WarbyPicus
patreon
Salinas Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2024-05-31 14:00:28 +0000 UTCI saw the door the second time I was in solitary. It was a heavy steel door, but not like the doors in Folsom, more like a door on a boat. The ones with a wheel in the middle, instead of a handle. Like it was sealing something off.
It was day seven of twenty in the box, so I figured I was hallucinating. Happens when you do a stretch in solitary. You think you are going to finally get some peace. First time you go in the box, you think it ain’t nothing at all. You find out real fast you were wrong.
Ain’t no peace in solitary. Ain’t no peace anywhere in Folsom.
First time I went in the box, it wasn’t that long- two days. I had been eyeballing a C.O., been disrespectful, some damn thing, I don’t even know what. It must have been something, cause I got the shot with no warning. Two days in the cooler or lose two months of good time. Can’t lose the good time. I’m trying to work my way down to low security, get transferred to Salinas, maybe get some school or work or something.
Thought it was out of line that the Lieutenant laughed at me when I said that.
This time, I know exactly what happened. I said it plain to the Lieutenant, didn’t even try to finesse it. Hector tried to back me up in the shower, said I looked real sweet. I told him it wasn’t going to be like that, and he slapped me. Right in front of half the damn cell block, man slapped me. I put him down and kept him down and I don’t give a damn if he ever walks again, because I wasn’t ever going to live no damn human life if I let a man slap me and walk away.
I laid it out for the Lieutenant, pointing out the last time someone got jumped in the shower like that, the C.O.’s didn’t come in at all, never mind too late. Same happened when CeeCee got caught slippin in the laundry, so this was about as pure self defense as it could be. He knew damn well what was going to happen otherwise, and again and again and again and again afterwards if I didn’t.
The Lieutenant didn’t like that at all. Said I should have called for help if I was telling the truth. But he didn’t think I was telling the truth. I had a history, he said. Dishonorable discharge from the Army, that’s another knock. A vet should know better, he said. He said I was affiliated, which is a lie and he knows it. He said Hector was affiliated too. Another lie. Lieutenant said I was a repeat violent offender, which is true on paper, but there were circumstances.
Phone privileges gone, commissary privileges gone, library gone, twenty hours a day lock down in cell, goodbye to my good time, goodbye to any hope of low security and Salinas, maybe hello again to high security and Pelican Bay.
I asked him if there wasn’t any other way. I would take the hit on the phone and library and commissary and every other thing, but I can’t lose the good time and rating. I just can’t. And I sure as Hell ain’t going back to high sec.
Twenty day stretch, all other penalties stand. Take it or leave it. I took it. I was shaking when they pushed me in. I knew what it would be like this time around. The C.O.'s were laughing at me. Saying twenty days solitary ain’t nothing. They have people who have been in the box forever. They got one guy, been in a box for twenty years.
Twenty days doesn't feel like ‘nothing.’ I’ll tell you that. If you ain’t crazy when you go in, you are when you come out. Some hide it better than others. I don’t have words for it.
You are in a cell the size of a parking spot. Cinderblock walls, painted white. Bare concrete floor. Bare concrete ceiling. Slab of metal for sleeping on takes up most of the space in the cell. Solid steel door painted white keeping me in. Slot at the bottom of the door. I didn’t get any yard time either. Twenty four hours locked down, food shoved through the slot on a plastic tray. Plastic fork and knife and God help you if they ain’t all back on the tray when they come to collect it. Never tested it myself, but I know they rush the cell and wear you out real good if you try to hang on to anything.
You are supposed to get fruit with dinner. Apple slices, something. I didn’t get my fruit. I didn’t bang on the door to ask where it was. I knew the answer. I knew why.
Some people get to bring in a Bible when they go in the box. I didn’t think to ask. I wished like Hell I had before lights out the first day.
The walls were so close together already, but they were still closing in. I walked back and forth, back and forth, tried to do push ups, burpees, anything. I had whole conversations in my head, reviewed every damn moment of my life that led up to me being in that box, every argument, every time I screwed up, every time I missed a chance for something better. I was half dead by the time the buzzing fluorescents switched off.
That was the first day. When the door turned up on the seventh day, I don’t know what I was.
The door was steel. It had been painted dark green, once, but most of it had chipped off. The wheel in the middle was still solid and had most of its color. There were a couple spots on either side of the axle that were worn smooth, even had shallow divots two fingers wide in the spokes. Sometimes, when you got to turn a stuck wheel, you need to get some leverage. Long wrenches or pipes are what we used in the Army.
I sat on the edge of my bunk and touched the new door. Cold. Steel. The smoothness of paint and the roughness of the chipped and flaking spots. I tried the wheel. Stuck. Figures I would get my very own second door in solitary and it was still locked.
