IMA FIBBON BY LESLIE VAN HOUTEN
"Come with me", a uniformed officer directed. A steel gate rolled open, then shut behind us. My first impression was that I had entered Fort Knox, but no, it was the county jail and judging by my escorts' iceberg features, I knew I wasn't going to be treated like a gold bar. "Welp," I told myself, "better prepare for the trip of your life, goilie." With that in mind I took a deep breath and forced my chin up. What the hell! Worst could happen was I'd get it bent back down.
Being booked was frantic and confusing. "Birthday ... Age ... Last address ... Name ... sput sput sput brp brp brp ..."
"Ima Fibbon ... Eighty-five ... Apollo Eleven ..."
"Wrist!" An I.D. bracelet was clamped on my extended wrist. I was born again - 439126.
A pointed finger directed me around a corner. "Strip." I removed my clothing. "Bend over and spread your legs." While my ovaries were inspected, I tried to escape the smothering reality of the situation, by thinking of myself as Citation, being prepared for the Kentucky Derby. It was impossible to drift away for long though, and the venomous sounding commands dragged me back. "Follow me".
Another room. Another officer. This woman looked like Night Train Lanes' daddy. "Get in the tub."
Conscious of my nakedness, I lowered myself into three inches of water, after banging my knee on the side of the tub. I splashed a bit, mostly going through the motions. I was much too nervous to miss my rubber ducky.
Two sets of unfeeling eyes watched as I stepped out. Night Train spun me around like a top, while Iceberg Face sprayed me all over with insecticide, from a hose attached to the wall. Making a final attempt at dignity, I tried pretending that I was a stringbean plant and that the farmers were trying to keep the insects from eating my leaves.
"Your dress." Night Train handed me a folded bundle. The dress was constructed out of faded blue denim, with a big "L" on the front. I figured it must be one of Night Trains' seconds, because it hung over me like a tent. It stuck in places, but that was probably because no one had seen fit to give me towel and I was soaking wet.
The sweater they gave me was definitely a fugitive from a nursery school, because it ended right at the elbows and just a few inches below the bust; definitely no wash and wear! The rubber thongs that served as shoes were also miniscule, and I knew at first glance they would never be able to deal with my moon men. Hoping they would exchange them for a larger size, I inquired about the possibility. I should have checked with Jimmy the Greek first, then I'd have known the odds were a zillion to one against such a consideration.
"Wear that! We aren't running Macy's!"
Iceberg Face pointed a gnarled finger at a seat in front of a glaring light and a whole lot of photographic equipment. I sat down, grinning like a Chesire Cat. "Don't smile! This isn't for the cover of Cosmopolitan!"
No wonder all the post office mug shots looked so rough. Nobody said cheese, or even held up a little birdie.
Fingerprints followed the mug shots and by the time we were finished my nails had been beaten down to stubbles. To top it off, my cigarettes were all gone. I was near tears, because I knew that place wasn't going to be my friend.
"Birthday ... Age ... Last address ... Name ... Sput sput sput brp brp brp..."
"Ima Fibbon ... Eighty-five ... Apollo Eleven ..."
"Follow me, Ima Fibbon!" Night Train tucked the football under her arm and headed up-field. She stopped at an elevator. There we joined a group of other "fish."
The next stop was the infirmary and a nurse with more questions that Carter had little liver pills. "Pneumonia? Parkinson's Disease? Leprosy? Peanut Butterbulocis? Birthday ... Age ... Last address ... Name ..."
"Ima Fibbon ... Eighty-five ... Apollo Eleven ... Can I have an aspirin? I'm starting to feel like a hypochondriac."
"You'll have a lot worse in the hold if you don't button your trap," said Florence Nightingale sweetly, before disappearing in a swish of white.
The next stop on the itinerary was the tank. We marched in twos and I was just getting into the ol' esprit de corps when we reached our destination. The hike was over. We wuz home at last!
The tank was made up of twelve cells, enclosed in a barred compound, sort of a dozen little cells surrounded by one big one. The front of each cell was in fact a sliding door, which was also constructed out of bars. The only outside light flowed in through a row of windows adjacent to a catwalk that ran the length of the tier. Behind the row of residences ran the electrical and sewage lines, the latter being obvious via the funky odors that filtered through a small vent in the rear of each cell. The tank officer opened the tier gate and as each fish passed through, Night Train handed her a granny sleeping gown, a sheet, and a mattress cover, all made out of muslin.
"Ima Fibbon"?
"Yes."
"Cell twelve."
Twelve was the last in line and during my brief stroll to my new adobe hacienda I sent my mind out on one of its excursions, the kind that never let me fully excape for long, but which did provide a respite now and then. This time I opted for Ali Baba, but before I could say "open Sesame", the door thundered wide. The cell could have easily passed for a cave, but I didn't see any treasure lying around. My mind came back at that point, and it dawned on me that I would be spending the night in a cage with two complete strangers.
I made a quick assessment of the cell. There were only two bunks, and since they were occupied with two beings who were occupied with the jails' most popular pastime - zzzzzing - I assumed the mat on the floor belonged to little ol' me. When I dragged the pallet out from under the bottom bunk, one of my roomies muttered something which sure didn't sound like a greeting. A few minutes later, as I spread my linen over the mattress, I found that my original thought had been correct.
"C'mon with all that goddamn noise, girl! Jesus Christ! Trying to get some fucking sleep!"
I sat down on my unmade-up mattress, but remained awake, trying to figure out some solution to the million and one questions that floated in and out of my head. They were still floating when the harshly-lit county jail greeted the dusky dawn.
I decided to announce that I had never been in the slammer before, and that I hoped my cell-mates would overlook any breeches of etiquette I might commit. I received a few grunts and sidelong glances for my efforts, making me more aware only of the fact that I was just a dumb, scared, dizzy hippy who would be better off keeping her mouth shut. I climbed off my regal sack, slid it under the bottom cot, and sat on the floor by the door, waiting for whatever came next. I didn't have long to wait, and damn near had a miscarriage when the twelve doors opened in unison, almost catching the hem of denim tent in the process. I thought, surely THAT rumble would measure at least six points on the Richter Scale.
"One step out and halt!"
The command came from a new officer, or at least a different one from the guard who had tucked us in. She wasn't a bad looking woman, except for an exaggerated bra that made her mammaries stick out like two torpedoes, and a young face that was tight. Her words were clipped.
She waited for us to line up in front of our cells before starting her orientation. "There is to be no talking in the dining area. Anyone caught with her mouth open, except for eating, will lose her meal and end up in the lock-up. Upon returning from the dining area, you will go immediately to your cells and stand facing them. Do not talk or your doors will not be opened and you will remain standing at attention, until I feel the inclination to let you in. Is that perfectly clear?" The last was rediculous. How could it be otherwise?
The mode of travel going to and from the mess hall was in pairs. By now everyone knew who they would double up with, except me. Pairing was usually white on white, black on black, with an occasional sprinkling of salt and pepper. While I stood there, like a new kid on the block, the others fell into line. I was getting a bit apprehensive, when a tall woman with a short afro motioned for me to stand next to her. She was the tank trustee and I smiled my gratitude, not giving a damn that her skin was the color of deep chocolate. She smiled back and I felt a lot better.
The advantage of pairing with the trustee meant marching at the front of the line. As we started off I turned myself into a wagon-train scout. Searching from side to side, I made certain no bandits were lurking in the underbrush, crouching in ambush on our wagon-train. My vigilance got us through the pass and into the mess hall safely. Here, masses of women in blue herded masses of prisoners in and out, amid the sounds of bashing metal trays, clanking spoons and shouting guards.
"Keep that line moving! Shut your trap! Eyes to the front! Yip yip yip ... Move along little doggie ... Ki yi yippee yi yi ..."
The mess hall could hold about one hundred and fifty women, but using the shuttle method with people constantly rotating in and out, a population of about six hundred female souls ate in the space of an hour. The line filed along one wall, passing first a tray rack, then a kitchen worker who handed out spoons. Across an aluminum counter, food was slapped onto the trays by a varying shade of inmate arms, belonging to blank and empty faces. Diners then moved between rows of four-set dinette tables, sat down and started scoffing mucho fasto. Eating time ranged between ten and fifteen minutes, making it apparent that Amy Vanderbilt's Book Of Etiquette wasn't written with prisoners in mind. If one was to be full, speed was the order of the day, perpetual motion by both spoon and lips. Otherwise a resident could find herself marching out with tears in her eyes and a protesting stomach.
I had always wondered if the James Cagney/George Raft prison movies were mostly put-ons, but I soon learned that there was much authenticity in the shifting of eyes without turning the head. To a basketball player, this is known as "lateral vision", but when mentioned in association with people behind bars it is called "sleazy-eyed." Yet, by making little slits out of my eyes, I found that I could peek around at will without being detected, thus get a glimpse of what was going on - hundreds of eyes peering like mine, hundreds of prisoners talking, but not one pair of lips moving. I especially noted the numerous affirmative nods and hand signals to my partner, and I felt good about that, more secure, sort of "in like Flynn."
