The van stops near a long concrete ramp. Peering through wire mesh covered windows, I marvel at a group of general population prisoners trudging – like herding animals – towards the dilapidated, century old state prison, the sole surviving beast of an extinct species. The bodies merge into a single line as they approach the stone incline. They all have the same mechanized movements – listless gaits that suggest they are subjects of an indoctrination designed to discourage hope, promote subjugation, and dissuade betterment of self. Scowling at the spectacle, I shake my head in disgust, loathing those heartless enough to support such dehumanization. My mind wanders back to yesterday…
I was standing in the same courtroom where, just a month earlier a jury of my ‘peers’ – if, by any stretch of the imagination, one could find even a modicum of socio-economical or cultural parallels between a group of middle to upper class white suburbanites and a poor, black urbanite – had convicted me of murder and recommended that I be executed.
More than happy to oblige my ‘peers’, the Judge took all of sixty seconds to pronounce my fate. I already knew the sentence would be death, just as I had known the verdict would be guilty. “May God have mercy on your soul,” he concluded, before banging his gavel in an authoritatively dismissive manner, almost god-like himself.
Thus, my ill-fated journey began.
Arriving at my final destination on earth, carrying a box filled with my sole possessions, I am now to enter the belly of the beast, a condemned soul, to someday exit its bowels a lifeless configuration of justice, solace and closure.
The passenger side guard, a plump, red-faced ‘good ole boy’ spits a stream of brown tobacco juice as he exits the van, removes a padlock from the door, and slides it open.
“Get out,” he says – no, maybe he yells. I have difficulty gauging the volume because my heart is pounding so hard, my pulse thumping thunderously in my ears, drowning out external sounds. It is the kind of tumult only fear can produce.
Although I’ve never been to prison, I have lived vicariously through quite a few prison tales – gory, vile stories of rapes, maimings and murders – crimes perpetrated by both prisoners and guards. I know what to expect; still, it does nothing to assuage the amount of trepidation sweeping over me.
I am certain that the ominous orifice gobbling up GP prisoners as they reach the top of the ramp, serves a duplicitous and gluttonous beast, an unrelenting savage that devours individuals, strips them of any remaining dignity and replaces it with hatred, wickedness, and rapacity, while dragging them – some kicking and screaming, others, willingly – deeper into the viscera of nothingness.
“Let’s go,” the driver says impatiently, turning to stare me down, his gaze malicious. Then he exits the van and walks to the rear to fetch my box, which he drops next to his partner. Both now wait for me to exit.
I try to move. Nothing. What the – something is wrong. I feel numb – paralyzed. I close my eyes and swallow hard. Shit! Come on. This can’t be happening. And to make matters worse, the intemperate July heat and humidity – thick, fiery, brazen – envelopes me, white hot against my skin and unapologetic for their suffocating affects.
I’m immobilized by the reality of the situation that awaits me – from which the sweltering van provides my only refuge – and by the shackles and handcuffs that have been deliberately clasped to cut off my circulation. I take a deep breath. I wiggle my toes. Ohhhh… Shit! A million tiny needles poke my feet. I move my right foot and the shackles dig further into my ankles, shooting a bolt of pain up my leg. Ugh. Come on, please.
“Bob, ya may have to gittin ‘er an yank ‘is black ass out,” the driver twangs.
On cue I slowly inch sideways, sliding along the bench seat, moving closer to the door, the tiny needles poking me everywhere. This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll feel if they decide to drag me out. I use it as motivation to reach the edge of the seat and the open door. There I struggle to get to my feet. My body is waking up. The pain. Stooping, I slide one foot forward, then the other, until I’m at the edge of the floorboard. I twist my left hip, turning my right hip outward and extending my right leg towards the ground, but the chain that connects the manacles is too short for me to reach the ground. I retract my leg, returning to my original stooped position, and look up at the guards. They watch with foreknowledge – they’ve seen this dilemma play out repeatedly – but make no attempt to help me.
“Don’t look at us,” expelling another stream of brown goo toward the ground.
With limited exit strategies, I steady my nerves and prepare for what I believe is my best option. I put my feet together, take a deep breath and a leap of faith. Thank God, I stick the landing, a small but pleasing victory.
“Grab yo shit, and let’s go, asshole,” spews the driver pointing a finger at the box, visibly disappointed that I didn’t fall flat on my face, never mind that my hands are cuffed, tethered to a chain, wrapped and padlocked around my waist, preventing me from reaching to grab anything.
Dammit! This heat! Sweat pours. The prison uniform I’m in is soaked. Sweat drops into my eyes, stinging me further. I squint and try to collect myself, so I can focus on the task at hand.
“You goin’ pick up yo’ shit,” bitterly stated, rather than asked.
I looked down at my hands, separate them, turn my palms up, and gaze with one eye at the guards.
“Well, would ya look there, Bob. We got us a smart ass,” turning to look at his partner, before taking a step towards me.
“It’s too hot for this cockamamie bullshit,” Bob retorts, snatching up the box, stepping in front of the driver and nudging him aside. “Here,” he growls, shoving the box into my chest.
The restraints make it impossible to grab in a normal manner, with a hand underneath each end. All I can do is lean back as far as possible, center both hands beneath and press my chin against the top. That’s when I notice a vulgar, rank glob of tobacco spit splattered on top and slowly oozing towards my face.
