View Full Version : A Fool There Was - 1 of 2 Adult Prison Violence. 2,400

November 21st, 2014, 07:28 PM
The reminiscing of a man on death row.

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool, he called her his lady fair
(Even as you and I!)

Like Rudyard Kipling's fool, I sit alone with only a hank of hair to remind me. I've never had any of her bones, but did have, once, a couple pairs of her panties. So I guess that constitutes a rag, he-he-haw. Yes ... I was that fool in the poem. I still have the hair, though the scent wore off long ago. They let me keep that.

Did she care, ever? I have to pause to wipe tearing eyes. This orange uniform, made of some shiny plastic material, only leaves a streak across my cheek. The others on death row would take issue, constantly kidding me if they saw. Alone in my cell, the only observer is Detention Officer Berkowitz, feet up on a desk halfway down the row. And he, like Diane, wouldn't give a shit.

I look at a small Exxon calender on the wall. July 24, 1962, with three days to go. Standing, I take a final look at Berkowitz, then jump onto the bunk. Six foot, I can stretch my arms enough to reach window bars. Then, stepping out with my left leg, I straddle bunk and toilet, getting a clear though painful view of a cloudy sky, the southwest guard tower, and some sort of expressway.

The view of speeding autos is beautiful, hinting of faraway places. Somewhere out there, Diane will be sipping champagne, sitting with a new fool -- one not yet aware of his status. I love her. I love her. I love ... the bitch. A breeze off the bay dries my tears.

"Jackson! Get your fucking ass down from there. You're on report, buddy."

"Fuck you, fat boy. What’cha gonna do, give me life? Go ahead, throw me in that brier patch, Brer Lard-Guts."

I hurriedly jump down as he blows two blasts on his whistle. Within minutes I can hear an approaching clatter of steel as doors slam open and closed, almost drowning out the thump of angry boots on concrete. I'm in for it.

In moments, three husky detention officers stand in front of my door, thumping batons against plastic shields as they wait for lardass to open the cell. There's actually saliva running down his chin at the prospect of tearing me a new asshole. Him and I never did get along.

I've spent the time pumping up and loosening my muscles. I, also, anticipate the action. These cells are like a battery, constantly charging the psyche until I simply have to explode, either against the authorities or bare concrete walls. I can feel the power, the raw animal moment coming, as welcome to me as to fatboy. Intellectually, I know they have restrictions ... I don't.

The door opens, lardass standing back to let the others in. Nice of him, the cowardly tub of shit.

"Arrrgggghhhh." I let myself go, right fist, straight as an arrow, aimed for the nearest face.

It's a useless act, as my arm is easily deflected by a shield, slamming it between two bars where a screw grabs with both gloved hands to pin it at a painful angle. The rest of my body, committed to the max, follows until my right shoulder jams itself between those damned bars. I must look like a fly pinned to sticky paper. “Grrrrrrrrrr, you fuckers. Bast--”

Lardass grabs the extended wrist and, smiling like an idiot, holds on, giving his comrades free rein to pound my back, legs and head. "Mother-fuc--" and I pass out.


Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste
And the work of our head and hand,
Belong to the woman who did not know.
(And now we know that she never could know.)
And did not understand.

My favorite Kipling poem rings in my mind, mingling with buzzing in and between both ears. The doc says a concussion, and that I should have known better than to bait the guards.

Right. I should have known better in love as well as life.

I memorized that poem as a young man, only one of many. The purpose was to impress women. It's a long story, but then ... I do have almost two more days to tell it, don't I?

When I leave the doc, I'm taken to a new cell, my few possessions already moved there. Most, anyway.

Berkowitz isn't here, only some simpering punk of a guard, new and shiny uniform fitting him like a tent. Whenever he turns around, I have the urge to laugh at the way his trousers droop, back panel even with his knees. Wait a few years, I think, and all that sitting will get his ass as large as old Berkowitz's.

"Where the hell's my underwear and socks?" I call out.

"You don't need them," he answers. "The old ones will do for a couple days. Hell, you're gonna crap them in the chair anyway."

"Why don't I just crap on the floor in here instead?"

He shrugs, smiling a little-kid smile, "Go 'head. I got orders not to ever go in there. Anyway, I don't even have a key."

"Who does have a key? Can I have one?"

That really gets a laugh out of the kid. I can see he's trying to act nonchalant. The naive prick could be amusing in the time I have left.