"You dumb honky bitch!" a loud voice erupted suddenly. "Don't you never put your nasty white paws in my cup! How the hell do I know where your hand's been at?"
The activity turned instantly into silence. I held my breath. A riot? And they didn't even know my mama's phone number! But my fears were groundless, because without a word of admonishment, an officer brought the culprit another cup. Soon, spoons were clanking away again, as if nothing had ever happened.
Two beeps and a bop later we were on the way out of the mess hall, moving first in single file so that an officer at the door could make sure each woman turned in a spoon, then in pairs again for the march back to the tier.
Hut-two-three-four. Hut-two-three-four. Hut-two-three four. Ain't no use in looking down. Hut-two-three-four. Ain't no discharge on the ground. Hut-two-three-four.
The tier gate banged shut behind us, and we waited in front of our cells. Everyone was eager for a return to the slammers. Bullet Breast had other ideas.
"Now really, ladies," she scolded like a schoolmarm, "The line returning from the dining area was a shambles, I warned you earlier that if you persisted in acting like juveniles, then you could expect to be treated like same. Let's see if you are mature enough to remain quiet for the next twenty minutes."
The keys jangled away and ironically on cue the squawk box over our heads began emitting music. After a few bars of "just a little lovin', early in the mawnin'" frayed nerves gave way first with a hissed, "that bitch", then a disgusted, "what a motherfucker", finally topped off with a weary, "shit, I'm tired."
The versatile vocabulations, all referring to B.B., were phenomenal in that during a twenty minute period she was called every low name in the English language without one repetition. There was even a "puta" thrown in for good measure. Then the ring of returning keys cut all of that off. Like tin soldiers we tightened ranks and when Generaliss- no B.B. rounded the bend she beamed with satisfaction.
"All right, ladies. Maybe next time you'll do better." She was about to swing the doors, when the third woman on my left decided to let loose with a few things that had been overlooked.
"Trouble with you bitch is you ain't grinning and walking bowlegged. Just because your dude's a fag don't mean you pozed to bring your attitude in here on us."
Naturally, Penelope de Bust responded to the outburst. "Perhaps the lady with the foul mouth will be honest enough to repeat that to my face."
From further down the line: "Ain't no Abe Lincoln's here, woman!"
After the titter died away, B.B. locked the control box and delivered another slap in the wrist, probably designed to alienate us from the girls who had done the talking. "Stay there then, until I find out who the guilty parties are."
She jangled away and the legionnaires slumped. I was definitely tired, but I felt good behind the fact that no one had given up our loud-mouthed comrades, even though we all wanted to strangle them. An hour later the doors rumbled open.
I waited until my roomies had tumbled back into their sacks, then brushed the violin-sized footprints off my mattress. Before I could flop a guard appeared on the outside catwalk.
"Ima Fibbon ... Ollra pua ... Ellca onea ... Opta unkba ..." Good thing I understood Pig-Latin, because that sure was the way the instructions were spewed out. However, the news was pleasing, since three people in that can was kinda tight, a sho 'nuf case against putting them little ol' fishies in a can. The thought of my own bed made me light-headed, on equal terms with a kid who just received an all-day sucker from the dentist in return for not biting his finger. In one quick motion I swooped up my bedding and belongings and backed out the door, which had been deadlocked open. I felt a momentary pang of gratitude for my roomies, since neither one of them had stepped on my head during the night, so I hesitated long enough to say "adios amigos."
I should have known better. "Goodbye motherfucker!" one of them growled, as glad to be rid of me as I was glad to be gotten rid of.
On feet with wings I floated down the freeway, tempted to do a few pirouettes. Because of the precarious grip on my bundle I gave the dance a second thought and instead hummed along with the radio. "You got me going in circles ..." At the same time I counted down the cells under my breath ... seven ... six ... five ... four ..." BLUMP!
"Watch where the fuck you're going!"
Actually, the contact was the other driver's fault, as I was on the freeway and she had darted from the third cell, like coming out of a side street without first checking traffic on the turnpike. Yet she was built like Sonny Liston and since I hadn't received any black belts in karate, I figured diplomacy was the wisest course. I excused myself in a little girl voice and made a wide swing around her. Without further mishap I finally managed to set myself down on landing pad one.
Residence Uno was exactly like Crib Deuce, Hacineda Trey or Penthouse Foru: bunks with springs, a small shelf at the foot of each bed, a sink with a metal mirror over it and a commode. In front of the throne stood a tall tin locker, which afforded some toilet privacy if the door was open. There was also a small desk, which served better as a seat.
The bottom bunk was made up, so I went about making the top bunk, obsessed with the idea of getting some sleep. Once I climbed in, Rip Van Winkle's sleeping record was in serious jeopardy of being put to shame. The first problem I encountered was with the mattress cover, which fit my past pallet perfectly but had obviously shrunk up overnight or else my new mattress needed some lessons in weight-watching. After huffing and puffing, stomping on the corners, holding in check a compulsive and overwhelming urge to bite the mother, the mattress was finally encased. When I climbed to the floor again, to view my Herculean accomplishment, all four corners curled up at me in contempt, not to mention the appearance of so many lumps that my gondola looked like a young mountain range. I climbed back onboard, spreadeagled, flapped with both arms and kicked with both heels. The minute I let up pummeling, the darn thing curled right back up. After a few more fruitless bashes, I gave up, forcing myself to look at it optimistically. Hell, if the floods came again, I was equipped with a ready-made boat. Besides that, I doubted if any stray sharks would attack that monstrous looking thing. Who ever heard of a shark leaping at a gondola with a mountain range in the middle anyway?
Both the towel rack and the locker were filled, so all I could do was stack my belongings on the top shelf. The minute I had everything lined up nice and neat, I tumbled into the gondola, almost too pooped to pop. A raucous voice froze my two-second nap.
"Get those things off that shelf!"
She had to be kidding! "You there in the first cell!" She wasn't
I crawled to my knees and looked at her through the bars. It was B.B. and her jibs were so tight I thought for sure that any minute she'd fire those 90 .mm howitzers at me.
"There is to be nothing on that shelf except a tin cup and an ashtray! Do you understand?"
"Well, where do I ..."
"Are you refusing to obey an order?"
I was still having difficulty adapting to the blind obedience bit, and that continual "do you understand" thing was getting harder and harder to put up with. For a moment I envisioned myself down on my haunches, scratching myself under both arms and jumping up and down like Cheetah in the Tarzan movies, but commonsense prevailed and I backed off.
"I understand," I said weakly.
"That's better!" she snapped, unable to resist jamming the rest of her authoritarian crap down my throat.
She drove away and I took my things down off the shelf, wondering where the hell I was supposed to put them. Aha! I could make a pack and strap it to my back. Naw ... Maybe I could stuff everything inside my gondola. What with all the lumps it wouldn't even be noticed. I was still pondering the problem when intuition told me there was someone behind me. There was. The trustee, leaning against the open door. I dangled my legs over the side of the bunk. Our eyes locked and I felt myself being raped. I jumped to the floor and stuck my hands self-consciously into my pockets, checking to make sure her gaze hadn't seared my dress. She drew deep on a cigarette and smirked at my nervousness.
"Hi. My name is Ima. What's yours?"
"Norma," she said without emotion. She exhaled slowly and I sat on the bottom bunk.
"Please ... please ... help me ..." A disheveled alcoholic stuck her head through the door, obviously in the throes of the D.T.'s. She was ruined and couldn't have looked worse had a tractor-and-trailer hit her and stopped and backed up for a few seconds just to make sure. My stomach gurled with repungance and I had to turn away before it erupted.
Norma wasn't fazed in the least. "Why don't you go find yourself a dime," she said in the same dull voice, "then call somebody who gives a damn. We all got problems, lady."
The wretched woman sagged, hung onto the bars a minute, then somehow found a direction and wobbled away. I was confused at Norma's rudeness and apathy, yet doubted if I would have assisted the woman either - not so much for lack of compassion but because she was so filthy and sick that I couldn't bear the thought of looking at her, let alone touching her. Norma simply wasn't affected in any way.
"Well, where can I put my towel?"
"Move mine over and put it next to that. You can use half the locker for your other things."
I began putting them in the locker, giving each item an extra-loving pat, like a kindly mother who had found some orphans a home and wanted to show them that everything was all right now.
"You ain't plannin' on getting bailed, are you"
I almost fainted! Some INTEREST! At last! I restrained the impulse to go into my old high school "sis-boom-bah" bag. I was eager for some conversation, but at the same time aware of the ways people in jail acted, which was not to display anything. I finished stacking my belongings before I replied.