Just as my eyes are clearing, more sweat. This time, both eyes. I squeeze them shut as the brown blob creeps towards me. This can’t be real. Fluttering my eyes, I attempt to clear them.
Everything hurts – ankles, legs, arms, back, and pride not far behind.
“We ain’t got all day, boy.”
Through fluttering eyes, I see both guards turn and head for the ramp. I take a tentative step. Aargh! The shackle bites into my ankle, the pain red-hot. Trying not to grimace, I inch my rear foot forward, and the same searing pain attacks that ankle. I try to ignore it by focusing on a positive. The sweat has cleared from my eyes. And not a moment too soon as I see the driver turn his head back towards me and spit his venom. I feel it splat on my shoe. Because I know he’s trying to bait me into giving him an excuse to pounce, I concentrate on holding the box.
Besides, I won the first contest when I successfully exited the van. Giving them the pleasure of seeing me drop the box ties the series and reverts home court advantage – even though I’m a one-man team with no home or real advantage – back in their favor. Neither of us would have much interest in this little ‘game’ I’m being forced to play if not for the predators – masters at detecting mental and physical weaknesses they will exploit without hesitation – lurking amongst the nearby prisoners. While the guards’ interests are purely sadistic, my interest is quite vested – my manhood could be at stake.
TO BE CONTINUED…
©Reshi Yenot
I’m cold right now. Not physically, but emotionally. I’m lonely. I even feel desperate at times. In fact, right now I feel abandoned, neglected and even worse – forgotten. Some of my feelings are unexplainable. It’s not that I can’t place my feelings into words. It’s that there are no sufficient adjectives to describe them. 
FROM THE AUTHOR: Issabella is a fictitious entity – she does not exist. However, I felt more comfy exposing my vulnerability to feminine energy. I saved face, and it’s more soothing this way.
By April of 1982, I was knee deep in the bowels of the Texas prison system. Texas inmates aren’t paid, and I had to slave my way up from a field hand. The officers were addressed as ‘Boss’. If you wanted to talk to the ‘Boss’, you had to take your hat off and walk to the left side of his horse. The ‘Boss’ could say all kinds of things to you, anything from calling you a worthless nigger to telling you your mammy was no good for having you. Working in those fields was the most degrading and humiliating job I’ve ever had in the system.
Once in the kitchen, I couldn’t believe the stench. Blood was on the floor, on the tables, on the doors, and even the door handles. There was blood all over the windows, on the red brick wall, on the water dispenser – it was everywhere. It had been a blood bath.
Oh, and, yes. Fifel is a rat. A big one, at that!
One evening we all got together and headed out to Lover’s Lane, a secluded area on the countryside popular for its fishing. Cloudless skies enriched our spirits while songbirds chirped at our arrival. Uncle Kenny went off to search for snakes, believing they hung out in good fishing spots. My brother, Ray, was tasked to keep near my mom to unhook and rebait her rod. Grandma tended to my cousin, Teeka, and I as we settled around the creek with our poles.
I was grinning before Grandma even touched down, thinking, ‘That’s what her mean self gets.’
“His name is Joey – Joey Blue!” Dave exclaimed.
Later that day, at about 3:30 PM, I was straightening my cell and I lifted my book from my clothes which were on top of my tennis shoes. And, there was Fifel – looking up at me, all warm and safe.
Then, out from beneath the steel counter crawled an adorable, yet furtive, tot. She wore a teddy bear t-shirt, fluffed trousers, and her plaits were fastened with assorted hair bows. She whirled around to study me with cinnamon eyes that held me in their gaze. A subtle smile crept along her face before I watched her struggle to climb onto the seat, defiant of her pintsized stature. There was a fearlessness, a result of her naïveté, which left me feeling intimidated. I searched my thoughts for an explanation, but they only gave way to guilt. Her confusion was marked by an arched brow as the discomforting silence increased. She then rocked on her haunches, squared her shoulders and declared, “Hi. I’m Caleiyah, and you’re my granddaddy.”
As I began to reflect, the silence became revealing. I noticed things I would’ve missed under other circumstances. My senses adapted with a sense of urgency. I knew the van’s muffler had to be busted because it made a hissing and popping noise every 45 seconds or whenever we slowed down and sped up again. I noticed when the driver loudly belched twice and gave a hearty laugh. Then he gave a doughy chuckle while he lifted his butt off the seat and released a silent fart that was ferociously smelly. Whatever he ate must’ve had a lot of onions in it. His partner gave him a displeased sideways look before he cracked his window, allowing the funk to exit.
They took my chains and handcuffs off without a care of me attacking them. The guards seemed comfortable around the convicted, as if they’d accepted the idea that they were simply ‘inmates’ too, except they were getting paid to be there. Or their ease could’ve been due to the guard towers that held gunmen inside with their rifles aimed at me, ready to shoot with any sign of a snafu that I might cause.
He would go on to ask me a bunch of questions that he fed into his computer. Questions like, “With a name like Mamou, what, you Muslim?” pronouncing the ‘s’ like a swarm of ‘z’s, in an effort to insult the religion.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas and currently working on his next novel. He can be contacted at: