Slippery Pete

J-1 has a row of phones fixed to the wall near the stairs. Three are in use. Inmates huddled close to the cradle press the receiver to their ears. I pick it up the only free phone and dial my grandmother. All I hear is the hollow sound of distant oceans. I dial zero, the operator ignores me. Busted? I shrug it off.

“You need a pin number,” my cellmate informs me as I pass him. “You need to fill out a request and get your numbers approved. What’d you think you could just pick up the phone and call whoever?” he asks.

I’d like to snap him in half.

“How do I get a pin number?” I ask him.

“Get a form.” He says, zipping off like a munchkin from Oz.

Rock is the day guard whose enormity causes me to wonder if he’s manufactured from the same raw material that helped erect the building. His tattoos are more like brandings, bright red lightning bolts that taper from his elbows, etched into his skin, warning he is not to be trifled with. He addresses inmates like a wolf in sheep’s clothing waiting for nightfall to shed his disguise and make a meal of us all.

The block’s tension is an unstable mixture. Rock’s gunslinger, twiddling fingers constantly threaten to activate the door controls. During my first week he lugs three people who fail to make it to their cells in time. The inmates segregate according to race with the occasional group of varietals considered untouchable, labeled sex offenders or rats.

Pete, one of the block’s Runners is part of the prison’s permanent work force. He's essentially, Rock’s gofer, running around all day, sweeping, mopping, and dusting.

Barren gums fail to dam Pete’s tongue so he slurs each syllable. Jailhouse tattoos resemble ink blots. A faded swastika on his right shoulder blade was haphazardly embedded with a sewing needle and pen ink. He killed a man point blank with a shotgun and claimed it was self defense.

Just after lockdown Pete and Rock exchange words. We scramble to the door. Our vantage point makes it difficult to see. Pete paces back and forth, into his cell and out. Rock is at attention, immovable.

Pete’s anger bounces off the concrete and reaches our door garbled. We fill in blanks where we can, something about a mop. Rock offers two options: to calm down or face the move team. Pete chooses the latter.

Rock turns his back. Pete disappears from sight.

Chaos ensues. The percussive rhythm of rolling thunder fills the block like a stampede. Anxious fists pound on doors and drum up tension as Pete emerges from his cell with a bottle of baby oil.

The anarchists fall silent with the echo of boots marching with clocked precision. The move team reaches the block in two single file lines. Clad in executioner’s black, each officer is synchronized with the collective. Singularity is set aside in the name of unity. The plastic face guards of their helmets gleam under the florescent light, flesh and bone are secure under layers of protective material.

Pete steps sinisterly backward and sprays baby oil. Once the move team is inside, a hush blankets the block. Rock manually unlocks the door with his key and holds it open. The move team’s tight formation is headed by clear shields that deliver a jolt that incapacitates on contact. The first two hit the baby oil and careen into the wall. The rest halt like the remnants of a decapitated body watching its head roll to the ground. The middle two, now in front, stand on the precipice of the slick and attempt to help their flailing counterparts. The team tightens their formation and takes shorter steps.

The commotion pours through the vents. Do not move! You’re only making this worse! Pete’s coffee cup hits the floor, gets kicked out of the way, and tumbles onto the block. Watch his other arm! Get it down! Cuffs, cuffs, get’em tight! They drag Pete out, cuffed, and slide him along the floor through the oil.

Back in formation, they lift Pete off the ground by his limbs. I can see the swastika veiled under his soaked cotton shirt, his muscles tense from the pressure.

My cellmate flops on his bunk, returning to business as usual. Rock cracks the cell of another runner and orders him to clean up the oil and pack Pete’s things up.