"I don't know what bail is ... I haven't been to court yet ..."
"Nurses line! Nurses line!" The brittle announcement shook the walls, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because whoever made the announcement forgot to put the music back on.
"I had a peep at your passport," Norma said. "You got yourself one heavy problem, honey."
I scuffed by feet around. "Yeah, I know ... See, it wasn't ..."
"Hold it!" Norma cut in. "I don't give a shit what you did or didn't do. But if you care about yourself, keep your mouth shut about it, else you might find yourself gettin buried alive while some other bitch rolls free at your expense. These walls got ears. You'll be okay if you keep that in mind."
"All late courts line up with your wristbands showing!"
Norma made a face at the loudspeaker. "Shut the fuck up!" She turned her attention back to me. "Don't look like you got much going for yourself at the moment." She took a pack of smokes from the locker. Before she could give me the entire pack I indicated just one cigarette. She laughed that knowing look of hers, busted the pack and gave me one. She x-rayed me again with her eyes and tossed the pack on the bed. "Later, I'll get you whatever else you need."
I couldn't make too much sense out of Norma. One second she came off as a cold, unfeeling individual, and the next she was one of the beautiful people. I liked mucho the second half of her. She handed me a book of matches and I lit up my Pall Mall. It was my first cigarette in some time and the smoke almost choked me.
"Thanks," I coughed, handing her the matches back.
She threw the matches next to the cigarettes. "I didn't ask for any of that either, those thank you's." She laughed knowlingly again. "Besides, ain't nothing for nothing ... Remember that, you hear?"
"Ladies! Canteen will be here in half an hour! Have your ditty bags ready!"
Norma flipped her butt into the john. "Got any bread?"
I shook my head. "Norma, what are you in here for?"
"Couple of robberies and parole violation."
"Parole?" My eyes widened. "You been in prison?"
"Fact is, honey, I been in more than I been out." Her face took on a faraway quality, and I could tell she was reflecting back. For a moment her face softened, but she cuaght herself quickly and put the barriers back up again. "Lookie here, Ima, I plan to catch me some zzzzzzz's, so you make sure nobody comes in here bothering be. If you want sump'n to occupy your mind there's a mystery novel in the locker." She patted her pillow, while I drooled at how soft it looked. Damn, did I want some sleep!
Norma kicked off her shoes and slid sideways onto her bunk, facing the near wall. "I got a small dress coming in from the other side," she mumbled over her shoulder. "When the trustee runs it this way, get it. Ohh," she added, already half crashed out, "that dress is worth four days in the hole, so be cool ... and take your cigarettes off my bed."
Norma gave orders in such a confident manner that it never occurred to me to protest. So, wearier than Rip Van Winkle, I found myself face down on my bunk, staring out through the bars, wondering what I was supposed to guard against. Oh well, if a whale swam up, I would just shout "thar she blows!" I giggled at the thought of curling Norma's snuggies with a play like that, but I also kept in mind how she looked when she was angry, so I though better of the idea. I gave the mystery a few passes before realizing that I had already read it. Besides that my sunken eyeballs were in no shape for a rerun at a tired book. A short time later the trustee came along the outside corridor, whispering Norma's name. I jumped to the floor and went for the dress, which was bundled under her arm. Halfway across the tier I heard my name barked out and almost fainted.
"Ima!"
EEK! Talk about crime prevention! I was caught before I had a chance to do anything wrong!
"Ima Fibbon!" I turned, trying to conceal my fear with a giant CHEEZE. "Take off your underwear and bra and get ready for Blood and V. Hurry!!! I don't have all day!"
When I looked back around again the trustee had disappeared, but I was too confused to be relieved. "What's Blood and V?" I asked another woman walking toward the front.
"Oh, man, they take some blood and check your money-maker for disease."
I was perplexed about missing the dress pick-up, but more upset at the thought of the forthcoming examination.
"All Blood and V up front!"
A few seconds later twenty of us were crammed into an elevator and speeding toward the top floor. We bounced to a stop.
"Everybody out! All right ladies, no talking! Show your wristbands! Stand single file!" The tight-lipped officer stood stark against the infirmary's sparkling white walls.
Lines of women slowly moved like giant snakes through one door to the next. Everyone appeared mangled and disheveled, yet each managed to maintain enough dignity to avoid the eyes of the other, acutely aware of the upcoming humiliation.
"439126!" I checked my wristband. That was me. "In here!" I stepped into the room, where a doctor immediately closed the curtains all around us. "Lay on the table. Put your feet in the stirrups." The thought of what he meant to do caused me to momentarily despise myself for being a woman. I followed his instructions, bracing myself for the alien inspection of my most intimate parts. I wasn't prepared for the excruciating pain that came next. Gawd it hurt! I held my breath while he crudely extracted his utensil, and if it wasn't for the cry I had choked off in my throat, I would have told him that my tonsils could be reached much easier from up top.
"Okay, put your legs together and get up." He flung the curtain back, and as I went out I eyed the next victim with pity. Little did she know that Dr. Jekyll was waiting to turn a painless inspection into a painful one.
Next, I was hustled past a table covered with an array of dixie cups, brimming over with various shades and types of sugar pills. They probably didn't do much for curing anyone's ills, but they sure looked pretty; a prescription bouquet against the pallid walls and ceiling. I didn't have long to admire the colorful display because I felt myself being whirled in a cirle, the ol' pin-the-tail-on-the-mule, with my arm turing into the ass. Blood was extracted from me so fast that I didn't have a chance to yell "ouch." I did check out the woman who was draining my life's fluid, and I swear I saw the faint hint of a satisfied smile as she jabbed my arm. Made my wonder if she was just checking the blood, or if she had it for dinner with a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. Either way, she was a whiz with that spike. Would have made one helluva A-1 dope fiend.
"This way!" Another spin-the-bottle. I turned myself into a helicopter. After a brief flight around the room I landed in front of an X-ray machine. "Deep breath! Holdit!" BOOSH! CLUMP! "Thank you! Next!"
"All ladies who are finished, on the elevator! No talking!"
Who wanted to talk? Who could? The esprit de corps had been drained out of us, and rag-tagged legionnaires shuffled toward the elevator, 7th Cavalry returning from the Little Big Horn, AFTER Sitting Bull was finished with them! As we neared my tier, I foolishly contemplated the idea of getting some nod, at last some sleep. Before I could turn into my driveway a "hey you" stopped me in my tracks. Stopping was my first mistake. Turning around was error numeral dugan. A chunky-built woman, with a massive tangle of overly dyed red hair, addressed me.
"You shoppin' canteen today?"
Before I could respond she slapped some money into my hand. "Good! Stand in line and buy me ten candy bars!" I hesitated, beginning to understand why Norma never asked. Nobody asked, they just gave orders. The chunky woman grew worried at my apparent reluctance and her entire demeanor changed. Her voice was almost a whine.
"I need um bad, baby ... I'm chuckin', and we can only get ten apiece ..."
"Canteen's coming! Everyone in line! No talking! Ditty bags ready!"
"What's a ditty bag?"
"Oh shit! Go get your pillow case! Hurry!" The woman pushed me into a running start. I was back in a mini, huffing and puffing like Wilma Rudolph right after winning the Indianapolis 500 on foot. Even at that I made it only just in time.
"Where's your list?"
"What list?"
"Get out of line!" L.A.C.J.'s finest snapped. "You must have a list!"
I watched the chuck-wagon move out toward the Rockies, without feeding lil' ol' "Priscilla Prickly The Pioneer." Right before it disappeared behind a giant cactus, the red haired fluff rolled up and unsheathed her verbal tomahawk. I muttered something about a list, while she growled out things like "Dumb assed bitch" and "dizzy broad" and other such delicacies. The situation seemed destined to turn into quite a scene, but it woke Norma up.
"Uh, say, Dinky," she called through the bars at the red head, "leave Ima alone. She don't know nothin'."
Norma had that right! I gave the woman her money back and dragged myself into the cell. "Did you get the dress?" Norma asked, lighting a cigarette. I had hoped she wouldn't ask. She blew the smoke out in rings, extra slow, so it was easy to see she was holding in her anger. She exchanged it for some dry sarcasm.
"You didn't get it," she said to herself matter of factly. "Did she come?"
"Yeah, she came." I didn't take any pains to conceal my weariness.
Norma shook her head from side to side. "That broad took a chance on being busted, and you didn't even show up. Boy oh boy ..."
I was pretty disgusted myself, not only about the dress, but with the entire day. I opened the locker door and plomped down on the commode, trying to decide if I should continue with just the quivering lips or move on up to a cloudburst of tears. An announcement crawled down the tier.
"Ladies! Get Ready! A tour is coming."
Norma giggled, obviously no longer upset about the dress, came over and slapped me on the knee. "C'mon , Ima, suck it back in. You don't want them peeps viewing you on the throne, do you?"
