I arrived at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institute in May, 2010, and after the intake sergeant assigned me a housing unit and handed me a bedroll, I was directed to my new block.  A correctional officer greeted me, “You’re in cell 51, top tier, top bunk,” he said, pointing in the direction.  I followed his finger with my eyes and slowly began walking toward the ominous metal stairwell.  Forcing myself to ascend, a metallic ‘ping‘ ringing out with each footstep, the climb felt like hours as anxiety crept through my veins and my stomach did backflips.  I feared my cellie would be a violent Goliath who would rip my head off and eat it for dinner the minute I walked in.  Or the maniacal psychopath might rather tie me up and torture me at night, maybe just murder me in my sleep, or worse, try to rape me!

Finally reaching the top, I glanced at the number of the first cell I saw, 33.  I turned left and took the first step toward my certain demise. And then a miracle happened… From somewhere, I regained my courage, pushed aside my fears and got a hold of myself.  I am a grown man, and there’s not a soul on this planet who can rape or pillage me without a fight!  I lifted my head, puffed out my chest, and picked up my pace, exuding confidence with each step.  Arriving at my cell, I put my bedroll beside the slightly ajar door and opened it further, stepping in…

I was immediately taken aback.  My cellie was no Goliath.  He was an extremely thin, older white man – not wiry-strong thin, but fragile, weak-thin, so debilitated that I feared he might easily break should he take a wrong step.  The frailness of his body accentuated his large head, reminding me of an animated character from the film, A Nightmare Before Christmas, and had he stood erect, he could’ve passed for an upside down exclamation point, with a full head of gray hair and a scraggly, unkempt beard.  Those features were not the only things shocking about his appearance though.  No, what really shocked me was his bright yellow complexion.  My new cellie was Homer-Simpson-yellow, and the darkness in the cell actually exacerbated the tone to the point that he literally appeared to glow in the dark.

As he stood to greet me, he extended his hand and said with a slight Southern twang, “How ya doin’, young buck?  My name’s Gary.”  

I reluctantly shook his hand, asking him to call me J.J.  Of all the fears that had haunted me, never could I have guessed this, and had the intake sergeant told me I was going to cell up with Homer Simpson, I would have laughed in his face.

Seeing it was safe to move in, I brought in my property.  Gary pointed out my locker, and in one fell swoop I stowed away my pathetic belongings.  I undid my bedroll, and started to make up my bunk, slipping the pillowcase onto my pancake-thin pillow, adjusting the sheets on my equally thin mattress, and spreading an itchy wool blanket over everything before jumping down.  Sitting on the seatless toilet, my mind full of questions I had been formulating while making up my bunk, I finally looked at Homer/Gary as he watched ESPN and ventured, “So… uh… Gary, I don’t want to pry, man… but… uh… why are you like… yellow?”  

He looked at me and chuckled, “Well, young’un, my liver ain’t workin’ too keen no more.  I gotta liver disease that causes jaundice.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, before asking, “Is it like… contagious or anything?”  

Gary chuckled again, “Naw, man, not unless you got some dope and a syringe you wanna share.”

“Oh,” I managed to blurt before asking if his ailment hurt.

He looked at me for a few seconds, eyebrows lifted in thought, “Yeah, kiddo, it hurts, but not as much as you probably think.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.  I sat quietly, before I decided to change the subject.  “You gotta lot of time to do, Gary?”

He took a deep breath before responding, “Well, kid, that’s a tricky question.  I don’t believe I do, anymore.  I got ten to twenty, but I got eleven years in.  I seen parole last year, but they denied me, said I was a threat to society and gave me another year hit.  I seen ‘em again three weeks ago though, and I think it went pretty darn well.  Now, I’m just waitin’ on my green sheet. It should come any day.”

“Oh,” I said before asking, “What’s a green sheet?”

Homer/Gary raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.  “Why, it’s the Parole Board’s decision, along with the reason for their decision.  For some reason, it’s printed on ugly green paper.”

“Why did they think you’re a threat to society?  Did you get into trouble in prison or something?”  It didn’t make any sense to me.  Anybody who took one look at this guy would know he wasn’t a threat to anything.

