Clack Clack

We’re back.

“CO, can you pop the programming room please?” asks Scrappy.

“Sure, here’s the remote.” As he hands Scrappy the remote, he gives us one rule: “No going in and out tonight. Once you come out, you’re out for the night, so you’d better make sure you relieve your bladders before going in.”

We all heed the warning by going to our cells to pee before making our way into the TV room.

Once the door closes, the chatter starts up immediately.

Tad kicks things off. “OOO, it’s on! Q said he got it from a Piasa today, and it’s a full-blown twenty piece!”

“You still good to get your son to put money on his books, Jimbo Slice?” Scrappy asks.

“Most definitely. He owes me big time. If he doesn’t come through, he can find someone else to pay his phone bill.” Old Man Jimbo replies smugly.

I don’t even have to ask any questions. The crew repeats themselves over and over, breaking down what they’re going to do with the “twenty-piece rock.”

The “rock” they keep referring to is literally crack cocaine. Not coke you can snort, but the raw rock you put in a crack pipe and smoke.

Which is why Tad asks me, “Yo, killer, you know why we’re ordering a pickle?”

I shrug. “Because it’ll get the taste out of your mouth?”

Everyone bursts out laughing.

“Not a bad guess actually,” Scrappy says, “but no. We’re not eating it because that would waste most of it. You have to snort this shit, but crack doesn’t break down in water, right?”

“Right.”

I guess everyone in the drug world is a chemist as well.

Scrappy accepts my answer and continues. “So we need something to break it down, which is why we need to order a pickle off commissary.”

“Or find someone in here who already has one,” Tad interjects.

But Scrappy immediately shuts the idea down. “Yeah, and risk having people get suspicious? I don’t think so.”

“True, true. Gotta keep this on the D-low.”

I try my shot at another guess. “So do you put some in a piece of pickle and eat the pickle?”

“I just fucking told you we don’t eat it. Do you not listen?” Scrappy’s friendly teacher tone is gone now, replaced by a chef berating a slow line cook. “Use your brain. I said you have to snort it, right?”

He’s gesturing with every movement now as he explains, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “So, you grab a toothpaste cap, pour a little pickle juice in there, then drop in a little piece of rock. After you let it sit for a minute, you stir it around and…”

He mimics a snorting motion, then widens his eyes, “now the spaceship has launched, and you’re going to the moon!”

After his demonstration, Jimbo and Tad start sharing into their wildest crack-smoking stories. About fifteen minutes in, I notice Tad watching the copper station.

I see the CO stand and walk off, then Tad taps Scrappy’s knee, gesturing toward the section. They both get up and peer out the window.

After a moment, Scrappy turns. “So, you’re twenty-five today, huh?”

I hear the section door clack clack. Then Tad’s voice turns devious. “K, he’s gone. We have six minutes.”

“Six minutes for what?” I say immediately.

Tad confirms what I really wish wasn’t happening right now.

“Don’t play dumb, boy. You already know it’s time to get you some birthday spankins.”

I shoot up out of my seat into a fighting stance. “Oh hell no!”

Old Man Jimbo nonchalantly gets up and moves our chairs aside. “Happens to everyone, kid. Don’t take it personally.”

Then Scrappy says without apology, “Take your lickins’ like a man, or you’ll take ‘em like a bitch. Up to you.”

I guess I have to choose the “being a man” route. When Jimbo says start, I endure sixty seconds of body shots from Scrappy and Tad at half force. The only thing I’m allowed to do is try and cover up, which is impossible against two guys.

When I hear Old Man Jimbo say “time’s up,” I feel like an orange after being juiced. Still, I’m standing. We do bro hugs, which make me grunt each time because they slap my back with excessive force, trying to say “good job”.

“Don’t look now, but lil killa here might just make it after all,” Tad says, leaving out any typical condescension.

“Fuck that, I quit. I can’t work in these conditions.”

Everyone laughs, and Scrappy delivers the line that gets repeated multiple times a day.

“Hey, don’t like it? Don’t come to jail.”

We spend the rest of the night watching late-night talk shows and Pawn Stars. I can definitely feel the birthday beating, but it’s just going to leave some bruising. Overall, I feel pretty elated. I’ve got a position in the jail that’s not easy to get. I have money on my books, a decent hustle going, and I’m part of the most powerful group in the section.

What more could I really want given the circumstances?

End of Chapter 9