, trying to tell him in charades that this wasn’t my idea.

He understands immediately by nodding, then says to me, “Get outta here. I’m gonna pretend to take a dump.”

“K. You know where the coffee is, so help yourself.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, grabbing his sheet.

I walk out of my cell, trying to keep my breathing under control after feeling like I just ran a mile. Tad, who’s been hanging out as close to the cell as he could without drawing suspicion, comes up next to me and we walk back to the card table together.

Once we arrive, there’s a sense that we just pulled off a great heist. I endure the exaggerated compliments that mask their genuine pride in me for “doing the right thing.” Thankfully, they drop the topic and revert back to typical table talk. The rest of the night, I keep an eye on my cell, waiting to see if Darrell comes out.

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

It’s final rack-in for the night, and still no sign of Darrell. At least he didn’t press the button and snitch on me. The boys give me a little extra dose of encouraging words, making sure I’m good before heading to our respective cells. I really hope this bad blood is squashed between us, because I really don’t want to deal with any more bullshit from Darrell, from my buddies, or from the jail.

I walk into the house and find Darrell on his bunk, flipping through a magazine.

“What up?” I ask.

He looks up. “Yo.”

“How’s your jaw?”

“You’re right, I don’t think it’s broken. But it hurts like hell and my head’s pounding. You don’t have an Ibuprofen, do you?”

“I don’t keep any in here, but Jimbo has one he’s been keeping for me. After sock and underwear exchange, I’ll see if he can fish it to me. In the meantime, I do have a Seroquel I’ve been saving. You interested?”

“You know I am. What do you want for it?”

I know he’d pay a couple soups for it, but I honestly feel bad for him.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll call it a thank you for not pushing the button.”

“I may not be the toughest motherfucker, but I ain’t no bitch.”

“Word,” I say, extending my fist for him to punch.

He hits it like he’s a boxer all of a sudden.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he says.

“Yeah, and you’re dumber than you look.”

The rest of the night I breathe easy knowing things are gonna be just fine.

Before I pick up my book, I reflect on everything that happened today. Somehow, I’m not really bothered anymore about my next court date being four months away. This is just life, and if I have to be patient, then so be it. I can’t believe I got in my first jail fight. Not only did I win, but I dominated.

Just one thing grabs my mind and won’t let go. I didn’t want to fight in the first place. It was almost forced on me. Today, I think I got a small glimpse of what prison will be like. I can’t see how someone could make, or even keep, a shank in here. In prison, doesn’t everyone carry one on them in case shit goes down?

There’s still hope that my new judge, Shwannahsee, will choose to give me a light sentence…Instead of sending me to prison.

End of Chapter 8