“Nope, not had so much as a reprimand in eleven years.  I had a bad heroin habit, and was convicted of robbery – stealin’ a laptop from a warehouse.  I pled guilty, hopin’ the judge would show me mercy, maybe get help for my drug problem.  But the judge didn’t see it my way.  Said that since I was a repeat offender, she wanted to teach me somethin’, and hit me with the maximum.”

“So, they’ll definitely give you parole this time, right?”  

He rubbed his chin in thought.  “I’ll put it like this – because of my condition, I asked a doctor to speak on my behalf.  He told the board I need twenty-four-hour medical care, and if I don’t get it, I’ll die sooner rather than later.  The State hates being responsible for stuff like that.  The doc also told ‘em good ‘n proper that if they didn’t pay for my treatment or release me to my own devices, my liver is gonna fail one way or the other.”  His country twang increased with his growing excitement.

“Yup, Doc staked his reputation by swearing I wasn’t a threat to a fly, so based on that alone, I would say – Hell, yeah!  They oughta be droppin’ that good ol’ green sheet off any day now, along with my eviction notice from this hellhole!” Gary said, cracking up at his own wit.

“Oh,” I said.  “Well, I hope they let you out so you can get the medical treatment that you need, Gary.”

“Yeah, at least they can’t use that ‘threat to society’ excuse no more,” he laughed, punctuating his statement with air quotes. 

We spoke for a few more hours that evening before I fell asleep.  The next morning after six a.m. headcount, I went to chow at seven.  When I came back, Homer/Gary was still sleeping, but he started to stir about ten minutes before I left for my eight a.m. orientation call-out.  I jokingly asked if he needed anything from the corner store, and between chuckles, he said, “I’ll give you one thing, young buck – you’re a funny kid, for sure.”

When I returned from orientation at ten, Gary wasn’t there, and I went to morning yard where I met a few guys who joked that I was ‘Homer Simpson’s new cellie’.  When I came back, Gary was gone, and I figured he was on a call-out.  When Gary didn’t later return for lunch or twelve-thirty count, I thought he had made parole and decided to leave all his stuff behind, which is what I would do.

Afternoon rec was called at one-thirty, and after I came back at three-thirty, I took a shower and returned to my cell.  Gary wasn’t there and didn’t appear for four-thirty count or five o’clock dinner.  

When I came back from chow, the block sergeant was waiting by my door.  He handed me two clear plastic garbage bags and told me to pack Gary’s belongings.  “Lemme know when you’re done, and I’ll find a cart to take his stuff to intake.”

As he turned to walk away, I asked, “So, he made parole?”

The sergeant looked at me as if I were crazy, “I wouldn’t call it that.  You just got here last night, right?”

I nodded.  

“This your first rodeo?”

I nodded again, “If he didn’t make parole, where is he?”

He shook his head in disbelief.  “Un-freaking-believable!  Listen, kid, your cellie wasn’t feeling well this morning, and the first shift C.O. sent him to medical.  He needed special care, so they took him to the hospital in town where he died an hour later.  Look, I need you to hurry up because another guy is moving in.  They shoulda had you do this earlier.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.

Absent-mindedly, I started to pack Gary’s stuff.  There wasn’t much, and as I worked, I experienced mixed emotions.  On one hand, I barely knew the guy, and on the other, I felt the system had handed him a raw deal.  As I was finishing up, I heard a C.O. slide mail into my cell.  When I picked it up, I saw a green sheet protruding from an envelope.  Suspecting what it was and needing to know, I withdrew Gary’s long-awaited green sheet.

“The Parole Board will NOT grant you parole at this time.  You will remain in the D.O.C. for an additional period of SIX (6) months until you are re-evaluated.  The Board has deemed you a high threat/risk to society at this time.”

I slipped the folded-up decision back into the envelope and inserted it into Gary’s property bag, put the bags on the cart and pushed them to intake to be delivered to Gary’s family.  The intake sergeant looked up as I came in asking, “Back already?”

I shook my head ‘no’ and explained that I was delivering the property of my cellie who had died that very morning.

“Oh,” he replied, looking down at his paperwork.