What a trip! What a place! Not even enough peace for a girl to sit down and have a simple cry.
At last! Sleep! I just let everything go and sank into my long awaited slumber. Hmm ... did it feel good! Eventually, my journey into the land of zzzz's was invaded by a dream, a brilliant light shining from on high, accompanied by a dreamy voice that kept crooning my name.
"Ima! Ima! IMA!"
Oh no! It wasn't no dream! I blinked my beepers open and sho'nuf, there was the friendly neighborhood policeman, pointing her flashlight at me face.
"Hurry up! Get dressed! You're going to court!"
Court? The sun wasn't even up yet. Eyes still plastered together with the sandman's refuse, I eased off the bed, careful lest the squeaking wake Norma. When my feet touched the icy cement, I stifled a gasp, not only because of the sharp chill on my moon men, but because my night gown had caught on a loose spring. My predicament was such that I had to remain poised on my toes or risk tearing my nightgown. In a state of near-panic, I counted to ten, then again, and once more for good measure, then forced myself to be calm while I figured out the alternatives: I could stand there the rest of my life, try the risky business of climbing back up and untangling the gown, or I could just say "fuck it", rip the mother loose and put up with Norma's growling.
Norma made my decision for me. She startled me with her whisper. "You going to court?"
"Yeah", I said, raising up on tip-toes. If I could make the gown slack, a quick jerk might tear it free with little damage. I jerked hard. Instead of the loud, tearing noise which usually accompanied cloth ripping, my yank encountered no resistance at all. In fact, I must have freed the gown entirely, because I tumbled into the locker, causing a skelter of noise and banging bones on metal. I thought sure, at the very least, my elbow was broken. My funny bone sent a charge up my arm that brought tears to my eyes.
"Ima! What the hell are you doin'?" Norma hissed.
"My gown was caught!" I hissed right back at her. My crazy bone was raising havoc with my arm and I was in no mood for anyone hassling me.
Norma laughed and lit a cigarette. The glow made her face visible and I could see her propped up on an elbow. "Don't worry. This is just for a plea. They'll tell you to say you ain't guilty and to come back in two weeks."
"What? ... Oh yeah ..." I was too busy primping in the dark to pay full attention to what Norma was saying.
"You got any peeps out there, Ima?"
"Hmm hmm," I gurgled with my toothbrush jammed in my jibs, "mby mbolks, mband ma mbew mbriends ... Mbhy?"
"Because you'll be able to use a telephone, that's why." She fumbled around in her pillow-case. "Here, here's a dime. Make sure you call collect, so you can use it over again. Don't lend it to nobody, you understand, rubberband? That goes for smokes too!" She motioned toward the locker. "Take a pack, but keep in mind that that stuff comes hard in here, so don't go playin' the role of some good time samaritan with the goodies. These moochin' bitches will drain you dry. You dig?"
Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle, bwoosh! "Gee, thanks". Norma viewed my "gee's" and "gollies" with much distaste, because to her these were expressions of naivety and an open invitation to the jailhouse hustlers and con artists. Yet life-long training and habits are not easy things to discard, and I was having very little success with the ejection of the Ima Fibbon I had known all my life.
"Duh, shucks, ma'am," Norma mimicked. With a chuckle, she pulled the covers up to her chin and rolled over.
My head spun. Where was my dress? How was I supposed to comb my hair in the dark? How was I expected to make a good impression in front of the judge? It was bad enough just going in front of one, because already I was in possession of a long-seeded image of those stern-faced individuals, enshrouded in their black robes, scowling down at the fallen from their heaven-high benches. It gave me the shivers to think of myself in the clutches of these self-proclaimed gods, so I conjured up Perry Mason for the defense. After a few magic exchanges with "his honor." Perry smiled benevolently and said, "justice has been served, Ima. Go in peace."
I was still drooling at myself - walking arm in arm with those I loved, out of the courtroom and into the sun - when reality struck.
"All courts stand back! When your door opens, step out and come to the front immediately!"
"Bye, baby." Norma's tone was warm and gentle, and I tried to see her face in the gloom. I couldn't, because of the semi-darkness and because she had turned toward the wall again. Her hair was braided and this somehow indicated the mellow Norma, the woman behind the tough facade. "Don't worry 'bout your bed. I'll make it up."
The door rattled open. Myself and several other courts lined up at the tier gate. I glanced at a wall clock. It was four in the morning. After surveying my court pals, however, I didn't feel half as bad about my appearance, because any one of us could have easily won the "Miss Nightmare" title, going away.
Our first stop was the mess hall. The dimly-lit hallway was so cold that my teeth began to chatter. As I took my tray from the rack, my heart warmed at the thought of digging into some hot grub, until, that is, I saw that the main course was SOS, initials for a concoction commonly referred to by residents as "shit on the shingle." A woman behind me started humming under her breath: "If it was good enough for my army daddy, it's good enough for me."
I probably would have been amused, were I not so hungry and had the time been apppropriate for human life, rather than hours before the chickens started scratching. But at least the coffee was hot, and while I sipped I noticed that one woman was actually shoveling in the main dish. I caught her attention, motioned with my spoon to my SOS, then her coffee. She nodded and we made the exchange I felt really proud of myself, my first transaction without the assistance of Norma's eyes there to clue me in. The only thing lacking for my moment of triumph was the New York Philharmonic, playing their rendition of the Notre Dame Victory March as a tribute to my craftiness in jailhouse bargaining.
"All courts file out! Deposit your spoons at the door!"
We marched through an acre of hallways and into the booking area, where we waited in a crammed, smokey room. A few minutes later we were called one by one and ushered into another room. This was filled with a row of dressing stalls.
"439126!"
I jumped forward, immediately cursing myself for so quickly responding to a number, automatically. The action frightened me, not only because my name had been exchanged for a number in a file, but because in my own mind I was beginning to lose sight of my true identity. The habitual finger pointed directions.
Inside still another room, a trustee in a striped dress handed me my street clothes from an alcove with a Dutch door. I had completely forgotten my navy blue bells, blue workshirt and sandals. I slipped into them as quickly as possible, even though no one gave the "hurry up" order. Once again I reprimanded myself for the conditioning that was taking place within me.
After I dressed I sat waiting, until I saw another woman march to the closet and turn in her jail clothes. I emulated her, now acutely aware of my lack of individual identity, but finding it much easier to fall in with the regimented procedure.
In wrinkled civvy spendor, we were marched from the building and into the back of a bus, where an officer checked our wristbands before marking off our numbers on a clipboard.
It was pitch black outside and my attempt to get a glimpse of the sky was in vain. The summer sun was the only thing that could penetrate the light fog, and it had not stuck its smiling face over the horizon yet.
I found myself a seat by a window, looking forward to the ride. I felt a deep tiny tingle when the big engine roared to life and we pulled out into the street. Eagerly, I peered out the window, wondering if freedom was still free, if people walked the streets and children still galloped around like crazy while shopping with their mothers. All I could see in the gloom was desertion - desolate gray streets and sidewalks, dotted on occasion by a sparse patch of green, or a tree. After a while I just stared out, but at nothing, merely pointing my eyes.
We stopped at another jail, the men's hotel, and there we ended up in a holding tank, with six benches bolted to the walls and a telephone booth. On one side of the tank an officer sat enclosed in a thick glass cage. I fought down the urge to shout "will the real goldfish please stand up?" There was no sink or any other toilet facilities, so I gathered that mother nature wasn't allowed to function, unless she got busted.
My first thought was the telephone, but after watching the swarm of screaming and clawing women there, I decided it was best to wait. I lit a cigarette and occupied myself by admiring the artwork on the walls of the penal museum. Most of the graffiti was from one human to another, tatoos of devotion: "Baby loves Peaches. Bobby and Sue por vida." A few slogans expressed other ideas: "Viva la Raza! Jesus saves! God is alive and well - he's hiding in Argentina!"
The clamor around the telephone reached nerve-wracking proportions, and a craving for solitude overtook me. The thick smoke in the air also began to affect me, so I crushed out my cigarette and found myself a seat on the floor.
An hour later, an officer called numbers over an intercom. We lined up at the door, showed our wristbands, then boarded the bus as our numbers were called relentlessly.
"439126." I climbed onboard.
This time there were men sitting in the rear. I had been on buses before with men, but under far different circumstances, and never gazing through a wire-mesh, or listening to the Tarzan/Jane wolf-whistles, all in tune with the rattling of chains and shackles. I settled in for an interesting ride.
"Anyone looking back will be written up and taken immediately to lock-up upon our return!"
We booed the villian, but turned to face forward, pouting. The majority dreaded lock-up, much more than a hurried love affair through a screen, yet a few continued to play, finding that the insinuating smiles and eye signals were worth the risk.
By the time our chariot backed into the courthouse unloading area, the sun had turned the sky into a rainbow of smoggy colors.
"Ladies first".