Later for amusement, I think. First, tired and sore from the beating, I sit back on a bunk, this one only a concrete slab with a thin mattress topping it. I notice they've taken my cigarette lighter, though not the smokes themselves. My table radio is also gone. Even if I wanted, I'd have no chance for suicide.

"You got a light?" I call out, getting up again. I gotta move closer to the door to get it. If Mohamit can't get to a mountain, or something, you gotta move it to Mohamt. "And why no radio?"

"I dunno. Maybe the warden thinks you'll hang yourself with the wires, or eat the tubes or something. Maybe spend the next, let's see ... forty-one hours building a time-machine like Buck Rodgers did in a comic book."

"Yeah, kid? Would be nice." He carefully lights my fag with a kitchen match and backs out of reach. "Can I have a couple of those matches?"

"Uh, uh." He shakes his head, goes back to his desk, sits, and picks up a dime novel.

"Hey! Is it okay for me to read one'a those magazines?"

"I don't see why not," he says, "as long as you don't crap on them." He laughs. "You promise? Some of them cost up to fifty-cents, you know."

"Yeah, I promise. What you got?"

He shuffles the pile. "Some have been here for years, and have all the good pictures torn-out. Hey! here's one with you on the cover, you and some doll-baby. You want it?"

"Yeah. That one." I'm nervous as he trots over.

“Back against the wall. I'll toss it in.”

No need for an incident ... yet. I do as ordered and he flips the mag onto the lone bunk, pages fluttering.

"Thanks," I say, forgetting our relationship.

There I am, much younger on the cover. Also Diane, the lovely witch. Damn, but she looks enticing, boobs blown up twice their size to sell copies? Yeah.

The article has us more like Bonnie and Clyde than ourselves, sometimes bigger than life. Actually, we were more like the Katzenjammer Kids. We were inexperienced, two punks and a punkette. But ... we did have guns. As I read, I reminisce....


Way back in 1955, I was eighteen, having missed two wars. Upon graduating from high school, I took a little savings, a bit of borrowed money -- some stolen from a careless uncle -- and my ass and headed for the big city.

To save money while looking for work, which wasn't as easy as I anticipated, I rented a single room in a private home on Elm Street. The owners, the Magnusons, had a girl in her second year of college and figured on making a little money on her room while she was gone. It was cheap and not all that bad a deal. However, the lower-level job market was stuffed with Korean War vets, making it hard for me to find a good job.

The room was on the third-floor. More of an attic, really. I brought a pair of binoculars with me. On the farm, we'd often used them to search for Alice the milk cow, who had a habit of wandering off during the night. Since my parents used store-boughten milk now and couldn't see worth shit anyway, the things wouldn't be missed.

The room was hot as hell, though. I could feel heat radiating through an uninsulated roof. There were two small windows, one at each end of the room. Since they were facing east and west, they let in little breeze.

With plenty of free time and no television, I'd spend hours sitting on a bed pulled up to the window, looking down at a busy residential and business street with those binoculars.

That was how I met, I mean first saw, Diane. She was renting a room above a small grocery store across the street. Damn, but she was lovely with those perky little breasts, looking to be just large enough to squeeze but not floppy like some of those big-titted blondes. Her legs were slim and businesslike, reaching all the way to the ground. I like those things on a girl. I spent many hours, and quite a few masturbations, watching and thinking of her.

I was very shy in those days. Well ... I was. If I'd been rooming with Casper Milquetoast, he'd have been the alpha male, he-he.

On a normal day, I'd go job hunting, making certain I was back before five pm. That girl, I didn't know her name yet, would get back at five-fifteen and I didn't want to miss her. One night she had me worried, not coming home until two am. Worried, I stayed up, eyes tiring from the binoculars, until she returned. That was how I found out where she lived.

The entire building facade was dark until, five minutes after seeing her, a light blossomed on the second floor. I could see her occasionally passing through a lit square of lamplight. Since one view included a refrigerator door it must have been her kitchen.

Knowing the location, I began keeping an eye on that window, hoping for a good skin-shot. The best I ever got was a pantie-only view, and that only once during hundreds of hours of watching.

I really had a crush on that girl, without even knowing her name. What the hell, I had nothing better to do.


A fool there was and his goods he spent
(Even as you and I!)
Honor and faith and a sure intent
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
(Even as you and I!)

An idea came to my less-than-nimble mind. Why not get up early and follow her in the morning? I thought.

