The Ploy

“C’mon man! Come over here. I’ll beat your ass!! Come step in this shower room and we can handle this right now.”

Rigger’s face and bald head was red with rage. His eyes seemed suitably wild, and his words certainly carried plenty of threat. To the uninitiated it appeared that he was ready to rumble, that violence was forthcoming.  To me he was terrified and desperate.

Behind the Curtain

Reality was much different than the facade that Rigger would have everyone believe. The man he was threatening, a guy named Whitey, was actually a good friend of his. They’d known each other for years both in and out of prison as they were both repeat offenders several times over. They’d had an argument and falling out less than an hour previous.

Rigger had been crushing pills. Whatever random painkiller, mood stabilizer, muscle relaxer, or anything at all that he could get his hands on. He’d take his surreptitiously procured medications and hide in the bathroom. There would be a lot of tapping and banging as the drugs were crushed down into a suitably fine powder. Then it was all piled together and snorted as an ill-advised cocktail of miscellaneous prescription medications that Rigger didn’t have any prescriptions for. Even if he had, I don’t believe “nasally” is how a medical professional would recommend the pills being taken.

Overdose

Rigger had only been back from the hospital a day or two. He had overdosed on the cockamamie concoction that he’d been snorting. Whitey and I had both witnessed him seizing, shaking, and foaming at the mouth. Rigger was able to lie and convince everyone, even the treating nurses and physicians, that it was a seizure. Whitey knew better, and when he saw that Rigger was back to his old lunatic tricks, he told him in unvarnished language just how much of an absolute idiotic moron he was.

Intervention

There was yelling and cursing in abundance as Whitey performed his one man impromptu intervention. Rigger sat silent like a chastened child through much of it. There wasn’t anything he could say to defend his actions. Whitey’s tactics may have been deserving of criticism, but his anger and frustration was coming from a place of concern and affection for his friend. Unfortunately, most inmates feel the need to maintain the facade of machismo lest they be perceived as somehow weak, or less than, so Rigger could only take so much before he had to balk at Whitey’s words.

Confrontation

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! I had a seizure. This stuff doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Really?” Whitey responded with a tone which conveyed that he couldn’t believe Rigger would lie so effortlessly to his face. “Do you think I’m that stupid? Do you? Huh? How long we know each other bro? Hmm? You know I know what the hell you’re doing. That shit’s gotta stop.”

“Who the hell do you think you are anyway? I do what I want.”

“I thought I was your Road Dog.”

“Oh that’s just bullshit you tell people. You don’t give a damn about me. We met over a state tray bro. It don’t mean shit.”

“What!? I had you over to my place last time we were out there together. You’re the one who’s on bullshit, and you know it.”

“Well what’s it to you? What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m trying to get you to get your head out of your ass!”

“No you’re acting like a bitch, telling me what to do.”

The B Word

One of the most confounding things I experienced during my years of incarceration was the evolution of the usage of that particular B word. When I started doing my time it was the ultimate of insults. Calling a guy that derogatory designation was akin to a literal slap in the face, an affront which could not be allowed to go unanswered. I can’t even begin to put a number to the amount of times I saw minor disagreements or disputes escalate into violence due to the arrival of that particular word on the scene. It used to have a malevolent kind of magic to it.

The last couple years of my incarceration, as a newer, younger generation of convicts were beginning to predominate the prison population, I was appalled when I first heard the word slip so effortlessly from their young lips. The first time it happened I tensed and started looking for the quickest avenue of retreat to ensure that I was a safe distance removed while the melee ensued. Instead the two kids (that’s how I saw them, and that proves I’m old) just laughed and exchanged the most egregious of insults a dozen times between one another. The B word now, to them, is like saying “dude” or “bro”.

Whitey and Rigger are not of this new generation. Rigger didn’t technically call Whitey a bitch, he just said he was behaving in the manner of one. It’s a fine line that Whitey didn’t respect or recognize as significant. In his mind he’d just received a metaphorical slap to the face and would have to respond accordingly.

Backed Down

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY!!!?”