I laughed. You don’t get a lot of laughs in the box, so I enjoyed it while I could. Tried to stretch the laugh out, keep it going even when it wasn’t funny no more. I figured I would be depressed soon enough. Couldn’t be that upset about it, though. The door was a precious thing in solitary- a distraction.
Only one thing to do, and that was to turn the wheel. I set my arms to it, then my back and legs. Nothing. I kept at it. Nothing else to do. I lay on the floor and put both of my feet on one spoke of the wheel and pushed up. Was it giving? Or was it the cheap sneakers they give you in prison crushing down into my feet?
No shoelaces in the box. Just in case.
I pushed until I felt something in my back start to go, then I eased off. I waited until I felt strong again, then waited a bit longer, because I know how muscle fatigue works. I tried to keep loose. Keep my muscles warmed up. Then I did it again.
Dinner was two pieces of paper thin baloney between two pieces of white bread, a tall cup of water and a half pint of milk. It wasn’t enough to fill me up, never mind the taste. The spot on the tray where the fruit was supposed to be was bone dry. I stuck my nose in it, trying to find the smell, just the smell, of apples or oranges but it just smelled like plastic. Didn’t even smell like soap.
I ate everything. Drank every drop. Then I put the tray in front of the slot, everything neat and tidy. Some time passed and the slot slid open. I pushed the tray out. Didn’t even try to talk to the C.O. They don’t like it when you try to talk to them. The slot closed and locked. C.O. had already said everything he wanted me to hear.
I lay on the metal bed and thought about the door. One moment it was a flat wall, the next moment there was a door. No sound, no light, just suddenly there. It was flush with the wall too. Looked better fixed in place than some of the doors in the prison. Folsom’s old enough to have its own museum. Building quality ain’t all that.
I tried to sleep some, but I couldn’t. I didn't know if the door would vanish again. I forced my body to rest before I took the next shot at the wheel. I kept thinking about the tray, the dinner tray, all beige plastic and no fruit. No nothing. Not even enough food to keep my muscles up. I would only get weaker in the box, not stronger.
I set myself on the floor again. The leg press position seemed like the best bet. I strained against the wheel. The spoke pressed into my foot. Hard. So hard, I figured it would leave bruises through the sole of the shoe. I kept pressing and straining. I pressed and pressed and pressed. Even if I tore every muscle in my body it would be worth it, because that would mean going to the hospital ward.
I put every scrap of me into pushing that damn spoke. I held in there, almost insane with the need to see what was on the other side. I rubbed my shoulders near bloody, pressing into the concrete. I could feel my knees starting to go. Wouldn’t be walking that off. Something else gave instead. The wheel turned. Barely a quarter turn, but it went.
I collapsed. I would have started laughing again, but I couldn’t. No wind. I panted, lying on the floor, letting the cold concrete soak some of the burn from my muscles. This would hurt tomorrow. Worth it. When I felt strong enough, I pushed on the wheel again with my feet. The spoke turned easily enough that I could make my way to my feet and turn it by hand. Seems I had broken through whatever was keeping it stuck.
I spun the wheel until I heard something go chunk on the other side of the door. I pushed it open, and saw the sun rising. I don’t know how I knew it was rising and not setting. I just did. The sun was rising and the warm light was flooding my cell. I could see what looked like a rooftop through the door. Could see some buildings, though they looked in rough shape. But mostly I saw the sun, shining like an orange in the sky.
Going through the door was definitely escaping prison. No two ways about that. Definitely never going to minimum security if I walk through that door. On the other hand, we were in the middle of Folsom Prison and a door that couldn't exist was opening up to a rooftop sunrise just after dinner. The Lieutenant was never going to sign off on my transfer. All downhill from here. So I stepped into the light.
Comments
Baines
I’d almost say lean into it. ‘It follows’ does a good job of playing with this though maybe it won’t hit the same in print
Baines
welp that was good and I want more
Jordan
It does have a Johnny Cash feel to it. Might need a date or something it's hard to align how he speaks to how old he is and when it is. Just from this chapter I got the feeling that he's mid to late 20's and it's somewhere around late 1950 to early 1960. Then again the use of plastic trays hints at later closer to 1980. Or I could just be talking out my backside and know nothing, still an interesting start.
Nonnyor Business
Basically a guy who had his own secret room that he could carry around with him, and it slowly got bigger as he got older, and he could decorate it, grow plants in it, etc. and then I realized I was writing a story about someone who was either on the spectrum or had some kind of mental infirmity and the story had one obvious, and very sad ending- he vanishes into his room forever. It would make a good short story, but I really don't need to bum myself out that way.
JTP
I'm excited, and intrigued, and honestly a little terrified of what YOU thought was too sad to write.
ioajfidsnmfomds77
I'm excited for Johnny Cash to explore a new world
