afternoon.”
“Good luck.” He reached through the bars to shake hands and continued down the tier, pouring water.
The morning unlock began, top tier down, with a crashing volley as eighty cells were slammed shut. Trash rained down as the convicts trudged toward the stairs, kicking over what they had swept from their cells.
Troy picked up the shoebox with toothbrush, toothpaste, and a few letters and waited for the security bar to raise.
Instead of going to breakfast, he stepped out of line in the Big Yard and waited while the mess halls emptied. Soon his few close friends arrived for a last embrace and handshake and wish of good luck.
At 8:00 A.M., the work whistle blew, seagulls flew from their rooftop perches, and the yard gate opened. Convicts spilled forth, heading to their jobs. Troy walked down the road toward Between Gates. Receiving and Release was across from the visiting room.
A skinny old sergeant with stooped shoulders and rheumy eyes, nicknamed Andy Gump by the convicts, took Troy’s ID card, found his papers in a short pile, and handed them to one of the convict clerks. The convict brought the hanger with his dress-out clothes. The two other men being released were already changing. Everyone got the same issue, khaki pants, black Navy-style shoes, and a short-sleeved white shirt. The one difference was in the color of the windbreaker.
The other two men were black. While they got ready, one of them touched glances with Troy and gave a slight nod that Troy returned with a smile. After that there was no communication between Troy and his companions, although they talked to each other, and one of them muttered about how the clothes made them look like clowns. The man was nervous, fidgeting with his belt buckle and sleeve buttons; his focus was on his clothes, but his real worry was about going from one world to another. The fear upon release after years in prison is similar to the fear upon entering prison in the first place. Troy recognized the symptoms and it made him smile.
At the administration building they were given “gate money,” parole papers, and bus tickets. From there a guard walked them to a prison van and drove them to the Greyhound bus depot in San Rafael. The guard watched them enter before driving off. That was the moment they were free. The two black men spotted the liquor store next door and went to get a couple of short dogs.
Troy stood looking out the window. It was weird. Twelve years was such a long, long time. Confronting it made it seem like life, but now, the moment it was over, it was the past and of small importance. No, that was a partial truth. Twelve years of monasticism in San Quentin prison was more than that. It was where he had learned such words as monasticism from years of nights roaming the universes of the written word, and days studying human nature stripped of façades in a world of thieves and killers, madmen and cowards. Still, it was now behind him and he would not look back except to guide his path forward.
Should he step out on the sidewalk and wait for Diesel there? What about the bar across the street? No, he might miss the big guy that way. Where is that fool, he thought rhetorically.
A flashy blue convertible with the top down pulled up to the curb. Diesel was behind the wheel. Before he could get out, Troy exited the terminal door. “Hey, boy!”
Diesel broke a grin and leaned over to open the passenger door. Troy came over, eyed the pale blue car with the white leather upholstery, and stepped back for an appreciative appraisal. “What is this, homeboy?”
“Brand new motherfuckin’ Mustang GT. Five fuckin’ liters of engine. It kicks ass and takes names. Get in.”
Troy slid into the passenger seat, noting that Diesel’s short-sleeved golf shirt exposed myriad blue tattoos down his arms and on the backs of his hands. Such self-defacement was virtually a rite of passage in reform school. Troy had avoided using his body for graffiti. Now he
“Good luck.” He reached through the bars to shake hands and continued down the tier, pouring water.
The morning unlock began, top tier down, with a crashing volley as eighty cells were slammed shut. Trash rained down as the convicts trudged toward the stairs, kicking over what they had swept from their cells.
Troy picked up the shoebox with toothbrush, toothpaste, and a few letters and waited for the security bar to raise.
Instead of going to breakfast, he stepped out of line in the Big Yard and waited while the mess halls emptied. Soon his few close friends arrived for a last embrace and handshake and wish of good luck.
At 8:00 A.M., the work whistle blew, seagulls flew from their rooftop perches, and the yard gate opened. Convicts spilled forth, heading to their jobs. Troy walked down the road toward Between Gates. Receiving and Release was across from the visiting room.
A skinny old sergeant with stooped shoulders and rheumy eyes, nicknamed Andy Gump by the convicts, took Troy’s ID card, found his papers in a short pile, and handed them to one of the convict clerks. The convict brought the hanger with his dress-out clothes. The two other men being released were already changing. Everyone got the same issue, khaki pants, black Navy-style shoes, and a short-sleeved white shirt. The one difference was in the color of the windbreaker.
The other two men were black. While they got ready, one of them touched glances with Troy and gave a slight nod that Troy returned with a smile. After that there was no communication between Troy and his companions, although they talked to each other, and one of them muttered about how the clothes made them look like clowns. The man was nervous, fidgeting with his belt buckle and sleeve buttons; his focus was on his clothes, but his real worry was about going from one world to another. The fear upon release after years in prison is similar to the fear upon entering prison in the first place. Troy recognized the symptoms and it made him smile.
At the administration building they were given “gate money,” parole papers, and bus tickets. From there a guard walked them to a prison van and drove them to the Greyhound bus depot in San Rafael. The guard watched them enter before driving off. That was the moment they were free. The two black men spotted the liquor store next door and went to get a couple of short dogs.
Troy stood looking out the window. It was weird. Twelve years was such a long, long time. Confronting it made it seem like life, but now, the moment it was over, it was the past and of small importance. No, that was a partial truth. Twelve years of monasticism in San Quentin prison was more than that. It was where he had learned such words as monasticism from years of nights roaming the universes of the written word, and days studying human nature stripped of façades in a world of thieves and killers, madmen and cowards. Still, it was now behind him and he would not look back except to guide his path forward.
Should he step out on the sidewalk and wait for Diesel there? What about the bar across the street? No, he might miss the big guy that way. Where is that fool, he thought rhetorically.
A flashy blue convertible with the top down pulled up to the curb. Diesel was behind the wheel. Before he could get out, Troy exited the terminal door. “Hey, boy!”
Diesel broke a grin and leaned over to open the passenger door. Troy came over, eyed the pale blue car with the white leather upholstery, and stepped back for an appreciative appraisal. “What is this, homeboy?”
“Brand new motherfuckin’ Mustang GT. Five fuckin’ liters of engine. It kicks ass and takes names. Get in.”
Troy slid into the passenger seat, noting that Diesel’s short-sleeved golf shirt exposed myriad blue tattoos down his arms and on the backs of his hands. Such self-defacement was virtually a rite of passage in reform school. Troy had avoided using his body for graffiti. Now he
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