Whitey exploded like a mini neutron bomb. He was maybe 5’ 5” and that’s probably being generous. To look at him he didn’t appear physically imposing, but he had a terrible temper. I’d seen the results of this before when he and his cellie had once started swinging on each other because Whitey felt the other guy was spending too much time on the toilet.

Well-adjusted, Whitey isn’t.

When he got wound up he was similar to a raccoon that has been backed against a wall. A small but driven whirlwind of violence, not to be underestimated. Whitey lunged toward Rigger, coming within a quarter inch of physical contact. Even though he had to crane his neck upwards to look Rigger in the face, Whitey still managed to be intimidating. The genuine, undiluted rage helped a lot.

Rigger looked instantly cowed, realizing he had crossed a line and was in a scenario that almost certainly had to end with violence. Whitey snarled and yelled too fast to keep up with his profanity and insults. Rigger backed down physically and psychologically. It had the appearance of a literal shrinking. Myself and another inmate got between the two of them. I had to restrain Whitey and it was like trying to contain a sac of ferrets squirming with lithe muscles. Whitey challenged/invited Rigger to meet him in the shower room where there were fewer prying eyes and they could fight to settle their disagreement. He made sure to drop the B word about a dozen times so that Rigger would know that he’d been insulted to the fullest. The inference being that if Rigger were to not show up for the fight, then his status as a bitch would be cemented.

Juvenile schoolyard games abound behind prison walls.

The Ploy

I got Whitey extricated from the situation for his own good. Even managed to calm him down. Close to an hour had passed. We were sitting in the dayroom, just being nonviolent, passively watching a table of guys play cards, when Rigger walked to the middle of the dayroom. He took his shirt off, mustered his imitation ire, and issued the ultimatum for Whitey to meet him for a fight in the shower room.

This entire maneuver was a calculated one. Rigger had used the intervening time to go and pack all his belongings so that when he went to Segregation his possessions would follow him as opposed to being ransacked by all the greedy, sticky-fingered inmates who could get close to them. And a few officers with especially loose scruples. By stepping into the dayroom and removing his shirt there was a good chance he’d be taken away to SEG. Issuing a threat of violence to another inmate in full view of the C/O made his trip there an inevitability. The whole thing was a ploy, an attempt to save face and look tough, when in reality, if he had really wanted to fight the time would’ve been when Whitey was in his face.

Rigger didn’t want to fight. I can’t blame him.

I grabbed Whitey by the arm and he about bit my head off, but I held him in check. The usually taciturn C/O became suddenly indignant and animated. Rigger was carted off as he hollered threats and curses that were completely hollow. The unenlightened inmates thought Whitey had avoided a fight. Those like myself who were more experienced knew just how cowardly and laughable Rigger’s display had been.

 

 

 

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Intervention

Isaac was a twitchy, annoying, scheming pain in the ass. This didn’t mean that he deserved to get a beat-down. Actually prison protocol dictated that his actions warranted that very thing. But that didn’t mean that I’d stand by and let it happen.

The Jew

“I need your help, man. Please. I need you.”

Isaac approached me with this preamble to a request without any further fanfare or explanation. His reputation as well as my own personnel history with him made me wary.

Isaac was no taller than five feet four inches, and that’s a generous estimation. He was a little guy, an easy target, and he was Jewish, which made him an instant outsider. Most people simply referred to him as “The Jew”, whether they knew his name or not. Sometimes, though not always, this was twisted into a derogatory slur. In the kind of casual bigotry that is commonplace in prison.

Dilemma

The pressing issue that had caused Isaac to rush up to me while I waited for the next game on the handball court was a predictable one. He had employed some less than scrupulous business practices—promising payment of outstanding debt to two individuals, but only having resources to pay one. His assumption was that he’d be able to lie or weasel his way out of paying his debt in a timely manner. Unfortunately he chose the wrong individual to stiff, so instead, Isaac faced the prospect of physical assault being perpetrated against him. No sooner had Isaac given me the bare bones of his dilemma when the instrument of his impending beating arrived.

