The Jailhouse Diaries: Part Five

In jail, as in life, it's not about what you know. It's about what you can prove.

It was generally known that it was I, Poopypeanutz, who was responsible for shattering Chad's sexual identity and ultimately, for his death. Sodomy is against the rules in jail and I could have been tried for sexual assault if they found a witness. IF is the operative word here, as it is verboten amongst the prisoner population to snitch on another, even someone as low on the food chain as I was.

The guards knew this, and would have blown the whole incident off except that Chad's father was a bit richer and more powerful than I'd been led to believe. He was a prominent lawyer in town; he played golf with some judges, and went out for martinis with a couple councilmen.

As such, there was a great deal of political pressure on jail staff to figure out how in the space of three weeks, his son went from being a handsome, second year Alpha Tau Omega, captain of the lacrosse team, finance major at the local private university to being found wearing lipstick with his hair in pigtails, chewing his wrists off and bleeding to death in jail cell.

Because of the political pressure, the guards did more than go through the usual motions of investigating Chad's death. I was worried that it might all come down on me and I'd never leave that godforsaken place. But no one talked, and no one could prove that Chad had been my prison bitch.

This ended up being a problem for me.

I was in the cafeteria for dinner, getting my plate of beanie-weenies and fruit cocktail, and heading for my usual table with the crazies when the leader of the gangbangers, named Trey-Dog, waved me over to take a seat on the bench next to me. Trey-Dog has some sway in the jail, and when he wants your attention, you give it to him. Besides, it would probably be more pleasant than watching Bug-Eye stick green beans up his nose or Nathan talk about the fragrent smell of a little boy's anus.

"'Sup nigga?" he says. No wonder he's in jail if he's too stupid to see that I'm white.

"Nothing. How are you?" I say.

He laughed, and so did the rest of the gangbangers. "Actually, I'm doin' pretty shitty, 'cuz.
Always sumthin' comin' up when you in here."

I'd transcribe the rest of what he said, but it was soaked in some Ebonics bullshit, I could barely understand it myself, so I'll just paraphrase. Apparently, some spic named Armando was getting sent to our jail for an armed robbery. Trey Dog had it in for Armando because Armando had shot one of his little nigger cousins for his Timberlands, or his "bling" or for being on the other's turf, whatever these savages are shooting each other for these days.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say, shoveling a scoop of tepid beanie-weenies into my mouth. "That guy sounds like a real scuzz bag."

"I'm glad you agree," Trey Dog said, slapping one of his paws on my back. "I hope you'd agree too that someone ought to take care of that shorty, so he can't do something like that again."

"I don't care," I said. It was nothing but one less asshole on welfare as far as I was concerned.

Trey Dog kept smacking me on the back. "But you should care. Don't you think we all should take responsibility for making dis world a better place? What do you think you should do, nigga?"

"Stick a penny in the Jerry's Kids jar at 7-11; I don't fuckin' know."

He grabbed my shirt and jerked me towards him. "You tryin' to play me nigga?" he said. "Since you a dumb whiteboy, I'll make it simple. I want you to stick a shank in Pedro's ass and don't stop until you've sent him back 'cross the border into Hell."

Well, when you put it in English like that...

Trey Dog let me go. "No way. I'm not killing anyone for you."

"Actually, you are," Trey Dog said. "Otherwise, the warden might could hear that you were the one who made a sissy out of a certain someone that a certain someone has an interest in."

I'd lost my appetite now. This was exactly what I feared, getting drawn into this jail bullshit and probably getting a life sentence instead of the few months I'd otherwise have to serve.

"Look, I've never killed anyone in my life," I said. "Why doesn't someone in your gang do it? I'm sure they're used doing drive-bys on old ladies and shit."

That earned an upper-cut into my stomach from Trey Dog. "Fuck you, cracker. Reason we gotta use you is 'cuz we got a sort of truce with Mexicans in here, and if one of my niggas shanks his ass, it'll fuck that up. So it's gotta be you."

His punch winded me, and shortly after that, I puked up my baked beans right on the table. All the gangbangers started groaning.

"Get the fuck out of here, whiteboy!" Trey Dog yelled, throwing my tray off the table. "Armando is gonna be here on Wednesday. If he's still breathing the Wednesday after that, I'm a have a talk with warden about who you be butt-fuckin'!"

I didn't bother to get any more food. I stumbled back to my cot in the gymnasium to lay down and wallow in the nightmare my life was quickly becoming.