An elevator zipped us to the top. Four right turns, three lefts, one dip and a curve later, we were deposited into still another holding tank. It was a duplicate of the last tank, but in minature. Neither was there a glass cage or an officer present, so two women took advantage of the situation and set up house. I looked away quickly as they embraced and exchanged a yard of tongue. I wasn't repulsed, but rather frightened at the unfamiliarity of the scene. I concentrated on the walls, nearly bored with the incarcerated jottings - until, that is, I spotted Norma's name on the makeshift billboard. I gasped at the thought of my bunkie being a lesbian, then asked myself if it really mattered. I finally decided that she was my friend and that that was all I'd need to go on.
A hand on my shoulder scared the nibbles out of me. It was the same woman who'd been behind me in the mess hall. She was a small, pretty blonde. She ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair and pointed at Norma's name.
"That's your tight, ain't it?"
Innocently, I asked of whom she was speaking.
"Whom!" she exclaimed with a laugh. "You know damn well, whom!" She laughed again and emphasized, "whom else?"
"Well ... You could have meant someone else." I blushed, realizing my own susceptibility.
She motioned to the other name with her cigarette. "Don't worry, that other broad is long gone."
"You don't understand. We're only ..." I knew my face was beet red.
Her blue eyes twinkled. "Have no fear, sweetie, you're safe with me." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her blouse pocket and offered me one. I showed her mine, but she insisted on giving me one anyway. Before I could find my matches she was ready with a light. James Dean should've been so cool!
"Thank you." I spoke coyly, then excused myself from her penetrating eyes by heading for the telephone.
After six attempts to call someone I gave up. Every number I tried came up blank, but at least I still had my dime. I tucked it back in my bra and started toward a different seat. The blonde caught my attention and patted the bench next to her. I felt obligated, since I had accepted that damn cigarette, so I guessed that made us friends of sorts. The thought of another woman making me ill-at-ease was confusing and discomforting, but I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a grin.
"What's your name?" I asked her.
"Sparky ... and yours is Ima."
A few minutes later I found myself involved in the game of "how did you know?" Every word seemed to fit into a performance, part of which included an obvious pleasure at my uneasiness. I reached for one of my own cigarettes, but before I had it shook loose, Sparky had the match lit.
"You're just a baby," she said soothingly, "and you're doing right by sticking with Norma. Just don't ever do her wrong though, you hear? Of course, if you ever do ... Well, let's just say you got a friend in me." She winked. "Count on that, okay?"
There was no way to respond to that, so I changed the subject. "What do you do?"
Sparky laughed. "Time." I caught onto her humor and laughed myself.
"So, you'll be in for a while, eh?" Now Sparky was probing and I wasn't having any double-standards, plus I remembered what Norma had told me: "No one is to be trusted!"
"I really don't know what's going to happen."
"Well, lookie here ... If you come to the joint, I'll make sure you get off on the right foot."
A commitment was being offered and I wanted no part of it. Once again, Sparky had succeeded in making me nervous. "Well, I don't really know what's gonna happen."
Sparky raised an eyebrow and peered at me. "Think about it."
At about 10 o'clock, a female bailiff called my name. We traveled 'round the bend, past the end, by pack train through the Sierra Madres, finally arriving in the courtroom. The only sound there was the rustle of clothing from the waiting audience. I was parked in front of the judge's bench, where a male bailiff asked me if my baptismal handle was Ima Fibbon.
"Affirmative."
The judge appeared indifferent, and in that genre questioned me about whether or not I had an attorney.
"Negative."
Next thing I knew, a tall, slender man, wearing a gray suit and a peppermint tie, slid out of the wallpaper. He mumbled nervously in my ear and handed me a card.
"I'll be up to see you as soon as I can. Plead not guilty."
"Ima Fibbon," His Honor queried, "how do you plead?"
I twisted my hands behind my back. "Not guilty." I held my breath, almost expecting some sort of hue and cry from the spectators, something like "off with her head!" But there was not a word, only the heavy feel of goggling eyes as they pierced my back.
"Very well," the judge sighed. "I direct your case to courtroom one oh nine, where a preliminary hearing will be held in two weeks."
"Is that all there is?" I asked my female escort.
"That's it. Walk faster, please. I have a long list of cases and I want to finish before lunch."
When I returned to the tank, I noted that Sparky was engrossed in a conversation. The woman she rapped with looked like a case of plastic surgery that had failed. Sparky picked me up the minute I entered and signaled for me to sit next to her. As soon as I sat down she put her hand on my knee. The gesture made me uneasy, but I didn't pull away. Sparky winked at me knowingly, realizing that I wasn't going to object, because on the surface the act was quite innocent. She continued her conversation with the other woman.
"Man, that's a tough break." Sparky shook her head from side to side. "Are you going to try for the joint, maybe get out of the program?"
"I don't know ... Is there any choice?" The woman reached to straighten her knotted hair, found a hairpin and stuck it between her teeth. She had some job in front of her and I didn't think MGM's hairdresser could straighten out that mess. "Five years of naline," she gritted. "You know they must be tired of my ass by now." She popped the pin in another spot, but just as I suspected, her hair looked the same, except maybe for a reverse angle.
Sparky went on with the investigation. It was difficult to tell whether she was sincerely interested or just being nosey. "So, how'd you get shot down?"
"Aw, man, you wouldn't believe it." Sparky gave her a cigarette, which served as encouragement. "I was doin' this burglary, dig?" Sparky and I nodded while whe exhaled some smoke. "And everything was going super cool, not a creature was stirrin', not even a mouse ..." She paused to giggle at her own witticism. "And when I left, my arms was full of goodies. It was a beautiful score and a clean getaway. That was when I got greedy, like there was so much I left behind, ya know" She spread her arms, like in the giant fish story. "On the third trip, the fuzz met me comin' out the door. I couldn't figure it, 'cause NOBODY, and I mean NOBODY, was anywhere in sight! Well, I ask one of these cops how they got a why on me, and one dude points up to the sky. Well, who should be there but this goddamn telephone repairman! Not only that, but the son-of-a-bitch has the nerve to wave good-bye to me!" Her face mirrored her disbelief. "Now, ain't that about a bitch?"
"You're shittin' me!" Sparky exclaimed.
"Naw, man, that's square biz. But I can dig where you're comin' from. I can hardly believe the shit myself."
I began to feel like part of the conversation and inched in closer. Sparky took her hand off my knee and introduced us. "Dee Dee ... Ima. Ima ... Dee Dee."
Not especially enthused at the new acquaintance, Dee Dee half nodded at my big smile. "This is Ima's first fall," Sparky said. Dee Dee's features softened.
"What's naline?" I wanted to know.
"A jive test for dope fiends, baby, and it's a bitch."
"Oh, you mean a test for ...?" I sounded naive and knew it.
"That's right, honey ... hmm hmm hmm ... Wish I could get a positive right now." Her eyes shut and peace came over her face, just at the thought of a heroin high.
I was fascinated. "I've never shot any of that stuff. What does it do?"
"It makes the world go away," Dee Dee dreamed, "just the way the guy asks for in the song."
"So, what's gonna happen now?" Sparky asked.
Dee scratched her cheek. "Man, I dunno." Suddenly she popped her fingers and stared at me. "Hey! Now I know you! You been walkin' with Norma, right?"
Sparky answered for me. "Yeah, that's her roomie." I was glad in a way that she had spoken in my place, because even though she had been playing with my awkwardness, I wasn't about to let the whole damn jail give me a hard time.
Sparky swung the conversation around. "What happened in court, Ima??"
"Oh, nothin' ..."
Sparky curled her upper lip. "Nothin' ever does. You see, we ain't zero to these mothers, just numbers in a jive numbers game." She kicked at a butt that was on the floor.
"Well, I'll tell you one thing for sure," Dee Dee put in, "I'm gettin' off the merry-go-round this time."
"Is that so?" Sparky took no pains to hide her cynicism.
"Yeah, man, I been in this amusement park too long, and I'm bailing out now." Dee Dee began to shiver, even though it wasn't cold.
"I hope you make it," I told Dee, not feeling that it was fair for Sparky to knock her good intentions.
The conversation rolled on and on, for what seemed like a month. When an officer strolled into the tank, two decades later, our rumps were sore and our smokes were on empty. She called our numbers and lined us up. At last! Home sweet home! I caught myself. What home? Oh well, at least Norma was there, but then again, I had come to like Sparky too.
The men were on the bus already, but most of us were too burnt out to play peek-a-boo. To my dismay, a few minutes later we turned into the parking lot of the first holding tank.
"Now ain't that a bitch!" Sparky growled.
"Ain't it?" I echoed.
"Aw shit!" a woman in the back snapped, as another bus passed us going out. "That means we ain't going back till this fuckin' place fills up again, and that could be hours!"
Our chariot squeaked to a halt. "All right ladies... out."
