big as a basketball court, full of men in jumpsuits. A deputy hands me a new towel and a mat like a gymnastics pad but the size of a single bed. The huge room is filled with steel-framed bunk beds. In the corridors between the closely spaced bunks, inmates are playing cards, gathered in groups, or just sitting and watching the general commotion. I drag my mat around, looking for an empty spot, and notice a small black man with dreadlocks holding a bulging file envelope and chanting, “Ey, mon, condee, smokes, brush ya teeth.”
It’s Daniel, my taxi driver.
I say, “What are you doing here?”
He grins, beautiful, big white teeth, and says, “You never called me. Looks like you could use some help.” No accent at all. He winks.
I say, “Help me find a spot and I’ll do business with you later. Maybe in a corner where it’s not so noisy, and . . .”
“And where de brothers don’ hang together, is dot what you want to seh?”
“Just keep me away from the gangbangers, that’s all.”
“Mebbe you want de penthouse suite,” the guy says. “Come on.”
I follow him to the far corner of the room. It’s quieter; the inmates look older and keep to themselves or converse in pairs. A top bunk has no mattress on it. I hoist mine up and position it on the frame.
“Okay, thanks, Daniel. This is good.”
Someone from a nearby bunk makes a hand gesture that gets Daniel’s attention. As he ambles off to ply his wares, I launch myself up to my new home and fold my towel into a pillow. I nod at my neighbor, a skeletal little Asian man with silver hair flowing to his shoulders, who inclines his head so slightly I’m not even sure it’s a response.
There’s nothing to do but check out. I feel tired anyway. I lay my head on the makeshift pillow and stare up at the holes in the soundproof tiles above. The general din condenses into a faraway buzz and then gets swallowed by sleep.
I’m deep in a dream when the bunk moves. I was driving a car, but couldn’t reach the brake pedal because I was in the back seat, reaching around the driver’s side headrest to steer. Through the windshield I could see a thousand brake lights all go on at once. When the bed moves, I open my eyes. Sitting over me, perched right next to my shoulder and looking down at me, is the guy with the tattoos. I prop myself up on my elbows.
“You don’ fock with a man like that,” the guy says. I wonder if I can get my thumb into the guy’s eye socket fast enough, and decide probably not.
Just to mess with him, I say, “If you wanted my shower, you should have asked politely.”
“Oh, you gonna be cute with me, huh? Huh? Fockin’ ponk. I think you need to learn some respect.”
I look up at the guy, his thick arms and his pointy little beard, and say, “Why don’t you decide exactly how far you want to go with this, right now, and then go for it?” I sit up, and now I’m facing the guy. We’re inches apart. You have to look the really crazy ones right in the eye.
Years ago, some cocaine-crazed giant came up to the table where I was sitting with some friends in a blues club out in the Valley. The guy put the point of a Buck knife to my throat and said, “Put your drink down and your hands on your knees.” Instead, I lifted the glass to my mouth and took a swallow. The guy was clearly batshit crazy, looked like he weighed three hundred pounds. “Put your drink down and then put your hands on your knees,” the guy repeated, and I took another swig of my JD. After a beat, the guy said, “Hey, man, I thought you were somebody else,” and then lumbered away.
The gangbanger’s eyes flicker for a moment, then shift to the old Asian man. “What are you lookin’ at, faggot?” the guy says. The old man stares impassively and says nothing. With the tattooed guy’s hostility deflected for a moment, I feel the heat dissipate. I watch him swagger away as if he’s just won a victory. I fade into sleep again.
11
In my new dream
It’s Daniel, my taxi driver.
I say, “What are you doing here?”
He grins, beautiful, big white teeth, and says, “You never called me. Looks like you could use some help.” No accent at all. He winks.
I say, “Help me find a spot and I’ll do business with you later. Maybe in a corner where it’s not so noisy, and . . .”
“And where de brothers don’ hang together, is dot what you want to seh?”
“Just keep me away from the gangbangers, that’s all.”
“Mebbe you want de penthouse suite,” the guy says. “Come on.”
I follow him to the far corner of the room. It’s quieter; the inmates look older and keep to themselves or converse in pairs. A top bunk has no mattress on it. I hoist mine up and position it on the frame.
“Okay, thanks, Daniel. This is good.”
Someone from a nearby bunk makes a hand gesture that gets Daniel’s attention. As he ambles off to ply his wares, I launch myself up to my new home and fold my towel into a pillow. I nod at my neighbor, a skeletal little Asian man with silver hair flowing to his shoulders, who inclines his head so slightly I’m not even sure it’s a response.
There’s nothing to do but check out. I feel tired anyway. I lay my head on the makeshift pillow and stare up at the holes in the soundproof tiles above. The general din condenses into a faraway buzz and then gets swallowed by sleep.
I’m deep in a dream when the bunk moves. I was driving a car, but couldn’t reach the brake pedal because I was in the back seat, reaching around the driver’s side headrest to steer. Through the windshield I could see a thousand brake lights all go on at once. When the bed moves, I open my eyes. Sitting over me, perched right next to my shoulder and looking down at me, is the guy with the tattoos. I prop myself up on my elbows.
“You don’ fock with a man like that,” the guy says. I wonder if I can get my thumb into the guy’s eye socket fast enough, and decide probably not.
Just to mess with him, I say, “If you wanted my shower, you should have asked politely.”
“Oh, you gonna be cute with me, huh? Huh? Fockin’ ponk. I think you need to learn some respect.”
I look up at the guy, his thick arms and his pointy little beard, and say, “Why don’t you decide exactly how far you want to go with this, right now, and then go for it?” I sit up, and now I’m facing the guy. We’re inches apart. You have to look the really crazy ones right in the eye.
Years ago, some cocaine-crazed giant came up to the table where I was sitting with some friends in a blues club out in the Valley. The guy put the point of a Buck knife to my throat and said, “Put your drink down and your hands on your knees.” Instead, I lifted the glass to my mouth and took a swallow. The guy was clearly batshit crazy, looked like he weighed three hundred pounds. “Put your drink down and then put your hands on your knees,” the guy repeated, and I took another swig of my JD. After a beat, the guy said, “Hey, man, I thought you were somebody else,” and then lumbered away.
The gangbanger’s eyes flicker for a moment, then shift to the old Asian man. “What are you lookin’ at, faggot?” the guy says. The old man stares impassively and says nothing. With the tattooed guy’s hostility deflected for a moment, I feel the heat dissipate. I watch him swagger away as if he’s just won a victory. I fade into sleep again.
11
In my new dream
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