I don’t look up from my book when I hear the unmistakable sounds of inmates hooting and hollering.
“You know what day it is?”
My roommate tries to pull my attention away from the book I’ve been trying to read. I’ve been here long enough that I no longer need a calendar – the sounds of the day tell me it’s a Tuesday. Tuesday is Fresh Meat Day – the day the prison officials finally get around to assimilating new inmates into the general population.
I got tired of the whole spectacle after the second or third time, but my roommate still gets a kick out of it.
“Hey, Lehane,” she calls to me as she shoves her feet into ugly, black boots. “You coming to check out this week’s crop of newbies or what?”
I keep my eyes fixed on the words on the page. I’ve read and re-read the same paragraph a couple of times now, distracted by the outside noises, but at the same time not wanting to show any interest. “No,” I grunt, not looking up from my book. “It’s the same thing every week. The old convicts scare the shit out of the new chicks until they cry or piss themselves.”
“But that’s part of the fun!” she crows.
I can’t help but smirk at her unbridled enthusiasm, but I continue pretending to be more interested in my novel than the conversation. I never was much of a reader before life in prison, but I’ve been trying to make my time here productive. Get my GED, seek redemption; you know, the typical stuff.
When it’s clear I’m not going to budge from my bed, my roommate finally gives up on me and leaves our cubical. I was kind of surprised at the entire lack of locked cellblocks when I got transferred to this federal prison in upstate New York a few months ago. Back in LA, we were all caged like animals. At the time I didn’t mind it though; I knew I was little better than an animal. An animal, in fact, deserved more kindness than I did after all the shit I’d put the people closest to me through.
When I can no longer hear the solid clunk of my roommate’s footsteps, I look up from my book and exhale, long and deep. I put a bookmark, which is just a maxi pad, into the crease of the book to save my spot and tuck the book under my mattress. It’s on loan from the prison library and hell is anyone’s gonna lift it from my cube and get me in trouble.
I grab my standard-issue Carhartt jacket and slip it on. The fall months are starting to fade into winter and the days are getting shorter and shorter. I look at it as a blessing because I can almost fool myself into thinking it makes my incarceration shorter. But the sooner that darkness comes, the harder I know it’s going to be to stay here.
I pocket the soft pack of Marlboro Lites and make sure the thin row of matches is still there. I actually have to keep closer tabs on my matches than my smokes in here. I usually take a smoke break whenever the Fresh Meat Parade is going on. With everyone distracted by the new van-load of inmates coming in, I can enjoy a cigarette or two without getting too hassled by one of the guards or the other inmates.
I’ve never worried about my safety. Even though I haven’t really kept up on a strict training regime since I’ve been in here, I know I can hold my own. But since I gave myself up months ago, I’ve tried to keep a low profile. The plan has been to keep my head low and serve my time. With any luck, and with good behavior, maybe I’ll see freedom again before I start getting gray hair.
I push through a heavy metal door at the end of a hallway, far away from the crowds getting ready to haze the new girls. A stiff wind greets me when I make it outside, but being out in the yard helps keep me sane. It’s always so noisy wherever you go inside – the mess hall, the rec room, shit, even the library’s noisy. And since the weather’s been getting colder, it’s been even quieter than usual in the yard.
I pull a single cigarette from the pack and perch it on my lower lip. I strike a match against the black strip and cup my hand around the end of the cigarette, careful not to let any matches go to waste. That first deep inhaling breath is the best. I know these things will kill you, but until I find something else that takes the edge off while I’m still inside, it’ll have to do.
When I’ve got my cigarette sufficiently lit I start walking around the open space. I pass a few familiar faces during my rounds – Jones, the skinny chick who leads the yoga classes; Bennett, the only male correctional officer who’s not a total dick. I nod at Watson, who I guess was some track star on the outside who fell in with the wrong crowd. She’s always running laps out here, even when it’s raining. I never did understand running for fun, especially not running on a track. The only time I’ve ever run is when I’m running away from something. Or someone.
I pause my pacing because I’ve finished my first cigarette. I think about heading back inside, but the sun is actually kind of warm on my face and the longer I can stay away from everyone else, the better. I find myself standing next to a barred window that has unexpectedly given me prime viewing of this week’s Freak Show. Through the slightly distorted view, I can see the new inmates shuffling around on their way to finding their new bunks.
You can tell who’s been on the inside before and who’s a first timer by the way they walk down the corridor. The second and third timers walk with their heads held up, chins stuck out, teeth bared and growling. They make eye contact with all the other convicts, silently daring them to give them a reason to lash out. The first timers, though, they’re just as easy to spot. Their steps are less sure, dragging their feet and leaving scuffmarks behind on the linoleum floor. They hold their standard-issued blankets and pillow tight against the chests like it’s the first day of school and they’re afraid someone is going to knock the books out of their hands.
I don’t pay much attention to this recent batch, visibly a mix of seasoned criminals and first-time offenders, until my eyes catch on a shock of blonde hair. I stare a little harder through the window, and my gaze settles on the thin arms and the fragile bones of delicate wrists of a new inmate. She’s got her head bent so her shoulder-length hair forms a waterfall that cascades over her face and hides her features from my inquisitive gaze.
A freshly lit cigarette falls from my fingertips onto the ground. It can’t be.
I concentrate hard, trying to feel her. Trying to pick up on that telltale itch at the base of my spine that only acts up when she’s around. I don’t feel it though, and I worry that maybe I’m out of practice.
It’s only when the new inmate looks up that I’m able to breathe again. It’s not her. It’s not Buffy.
I find myself self-consciously shaking my head. There’s something about flat-ironed, highlighted, blonde hair that always causes me to pause. It’s like a fucked up Pavlov’s Dog reaction. Whenever I see that combination of tiny body frame and blonde hair, I find my heart racing on a cocktail of lust and rage.
I continue to peer through the window as if I need to verify once again that this new inmate isn’t her. The woman’s features have that same pinched look that come from years of self-denial – a life full of never-ending juice cleanses and colonics and anal bleaching. She would look more comfortable browsing a Pottery Barn than the sparse offerings at the prison commissary. I find myself wondering what in the world this woman could have done to have ended up in this place. Cheesy pick-up lines like “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” run through my consciousness. I feel a tug of something that feels strangely like protectiveness when I look at her.
I jump when a strong hand clamps down on my right shoulder. I resist the instinct to lash out. It’s taken some time to not immediately punch and kick and tuck and roll when people get in my personal bubble.
“Damn, bitch.” The inmate whom everyone calls Big Boo talks a little too loudly for my liking. “You found the best seat in the house,” she approves. She leans a little closer to the window, her hand still heavy on my shoulder. “See anything you like? I call first dibs.”
I shrug out from beneath her touch as unobtrusively as I can. “I was just having a smoke,” I grunt.
Big Boo smacks her lips and continues to leer through the window, undetected by the inmates inside. Nothing about this woman is subtle. If Buffy thought I was inappropriate, she should meet this woman.
Damn it. When are you going to stop thinking about her? I chastise myself.
Before going back inside, I’m careful to crush the still lit amber of my wasted cigarette with the toe of my clunky boots. I nod my goodbye to the others out in the yard and I make myself a silent promise to stay away from pretty, vulnerable-looking blondes who remind me too much of her.
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