The tank was twice as dirty the second time around, and by now everyone was dog tired, with nerves sho 'nuf frazzled. In the space of ten minutes, two fights started and were broken up. I listened with half an ear while another pair bickered as to whom their pimp would bail out first. It would be interesting to see which one would be missing from the mess line. My bet was the shorter of the two, mostly because I felt the taller hustler exaggerated the amount of money she brought home to daddy. There were some mental cases in with us too, but the other women bombed them with an array of optical threats, like "don't you dare go off now!" Most of these women sat alone, mumbling to themselves. Several women cried, while still others held hands, saddened by the fact that their new found loves would soon be gone forever. All in all, we were a sorry bunch, and I couldn't help thinking about and agreeing with the various articles I'd read, concerning what prisons did to the human mind. It caused me to dwell on a passage from a poem titled, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol, which had been written by Oscar Wilde:
I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to swing.
Finally a bus arrived and took us back to the County Jail. We went through the checking out procedures, but in reverse. We showed our wristbands and were escorted to our tiers. On my way by, I spotted Norma in the T.V. room. She was concentrating heavily on a game of Tonk with Rio, her partner from the streets. She didn't see me and I was too tired to get her attention. I shuffled into the cell, plopped down on the desk and began massaging my weary dogs. I was sho 'nuf ready for some R&R!
"All late dinners from court, to the dining area! All late dinners ..."
The cell gate opened and, what the hell, people in jail are always hungry. The mess hall was half full. On the way to my seat I passed Sparky. Dee Dee occupied a seat next to her, not eating, but simply staring at the floor. Sparky gobbled down her own food, switched trays with Dee, and then scoffed up her portion too. When my tank number was called, I picked up my tray and spoon, brushing Sparky's back on my way by.
I dragged into my cell, engulfed again with visions of slumber. It was well past lights-out and all were tucked in for the night. Norma was still awake.
"Hi there." She'd been reading a magazine, using the light that filtered through the bars from the outside catwalk. She seemed happy to have me back.
I took off my dress and wriggled into my gown, wondering where to begin. "There were so many things ... I didn't get anyone on the phone ... I met Sparky and a friend of hers, Dee Dee ... She's gonna kick her habit and ..."
"Hold it baby." Norma smiled tenderly. "Slow down before you get flagged for speeding. You look tired, so you can tell me in the morning, okay?"
"That sounds cool." I tossed my dress into the locker, noting that I was beginning to feel comfortable with Norma. I hopped up onto my bunk, then leaned over the edge.
"Goodnight."
Norma reached up and tossled my hanging hair. I started to touch one of her braids, but hesitated. She tossled my hair again.
"Go ahead."
"I can?" I asked shyly.
She smiled. "Sure, baby."
I twisted a braid around my finger. I felt good about Norma, really solid, and lucky that I had found a rosebud in the manure pile. I closed my eyes and went to sleep, with that thought in my head.
Norma and I went to church on Sunday. We had two purposes for attending: it offered a chance for fresh air, as the chapel was located outside, and we wanted to see Sparky. We weren't interested in threats of God's wrath, which was always the weekly sermon, and on this occasion I almost interrupted the speaker to ask if he had a hot line from above. He sure sounded like he was in direct contact.
Five minutes after the service started, one woman began feeling the spirit and started shouting. "Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!" Heads turned toward the back, where an elderly woman, with skinny arms and wearing a shrunk-up sweater, had stood up and was waving her arms in the air. "Thank you, Jesus!" she ranted, with tears in her eyes. Several police, who had been patrolling the aisle, closed in on the woman. She was grabbed under the armpits and escorted out. Amen!
The pianist struck a few chords and we stood in unison to the speaker's all-encompassing hand-sweep, then listened to the opening refrain of "The Old Rugged Cross."
"Where are they ... taking her?" I sang in tune with the music.
"To the old ... M.O. ward", Norma sang back, "where they keep ... all the nuts ..."
Across the way I spotted Sparky and Dee Dee and smiled a hello. When the song ended we sat down. Sparky's small hands moved in gestures, which Norma had to interpret for me. My roomie caught Dee Dee's attention and rubbed her arm, indicative of asking her if she wanted some dope. Norma made sure I was watching. Dee Dee nodded emphatically.
"Fool ass woman!" Norma whispered. "She ain't giving up shit, just the words sound pretty."
Sparky caught up with us on the way out. Her blue eyes were red and it was obvious she was under the influence of something beside the atmosphere. She asked if we wanted to get bombed out, speaking openly and without bothering to put any shade on herself. The idea of dope inside the jail made me nervous and I shook my head. I didn't want any part of it.
"Beatrice! What are you doing out of line?" The livid-lipped officer stood right next to us. "Let me see your wristbands!" We did and she jotted all three of our numbers. "You are not to return to church for three weeks!"
Hallelujah! Sure wasn't no big thing with me, because I had no plans on coming back in three years. The only thing I learned was Sparky's name, which made it understandable why she had adopted the Sparky monicker. Beatrice? Yuk!
"We sure blew that, huh?" I whispered to Norma.
"You mean church?" Norma seemed quite unaffected by the whole affair, and more interested in getting into the cell. "Hey! Officer! Open cell one!" The door grumbled open and we sauntered in.
"Once a month is more than enough religion for me." Norma scoffed. She slapped my back and laughed at her reflection in the mirror.
"You got that right." I lit a smoke. "How long you guys been doing this?"
"Oh ... about as long as long is," Norma responded offhandedly. She ta te da'd a bit and patted her afro. "How come you wanted to go see Sparky?" She turned around and teased me with a smile.
"Line up in two's and proceed to the dining area!" the box barked, before I had a chance to answer.
We leaped out, because whoever was swinging the doors must have thought she had a bunch of Flash Gordon's under her command, and the second the sliding gates banged open, they were grinding closed again.
The tier was full of unruly women, dancing and giggling at each other. It was evident that half the tank was zonked out. The procession to the mess hall was a straggly one, and when Norma had trouble making it up a ramp, I knew she was high as a buzzard in heat. I guessed she had gotten something from Sparky, even though I hadn't seen the action, but flying my roomie was, and without wings.
When we got to the mess hall we found a woman lying in the doorway, face down. I stopped.
"Step around! Keep the line moving! I said: STEP AROUND!"
Like zombies marching through limbo, we all silently obeyed. The woman just lay there on the floor, while someone went to get a wheel chair. From what I'd heard about the infirmary, she was probably better off right where she was.
As it was normally, just sitting on the little mess-hall stools was a risky proposition, but that day most of the women found it near impossible. A resident next to me plopped off hard, then wobbled up cursing like a muleskinner. Another woman collapsed in the meal line and telephones started buzzing. When still another woman went down for the count and a little red pill rolled out of her pocket, the stuff was on! An officer nearby picked up the pill, gasped and ran to a wall alarm. Beepers beeped, bells banged, horns honked, and it sounded like one of those SAC Red-Alerts. Brass stormed quickly into the mess hall, like a swarm of bees hot on the case of a honey-looting bear; sergants, lieutenants, captains and a couple of generalissmos for good measure. I watched in awe.
Lines were pulled out of the mess hall - it was well before the alloted fifteen minutes - and we were pushed into the T.V. room instead of our tank.
"How come they put us here?" I asked Norma.
She was hot. "What the fuck you think we're here for? They're searching for the reds!" I started to say something else, but she cut me off. "I don't wanna hear it!"
A short time later the uniformed search-party moved into our tank. We watched intently through a window in the door as the searchers went on a binge, reminiscent of a bunch of ol' biddy's let loose at a bargain basement sale. Things were thrown every which way, boxes were turned over, linen was tossed onto the floor, ashtrays were dumped indiscriminately. Everything not bolted down received the business, and not even the pictures on the walls were spared. One officer found a smoking kite in Rio's cell, and squealed her delight. Others gathered around, while the guard read it aloud. We could hear what was being said clearly in the T.V. room. Rio stood alone in a corner, pink with embarrassment and rage.
Most of the women in the T.V. room involved themselves with hasty attempts at sobering up. Some primped, some did exercises, while a few practiced walking a straight line. We would all be scrutinized closely, and a clumsy move could lead to a urine test, which always revealed if there were drugs in the system or not. I eyed Norma from time to time, but she remained cool and as far as I could tell, was in complete control of her head. We didn't have any worries as far as contraband was concerned, because I hadn't collected any and Norma always made her stash outside the cell.
For a while it appeared as if our tank was going to get away clean. It was my thought that maybe everything had been consumed. At about that point a sergeant struck gold. She came out onto the freeway, carrying a pillowcase. She set it down and began pulling pills from it by the fistfull. Her expression was one of crazed joy. This discovery would garner her plenty of extra points, and could even lead to a promotion.
