steps to the bullpen. The pen held about thirty men, and it was full. The cell stank of stale wine and body odor. In the far corner there was a wide open area with a toilet. I walked quickly towards it.
As I made my way across the room, a man stepped in my way. He was tall, with broad shoulders and big arms.
“You got any money, pal?” he asked.
“No. I ain’t got shit,” I said, trying to get by without slowing too much.
“What’s your problem, man? You scared?”
“No. I just really have to piss.”
Another man joined him, blocking my way. This guy was wearing a black ski cap and hadn’t shaved in a couple of days but didn’t exactly have a beard. He came at me and really smelled bad.
“Empty your pockets. Now.”
“I told you I don’t have anything. Now back off!” If there was one thing I learned growing up in the Bronx it’s that these guys were like hyenas: they smelled weakness. So I didn’t show any.
Ski Cap Guy looked at Broad Shoulder Guy, then they both looked over at the guard, who was reading a newspaper on the other side of the cell, not seeming to care about anything.
Ski Cap Guy stepped back, and Broad Shoulder Guy looked away. I walked through, bumping shoulders with Broad Shoulder Guy who wouldn’t give any ground. Then finally, I got to take my piss.
I waited in the bullpen for hours. Occasionally some guy would come up to me asking for something: do you have a cigarette, or what are you in here for, kid? I mostly ignored them, but sometimes people were so persistent that you had to humor them with small talk for a few minutes. I didn’t mind small talk, but really, I preferred to be left alone. Other than a few grizzled-looking dudes, most of the guys in the bullpen weren’t intimidating at all. Most were in for traffic warrants or pissing in public or maybe got caught smoking a blunt in the park. There was a drunken bum asleep on the floor—right in the middle of the floor, legs fully extended, arms sprawled out each way. By the smell of it, I was pretty sure he took a shit in his pants. No one paid him any mind; they simply stepped over him or walked around him as we did our dance of waiting and waiting.
I’d spend a few minutes sitting on a bench, then walk to the other side of the pen. Then I’d take a seat somewhere else. Everyone was doing the same dance. There was a Daily News sitting on one bench. And I picked it up and thumbed through it, then put it back down where it was grabbed by the next man.
Two kids lit up a joint, and the place started to reek. The guard looked up and shouted, “Who’s smoking?”
One kid stomped out the joint as the other kid sort of blocked him from the guard’s view.
The guard stood up from his chair and walked to the edge of the cell. He looked in.
“Put that shit out,” he said; then he went back to his chair and sat down.
The two kids looked at each other and laughed. They were pretty proud of themselves that they got away with it. I was just kind of wondering how they got the weed inside. The place was so lax. Were these guys even frisked? What else were they hiding? It didn’t make me feel all that safe.
A uniformed woman appeared. She carried a podium and set it up right at the front of the cell. She opened a folder and laid it on the podium’s shelf. She put on a pair of reading glasses, then called out a name.
“Jose Gonzalez?”
The room went silent.
“Yeah?” A tall, slender man with an overgrown but thin moustache got up from one of the benches and walked over to her. She started talking to him, and the silence of the room evaporated into the noise of ten or fifteen separate meaningless conversations.
The woman finished with Jose Gonzalez, and he found an empty seat on one of the benches. Then she called another name. Then another. Eventually, she got to mine.
“Sean O’Donnell?”
I got up. Ski Cap Guy and Broad
As I made my way across the room, a man stepped in my way. He was tall, with broad shoulders and big arms.
“You got any money, pal?” he asked.
“No. I ain’t got shit,” I said, trying to get by without slowing too much.
“What’s your problem, man? You scared?”
“No. I just really have to piss.”
Another man joined him, blocking my way. This guy was wearing a black ski cap and hadn’t shaved in a couple of days but didn’t exactly have a beard. He came at me and really smelled bad.
“Empty your pockets. Now.”
“I told you I don’t have anything. Now back off!” If there was one thing I learned growing up in the Bronx it’s that these guys were like hyenas: they smelled weakness. So I didn’t show any.
Ski Cap Guy looked at Broad Shoulder Guy, then they both looked over at the guard, who was reading a newspaper on the other side of the cell, not seeming to care about anything.
Ski Cap Guy stepped back, and Broad Shoulder Guy looked away. I walked through, bumping shoulders with Broad Shoulder Guy who wouldn’t give any ground. Then finally, I got to take my piss.
I waited in the bullpen for hours. Occasionally some guy would come up to me asking for something: do you have a cigarette, or what are you in here for, kid? I mostly ignored them, but sometimes people were so persistent that you had to humor them with small talk for a few minutes. I didn’t mind small talk, but really, I preferred to be left alone. Other than a few grizzled-looking dudes, most of the guys in the bullpen weren’t intimidating at all. Most were in for traffic warrants or pissing in public or maybe got caught smoking a blunt in the park. There was a drunken bum asleep on the floor—right in the middle of the floor, legs fully extended, arms sprawled out each way. By the smell of it, I was pretty sure he took a shit in his pants. No one paid him any mind; they simply stepped over him or walked around him as we did our dance of waiting and waiting.
I’d spend a few minutes sitting on a bench, then walk to the other side of the pen. Then I’d take a seat somewhere else. Everyone was doing the same dance. There was a Daily News sitting on one bench. And I picked it up and thumbed through it, then put it back down where it was grabbed by the next man.
Two kids lit up a joint, and the place started to reek. The guard looked up and shouted, “Who’s smoking?”
One kid stomped out the joint as the other kid sort of blocked him from the guard’s view.
The guard stood up from his chair and walked to the edge of the cell. He looked in.
“Put that shit out,” he said; then he went back to his chair and sat down.
The two kids looked at each other and laughed. They were pretty proud of themselves that they got away with it. I was just kind of wondering how they got the weed inside. The place was so lax. Were these guys even frisked? What else were they hiding? It didn’t make me feel all that safe.
A uniformed woman appeared. She carried a podium and set it up right at the front of the cell. She opened a folder and laid it on the podium’s shelf. She put on a pair of reading glasses, then called out a name.
“Jose Gonzalez?”
The room went silent.
“Yeah?” A tall, slender man with an overgrown but thin moustache got up from one of the benches and walked over to her. She started talking to him, and the silence of the room evaporated into the noise of ten or fifteen separate meaningless conversations.
The woman finished with Jose Gonzalez, and he found an empty seat on one of the benches. Then she called another name. Then another. Eventually, she got to mine.
“Sean O’Donnell?”
I got up. Ski Cap Guy and Broad
Similar Books