Bad Intentions

Rockton was a dark-skinned black man with a shaved head and constant scowl on his face which gave the impression that he was perpetually mean or angry. I hadn’t enough interaction with him to know whether or not that was an accurate impression. The fact that he walked right up to where Isaac and I were talking, grabbed Isaac easily by his puny bicep, and began pulling him off toward the back of the yard didn’t bode well. The area where they were headed was more isolated and without great sightlines for the guard in the tower to see what was going on. Rockton’s intention was obvious to all. Isaac called my name, wrenching his head around to plead for my assistance. His eyes were bugged out and huge behind the thick lenses—he looked terrified.

Confrontation

“Whoa, whoa. Hold up. Hang on a second.” I had to quick-step in order to overtake them. “Wait up. Wait a minute, man.” I placed myself in front of Rockton and didn’t let him maneuver around. Rockton glared hate at me. I don’t know what I was thinking.

“Whatcha want?” His expression got even meaner.

“I was talking to him,” I replied, indicating Isaac with a nod.

“So?”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Naw, I’ma beat his ass.” He tried to push past me, but I stood my ground. He let go of Isaac and stepped toward me chest to chest. He was mere millimeters taller than me, but substantially broader across the shoulders and chest. Intimidatingly wider. “Whatcha wanna do?” His threat was implicit. I still don’t know what I was thinking. Truth be told I was mostly reacting. The notion of letting Isaac get beat up didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t an option.

Negotiation

“I just wanna talk. Let me holler at you for a second.” I waited for an answer, literally holding my breath. Rockton didn’t so much back up as he did unflex his muscles which had been coiled and ready to strike. I sensed more than saw the crowd gathering to gawk. I sidled up to Rockton, turning my back to the looky-loos and attempting to transition from confrontational to conspiratorial. I leaned in, lowered my voice, and was thrilled when Rockton mimicked me.

“Look, I know the dude is a little snake,” I said, “but you had to know that before you did any business with him.”

“Naw, man. I didn’t. That’s it. Nobody told me that’s how the dude got down.”

“Alright, well, look, I got too much going on with the dude. You beat his ass and I’m screwed.” I waited for some objection. When he continued silently glaring I pressed forward. “How much does he owe you?”

Rockton appeared wary but eventually spat an answer. “Twenty.”

“Twenty what?”

“Whatcha mean? Twenty bones, man! Twenty bucks!”

I cursed inside my skull and threw a grimace of annoyance and exasperation over a shoulder at Isaac. His buggy eyes bulged bigger, pleading. I bit my tongue against cusses and frustration, and turned my attention back to Rockton.

“Alright. I got it. I’ll take it. I got his debt. I’ll pay it, then you don’t have to mess with him anymore. Sound good?” Rockton stepped back as if I’d pushed him and he couldn’t believe what I said. “Sound good?” I asked again.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s cool.” He eyed me suspiciously. “You serious?”

“Yeah, yeah I gotcha. Just make a list. We go to commissary next week, I’ll take care of you, whatever you want. Alright? Just leave dude alone.”

“Bet,” he replied, as an acknowledgement of agreement, and then we shook hands to seal the deal. I told him my name and what cell so he could send me his shopping list, and our transaction was over.

Repercussions

Isaac was vociferously grateful. He couldn’t stop talking and making a big deal of what I had done for him. As payment he took it upon himself to give me the bagel and single serve packet of peanut butter from his kosher meals once or twice a day for a month. This began as a rare delicacy, but eventually it got so I couldn’t stand the sight of the bagel. Rockton received all he asked for and was never any kind of problem. I had problem with loosing twenty dollars because I’m not independently wealthy, but kindness can’t occur without sacrifice. My act of kindness had an unintended consequence of making Isaac follow me around like a lost puppy dog, constantly there and always annoying.

When faced with the prospect of watching Rockton trounce the smaller, weaker Isaac I just couldn’t look the other way. Funny thing is I never too much liked Isaac prior to my intervening, and I liked him even less afterwards.