Two hours went by before we were allowed back into the tier. As we walked from the T.V. to the tank, any woman walking wobble-legged was pulled out of line for a urine test. I could barely conceal my relief when Norma and I passed through unmolested.
Our cell reflected a disaster area, after a heavy romance with a tornado, and as we stood open-mouthed, wondering where to start cleaning up at, B.B. decided to make a patrol along the catwalk.
"Ladies! Your cells are a mess!" she piped. "Double scrub! There will be an inspection shortly!"
Rio's cell had been hit the hardest, though it was not the one which had given up the Big Red bust. "Officer! Can I have some clean linen? My sheets are full of ashes."
"Linen is distributed only on Wednesdays," B.B. informed Rio distantly, then was gone with a ring of her keys.
Rio rolled her eyes at the ceiling. She stood with hands on hips, her lips tight, and her eyes filled with suppressed rage. "That motherfucker!" she growled low in her throat. "That low-lifed, robot-assed BITCH! Oooooh!"
Three weeks later I received my first visit. The visiting room was a shoddy affair, with sectioned-off aisles and stools, similiar to those in the mess hall. In front of each stool was a thick glass window, and a telephone for communication. The visiting room officer pushed two one-dollar bills at me, then slid a receipt pad and a dulled pencil stub across the desk.
"Sign here." I did. "Window thirteen."
As it was a weekday, the room was fairly empty. Most people came on weekends, due to working schedules. My visitor was Julie, a friend from the old neighborhood. Her bright colorful clothing and neatly curled hair appeared foreign to me. A pimp in the next seat ogled her, obviously interested in her possibilities. The more he stared, the more Julie squirmed, and there was a mixture of excitement and fear on her sheltered face. She had trouble starting the conversation, so I began firing questions on the telephone, about the friends we knew and the places where we used to hang out. This eased the tension somewhat, and soon we were gossiping like a pair of freshly unmuzzled magpies.
Our twenty minutes ended in five seconds, much too fast, and in the middle of thanking Julie for the two dollars the receiver was cut off. At first I thought the phone might have gone on the blink, but after I shook it till it rattled, I realized the phone was all right. It had been killed by a human and there was no question of resurrection. I waved goodbye to Julie and carefully formed the words "come again." She blew me a kiss and nodded. After that she showed every week.
Norma was pleased to see that I had some money. New bookings came into the tank regularly, and since they never brought cigarettes or candy, those with money were more than willing to pay extra for items. By stocking heavy, Norma and I could increase our income rather handsomely, by selling the victuals for double the price. Of course, since there was a limit as to how many cigarettes and candy bars each resident could purchase at one time, we preferred payment in supplies rather than case. This way, we managed to constantly stock-up, but without spending any of our own money. Naturally, such a practice was frowned upon by the authorities, but what the shucks, some of those people frowned on breathing.
"Just don't feel sorry for anyone," Norma schooled. "Most of these folks will split before you do anyway. If they complain about the price, don't worry about it, because there's always another train on the same track. Besides, we got the only store on the tier, so it's either us or wait. You dig? Another game you got to watch for is somebody sayin' you ought to give 'em a break, because they're my friend. Don't go for that, as my tights all know that this is my hustle, know what I mean, jellybean?"
I enjoyed the excitement of becoming Norma's business partner. "I understand, rubberband."
Our next canteen was that night and after we made our purchases, Norma dumped the diddy bags on the bed. She rubbed her hands briskly together.
"Okay! Let's check out the goodies!"
Our store turned out to be a huge success and it brought enough profit to easily support one of my newly acquired pleasures - gambling. I found it to be a relaxing pastime. Of course I was no Cincinnati Kid at Tonk, Bid Wisk or Poker, but Norma more than made up for what I dropped, as she rarely lost.
The yuletide approached. This was always a depressing period for women in jail, as thoughts turned to families, children and friends. There would be no chestnuts roasting on any open fires, nor would Saint Nick be wise if he fooled around in the bleak confines of C.J., unless he wanted to find himself posing for a mug shot.
'Twas the night before Christmas when Sparky sent me a note, with a tab of acid enclosed. I split the tablet with Norma, and we tripped throughout the night. The usually nerve-wracking sounds of women snoring became a hilarious experience. Later, I just stared at the walls and ceiling, which became a lacework of soft, intricately patterned women's faces.
At breakfast I looked for Sparky, but she wasn't in the mess hall. Dee Dee caught my questioning look and signaled that she was in the hole. I spent the rest of the meal thinking about Sparky. Finally, I decided that I would join her in lock-up.
"Damn her!" I said to Norma, back on the tier. "Why on Christmas?"
"Whatcha gonna do about it?" Norma baited.
"Go down there and wish her a Merry Christmas." I retorted.
Norma popped her fingers gleefully and went through some Flip Wilson motions.
"Only one thing, Norma ... what if they ..."
"That's a possibility." Norma had the same thought, that perhaps we might be separated. The rule was "you move, you lose," and if a new booking showed and you were in the hole, welp, you could find your things out on the doorstep when you showed back.
Norma squinted at me. "Ahhhh ... . I might be able to maintain the fort, so I'll hold onto your stuff, okay?" She touched my cheek with the back of her hand and smiled. "You go ahead and wish Miss Mean a Merry Christmas, and give her hell for being down there." She moved toward the bed. "As for me, I'm after a heap of zzzz's. That acid is wearing off and I'm one weary sucker."
I strolled to the front of the tier and asked B.B. if she would kindly sharpen my pencil.
"You'll have to wait! I'm busy!"
That was the usual answer and the one I'd been waiting for. It gave me an excuse to start spouting out foul language and I told her in layman's terms what I thought of her and her jail. She wasn't too busy after that little barrage and before I could say "plinkety plunk" I found myself in the empty T.V. room. A few minutes later, the sergeant who'd busted open the Red Connection showed up. We had encountered each other on previous occasions, (although those were relatively mild meetings) so we weren't strangers.
"Ima? What is this?" The sergeant's tone was brittle.
I waved my arms in disgust. "I'm tired! I've had it! I just don't care anymore!"
"Ima, now you just simmer down." I almost fainted! Where was Sergeant Regulations coming from, actually trying to soothe me? "When in Rome, it is wise to do as the Romans do." She beamed at her own philosophic plagiarism.
"Never!" I felt silly at my dramatics, but some of the acid was still in my system, and it bolstered my devil-may-care attitude. "Just because I love pizza, doesn't mean I have to act as a Roman! I refuse!" I fixed her with my Henrietta VIII glare, thinking, "eat your heart out, Richard Burton, 'cause Ima Fibbon is a natural."
The sergeant continued trying to reason with me. "It's Christmas, and I don't want to bring you punishment on this holy day. In fact, I'm going to overlook your actions, in the hope that you will repay my kindness by behaving yourself in the future."
I didn't really want a vendetta with the sergeant, so I backed up. "Okay," I muttered, and slouched all the way back to my tank.
B.B. let me in, seemingly unaffected, except that her jaws were so tight, her cheeks were twitching.
I entered our cell like a whupped dog with his tail tucked between his legs. Just my luck! On the day I was loaded for bear, everyone else was practising humanity. Norma was still in bed, but propped on her elbow smoking.
"What happened, baby?" She looked confused, since the whole tier had heard first hand the "sharpened pencil affair", and that was supposed to be some sho 'nuf long gone lock-up.
"Aw man ..." I mumbled. "Everybody's full of good will, favors, all that shit."
Norma handed me a cigarette, trying to hold back the laughter. She dropped the smoke on the floor and we both doubled up in delirium. Soon, we were screeching until the tears ran from our eyes.
Before mess I got another brainstorm. Norma giggled at what I planned to do, but expressed some doubts about whether or not I would follow through. I lit my cigarette and sat on the table, feeling it as my adrenalin began to build in anticipation of the upcoming "Ima Fibbon Christmas Special."
We entered the mess hall in the usual manner. Norma was behind me, but quite, just observing. Wide-eyed I looked around, completely discarding the "Cagney" shade.
"Eyes straight ahead!"
I took a deep breath, then shouted at the top of my lungs, "Merry Christmas!"
Everything stopped dead, but I noticed that most of the long faces had changed into grins. Thus encouraged, I began hollering to everyone I knew, then to some peeps I didn't know. Each of them responded with a "Merry Christmas" and a smile. Finally, the yuletide spirit was strangled by prison discipline, in the form of two officers who pulled me out of line.
They hustled me off to a different T.V. room. This was closer to the mess hall. Women passing by asked if I was all right or not, and one woman rolled a lit cigarette under the door. Ten minutes later they came for me. Two women and a male waded through the smoke from my recently clinched cigarette. I grinned sheepishly.
"Ima! Come with us!"
I was hoping one of them would smile. After all, I hadn't stolen the Pentagon Papers! "Where am I going?"
"Just come along!"
I gulped. Their somber expressions made me feel like I was headed for the last mile.