Not taking any chances, five the next day found me sitting on the front steps of my home, waiting. As I recall, it was a cold November morning.

When she came out, she didn't seem to notice me sitting in half-shadow across the street. I followed her for a few blocks, seeing her unlock the door of our local movie theater and go inside, locking it behind herself.

Since there was a sign over the glass of the ticket-booth, advertising for an usher, I waited around, huddled in an alcove and trying to stay warm. I figured it would be a chance to meet her, maybe even work alongside her, sitting in dark empty seats way back in a rear row and....

"Oh, Joey," she'd say, knee rubbing mine, "where have you been all my life?"

"Waiting. Waiting for your sweet touch, darling," I'd answer, hand creeping across her flat tummy, index finger reaching downward.

"Oh, Joooeeeyyy." she'd grab my hand, thrusting it deep into a damp crevice and closing her legs tight....

"Hey, buddy! You want something? If not, get moving. I'm tired of scrubbing graffiti off that glass." It was a tubby little man in a gray suit.

"I -- I was thinking of that job. The one on the front of the booth."

"You're big enough. At least larger than the high school kids I usually get." He stood, looking at me for a moment. "Three-fifty an hour, and the first time you're late you're fired. Okay? That's it, take it or leave it."

"Uh ... okay. I'll take it."

"Come on. Follow me." He stood aside, locking the door behind us. He then led me to a small room. It had a half-dozen school-lockers in it, a bench, a toilet, sink, and a single shower stall in one corner.

"We don't screw around with that separate sex shit here. When you come in, lock the door. Then hurry up, get dressed or shower and let the next person in. No mixing of sexes in here at the same time, get me?"

"Yes, sir."

"I get even a hint of any screwing around in here and you're both out on your asses. Fresh uniforms are on those shelves. Use a clean one every day."

"Yes, sir."

"Go ahead and change. Diane will show you your duties and fix you up for the payroll. Report to her."

"Uh, I never been in here before. Where can I find her?"

"I gotta go. I'm Mr. Temple, the manager. Diane's the assistant manager. Wait by the candy machine in the lobby. I'll tell her you're here."

When I next looked, he was gone.

The End of part one of two. The rest will be posted tomorrow. Robbery and murder.

Seedy M.
November 22nd, 2014, 02:27 AM
Very good flow. Excellent hook.
Damn! I hate it when I can't find anything wrong with a piece!Waiting for the next installment.

November 23rd, 2014, 10:49 PM
Love it, love it, Love it. *Blush!*


January 31st, 2015, 07:55 PM
I don't get surprised no more on your work amazed. I will say I did 13 years in prison and I didn't know about the rubber diapers. lol good job my friend Charlie

January 31st, 2015, 09:05 PM
Shows what research can do, he-he. Must give you a lot of stories to write. I'm helped by brief incarceration in jails in five countries, not counting several in my home town. All for drunken altercations, DUIs, etc. Nothing serious except for one assault with a deadly weapon.

Naturally, that was over a girl. I was visiting and a former classmate, a huge guy, came by and ordered me out for a fight. I just happened to have a loaded .45 in my waistband. I went out the back door and around front. When he came at me I fired over his head and he left, rather hurriedly. The next day the sheriff arrived. I spent a week or so on that occasion. It was a small town. The only interesting thing was when I got a cellmate. It was a dumb character who threatened a judge. He could hardly speak his own name, he-he.

He showed me a small .380 he had in a pocket. "You think I should give this to them?" he asked.

"Yeah. You'd better." That shows the kind of cops we had at the time.

Anyway, the second half of this story should be in that forum, close to the first half. I posted them one day apart.


January 31st, 2015, 09:34 PM
I knew we had a lot in common, just how you write it feel like its easy for you to bring all your memories to paper. And how you connect with the reader well in this case me. I don't put people up unless they deserve it. I was dummy ride hardly Davidsons, Jake Daniel meth and guns. there only one out come from that life style bro. I hope I didn't offend you by comparing your life to me I just find so much inspiration form your work. thanks Charlie

January 31st, 2015, 10:44 PM
Well ... ya know ... there are some things I don't put on paper. I've skirted the law on occasion, enough to know both sides of that equation.

I've even been a cop at one time, didn't like it, and quit. Picking people up for things I do or did myself wasn't my bag. Such as for small amounts of pot. I've known a lot of police who smoke it, then put others in jail for the same thing. The lack of restrictions in the job turn many of them into hypocrites.