“I’m your cell partner, I think. Booker Johnson.”
The man nodded and reluctantly extended a hand. “Wilkins,” he said. It was then that Booker noticed his cell partner was covered with a brownish lint. It was all over him, including his hair and the stubble of his beard. It was from the jute mill, the prison’s biggest industry, where burlap was woven for fertilizer bags and other uses. A chorus of three hundred ancient looms, so he’d heard in the dungeon, seemed to chant all day: “got ya fucked… got ya fucked… got ya fucked…”
Booker didn’t know what to say. Wilkins didn’t seem to want to talk. Booker looked at the cell through the bars… and found it hard to believe what he saw. The cell was about four feet wide. The double bunk was made of US Army cots from the Spanish-American War. The bottom bunk was made up with a cover over a lumpy straw mattress. The upper bunk was bare, flat springs.
The lockup bell rang. All the security bars were raised above the cell gates. In ragged unison, every cell gate was pulled open, the convicts stepped inside and pulled each gate shut. The security bar crashed down.
Booker and Wilkins were locked in. Wilkins stepped into the space between the foot of the bunk and the cell bars. Booker didn’t know what to do. He squeezed along the bunk to the rear and started to sit down on the toilet bowl.
“Get up to the bars for count,” Wilkins said, motioning for emphasis.
Booker came to the front of the cell. A moment later, two guards came by, five feet apart, each with a hand counter. At the end of the tier they compared their tally and called it down to a Sergeant on the floor. The Sergeant relayed it to the cell-house office. The count was called into Control, the total of the cell-house, and then each tier. Often the total would be right, but one cell-house would be one too many, and another one too few. Someone was in the wrong place.
If the count cleared, the bell rang and the unlock for the evening meal began, tier by tier from the top down. The 5th tier came out, most moving toward the center stairwell, a few climbing over the rail to wait for friends on lower tiers. Wilkins combed his hair and waited for the 4th tier unlock.
Suddenly, McGurk appeared outside the cell. He dropped a mattress on the tier. “Pull it in when the bar goes up.” Then, from pockets sewn inside an oversized denim jacket, McGurk produced a carton of green-packaged Lucky Strike cigarettes, a terrycloth hand towel, toothpaste, soap, candy and ground coffee. “I got word from Sully to look after you.” McGurk was signaled by someone down the tier who Booker couldn’t see. “Gotta go,” McGurk said, and was instantly gone.
The 4th tier security bar went up and everyone pushed open their cell gate. Convicts streamed by, glancing in as Booker threw the mattress on the top bunk. There was a hole in it. He stuck his hand in – and came out with straw. “Aww, shit,” he said. Straw was a bitch to sleep on. Convicts streamed past him, most young white men whom he thought, back then, were mean looking. They paid him no mind as he pushed the mattress into the cell and closed the gate. The stream of men was all going one way. He joined it and became a human leaf carried along.
Down the steel stairs the voices blended to the clanging feet. On the landing below, convicts awaited the third tier unlock, so they could eat with their friends. On the gun-rail, across a dozen feet of empty space, was the olive-drab uniformed guard with a rifle fastened to a strap that went around his shoulder as a sling. Nobody was going to accidentally drop a 30.06 to the convicts below.
At the bottom, the throng moved straight forward through the South Cell-house rotunda and through two doors into the vast South Mess hall, where two thousand convicts could be fed at the same time – four serving lines and narrow tables the width of the new stainless steel trays, that all faced one way. If convicts sat
The man nodded and reluctantly extended a hand. “Wilkins,” he said. It was then that Booker noticed his cell partner was covered with a brownish lint. It was all over him, including his hair and the stubble of his beard. It was from the jute mill, the prison’s biggest industry, where burlap was woven for fertilizer bags and other uses. A chorus of three hundred ancient looms, so he’d heard in the dungeon, seemed to chant all day: “got ya fucked… got ya fucked… got ya fucked…”
Booker didn’t know what to say. Wilkins didn’t seem to want to talk. Booker looked at the cell through the bars… and found it hard to believe what he saw. The cell was about four feet wide. The double bunk was made of US Army cots from the Spanish-American War. The bottom bunk was made up with a cover over a lumpy straw mattress. The upper bunk was bare, flat springs.
The lockup bell rang. All the security bars were raised above the cell gates. In ragged unison, every cell gate was pulled open, the convicts stepped inside and pulled each gate shut. The security bar crashed down.
Booker and Wilkins were locked in. Wilkins stepped into the space between the foot of the bunk and the cell bars. Booker didn’t know what to do. He squeezed along the bunk to the rear and started to sit down on the toilet bowl.
“Get up to the bars for count,” Wilkins said, motioning for emphasis.
Booker came to the front of the cell. A moment later, two guards came by, five feet apart, each with a hand counter. At the end of the tier they compared their tally and called it down to a Sergeant on the floor. The Sergeant relayed it to the cell-house office. The count was called into Control, the total of the cell-house, and then each tier. Often the total would be right, but one cell-house would be one too many, and another one too few. Someone was in the wrong place.
If the count cleared, the bell rang and the unlock for the evening meal began, tier by tier from the top down. The 5th tier came out, most moving toward the center stairwell, a few climbing over the rail to wait for friends on lower tiers. Wilkins combed his hair and waited for the 4th tier unlock.
Suddenly, McGurk appeared outside the cell. He dropped a mattress on the tier. “Pull it in when the bar goes up.” Then, from pockets sewn inside an oversized denim jacket, McGurk produced a carton of green-packaged Lucky Strike cigarettes, a terrycloth hand towel, toothpaste, soap, candy and ground coffee. “I got word from Sully to look after you.” McGurk was signaled by someone down the tier who Booker couldn’t see. “Gotta go,” McGurk said, and was instantly gone.
The 4th tier security bar went up and everyone pushed open their cell gate. Convicts streamed by, glancing in as Booker threw the mattress on the top bunk. There was a hole in it. He stuck his hand in – and came out with straw. “Aww, shit,” he said. Straw was a bitch to sleep on. Convicts streamed past him, most young white men whom he thought, back then, were mean looking. They paid him no mind as he pushed the mattress into the cell and closed the gate. The stream of men was all going one way. He joined it and became a human leaf carried along.
Down the steel stairs the voices blended to the clanging feet. On the landing below, convicts awaited the third tier unlock, so they could eat with their friends. On the gun-rail, across a dozen feet of empty space, was the olive-drab uniformed guard with a rifle fastened to a strap that went around his shoulder as a sling. Nobody was going to accidentally drop a 30.06 to the convicts below.
At the bottom, the throng moved straight forward through the South Cell-house rotunda and through two doors into the vast South Mess hall, where two thousand convicts could be fed at the same time – four serving lines and narrow tables the width of the new stainless steel trays, that all faced one way. If convicts sat
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