We went through hallways, down ramps - always down. The deeper we got the quieter it became. Eventually, we reached a level where there was no music. Instead, the tank echoed with a variety of sounds.
"Hey! Officer! If you don't give me a cigarette, God is gonna send you to hell!" Another voice spewed out every swear word in existence. When she ran out of those, she invented some of her own. Vocal chords were at full strength.
"Shut those goddamn nuts up!" This came from the other side of the tank. I was escorted to that side.
"So, this is lock-up?" I was hoping someone would say, "yup, now you know, so you can go back upstairs." Instead, I was frisked bare.
The tier gate opened. "Cell ten!"
The freezing faces hadn't melted one degree. I walked by the cells, afraid to look in on the inhabitants.
"Hey! Ima!" It was Rio.
I stopped. "Rio! What are you still doing down here?" She had disappeared the day after the "Reds Bust".
"Move on, Ima!" I took another look at Norma's disheveled partner and scurried away.
"Izzat you, Ima?" a familiar voice queried, shouting over the other noises.
The atmosphere was eerie and tense, but I tried to make light of my fear. "Yeah, it's me ... Zat you?"
Sparky laughed. I figured she was about five cells away, toward the back, and I fought against the urge to run past cell ten to see her.
"You know it is, girl. How come you're here?" I couldn't imagine why Sparky sounded in such good spirits. I was ready to go back upstairs.
"Figgered I'd come down and wish ya'll a Merry Christmas." My voice was beginning to crack.
"Hey! Rio! Did you hear?"
"Yeah," Rio bellowed.
"That's by baby," Sparky concluded with a little squeal.
I looked over my shoulder, still tempted to run and see Sparky, but the male officer was starting down the tier menacingly.
"I said ... Get into cell ten ... NOW!"
I ran inside, and after the door slammed behind me, I stood in the center of the cell, until my eyes adjusted to the gloom. There were Corn Flakes glued to the wall, most of the springs were missing from the bed, and there was no locker. Lipstick writings were everywhere, floor, ceiling, walls, and the most interesting notice referred to a former king of rock and roll: "Elvis Presley is my wife." - He is, huh? Well, I'd like to inform you, your old lady is dead. She died from a heart attack, after a hound dog shit on his blue suede shoes."
Someone started rattling a door, making the whole tank vibrate. A loud, deep, voice blurted, "Get off the motherfucking door!" There was a sudden quiet, but a shortlived one, broken first by a racial slur, then an outburst of opposing viewpoints.
We dined alone on paper plates, with a paper spoon, and coffee in a paper cup. All the food was cold, and I just sat and watched the instant potatoes sag away. Part of the lock-up punishment was no sugar, salt, cream or canteen, which made it quite clear that the lock-up section was the real jail, with all the 20th-century refinements and finesse rubbed away.
A trustee came by to collect the dirty plates. As I handed her mines, she slipped me two cigarettes and some help underneath the plate. I caught them in my hand. The woman winked and I winked back. Sparky was doing okay in the dungeon.
I split the match and lit one of my cigarettes, constantly waving it around so the smoke wouldn't billow out the door in a cloud. I only took a few drags, then clinched, once again for the purpose of keeping the smoke and odor at a minimum. I hid the remaining paraphernalia under a roll of toilet paper; a split match, a piece of striker and a butt and a half.
A few minutes later I received my linen and immediately made up my bed. It looked so comfortable and I was contemplating a quick nap, but the "bar rattler" started up again and had a real freaky time of making everybody miserable. I flopped down anyway, and to my surprise, found that the incessant rythmn of the shaking door was actually soothing me to sleep.
When I returned from the land of nod the lights were on in the outside corridor. Time had disappeared completely and I wasn't sure if it was still the same day or the next morning. Tears filled my eyes as I reflected on how low I had come in existence. Not only was I in jail, but I was in a jail that was in the jail! I consoled myself with the fact that at least I would be released from lock-up in the foreseeable future, whereas those women on the other side would live in this hell-hole indefinitely. The thought made me bitter, the idea that there wasn't enough compassion involved with handling the women who couldn't help their actions. I thought about the old lady in church and wondered about her fate.
"Lights out, ladies!" The officer placed a special emphasis on "ladies," indicating she felt the title was really out of place. "There will be no more talking!"
Even the wackos on the other side quieted down. I was thinking about Norma, when Rio's voice started to float down the tier. She was singing "Amazing Grace," and as I lay on my cot an extraordinary sense of peace overtook me. I thought it ludicrous that such beauty and sweetness could thrive in that sickening environment. Perhaps the filth and degradation played a part in making Rio's gentle sound so lovely. When the song ended someone sniffled. It took a moment or two for me to realize that I was the sniffler.
"Night, baby," Sparky said through the quiet.
"Night, Sparky," I said, crawling under the covers. "Night, Rio."
"Beddy bye, Ima."
The noise started again on the other side, which served as a signal for the bar rattler on our side to start up. I slept through it all.
I spent several days in the madness. On the fifth day Sparky and I were notified that we would be getting out. I was relieved, because holding onto reality had become quite a chore. Rio was informed at the same time that she would remain in the hole. The woman who had gotten busted with the reds had also implicated her. When I walked past her cell I felt a heavy weight. I was thankful that I was going back upstairs, but I found it difficult to leave Rio behind. I stopped.
"Well, man ..." I attempted a grin. "Keep on keeping on ..."
Rio smiled through the bars. "Aw ... shit!" She popped her fingers. "Ain't nuttin' but a meatball."
"Come on, Ima, unless you want to stay down here!"
I touched Rio's hand, then walked toward the front.
Sparky's door swung next. She danced out onto the tier. As she zipped to the front she hollered at everyone she passed. "Rio, you take care, hear? Things get tight, send me some word."
My pre-trial hearing went painfully slow. Before my trial began, Sparky was long gone to the joint, and Norma was scheduled to follow her on a parole violation. We never discussed her leaving, except for the first time, where we both ended up boo-hooing like two babies. After that, we acted as if her leaving was of no great importance to either of us. I knew I would miss her terribly. However, I learned from Sparky's departure that I would recover. Losing friends was a normal part of pulling time.
The bus from the women's prison always came on Thursday mornings. Norma and I had taken to bickering every Wednesday evening. On Thursdays, we wouldn't even look at each other until the shipment had gone. After a month of this ritual, her name finally appeared on the shipment list.
"Well, baby, this is it." Her expression was cloudy. "You keep everything in the store ... and take care ..."
I fought back the tears. "Why don't you take the cash? I'll keep the goodies ... There's enough to maintain the business ..."
She agreed, as real money was useful anywhere. I watched in silence while she packed a brown paper bag with necessities; toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and cigarettes. I ached to tell her I would miss her and that I would never forget her as long as I lived, but I knew the spoken words would make all of our defenses crumble.
"You take care of yourself, you hear?" she mumbled, with her head bent over the bag. "Don't let me hear no kinda shit about you either ..."
"You won't ... Norma ...?" I almost choked on my uneven words. Finally, I decided that people shouldn't have to hide the things they felt. "I wish I was going with you!" I blurted.
She looked straight at me, first with the Norma-look I had encountered on our first meeting, but it wouldn't work and she knew it. "Stop talking crazy, dizmo." She smiled lovingly and ruffled my hair, like my mama used to do. "we'll see each other again. You can be with that!"
"All ladies for the bus! Up front! NOW!"
"Well, that's my horse in the chute." She exhaled heavily. "My hair even?" She turned her back to me. I didn't reach for my usual pat. Instead, I had to wipe the blinding tears away with the back of my hand. Norma peered over her shoulder. She touched my face with her hand. "Bye, baby ... You ..." Her demeanor began to fall apart, but before it did, she snatched up her bag and hurried out. She didn't look back. I took over as the new trustee, which meant I was the one who swept the tank and performed little odds and ends, in return for a dress with two stripes and a pass to T.V. every night. The remainder of that day when Norma left I stayed in the cell with my face buried in the lousy mystery she had given me on my first day. Mainly, I thought about her and I cried.
I woke the next morning with the realization that it was time to get my head together. I was on my bunk smoking, when a new bunch of bookings came onto the tier. One fish in particular caught my eye, because it was obvious that she had never been in the slammers before. I saw the same frightened look I remembered carrying in with me. I stood up and leaned against my doorway, as B.B. began assigning cells. When she came to the young girl, I motioned to have her put in my cell.
The frightened fugitive from juvenile hall walked my way and I scrutinized her closely. This in turn caused her to check herself out, mainly to see if she still had her dress on. I smirked. She jammed her hands into her pockets self consciously. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. She took it, hesitating, then swallowed hard.
"Hi ... I'm Alowese ... Alowese Friggit ..."
I stepped aside to let her past. "Ima Fibbon here." Come on in and make yourself at home. No sense standing on the freeway, acting like some kinda vagrant ..."
End of story.