handball court. A still soaked glove lay limp beside him, and his legs ached from the hard hour of exercise. He played poorly but loved the game. He couldn’t bring himself to jog or do calisthenics , because he quit the moment he began breathing hard, but when there was competition he kept going until his body screamed in protest and he had to bend at the waist to draw a good breath. Winter closed the handball courts for months at a time, so he played whenever they were open for a few hours. He sucked on the joint, muttering “dynamite shit” inanely, and the aches went away. He was reluctant to make the long trek to the big yard, and then five tiers to his cell to get a towel to shower with. “Too beautiful a day to be locked up,” he muttered, liking the bittersweet ache of longing for freedom. It told him that he was still human, still yearned for something more than being a convict. He still hoped …
He’d decided to follow Seeman’s advice and avoid trouble by avoiding the situations. He was keeping to his cell during the day, reading a lot, and when something happened, it was over before he heard about it. One of the Brotherhood had killed a man in the East cellhouse, and the next day during the lunch hour two Chicanos had ambushed a third and cut him up pretty bad. If he’d died, it would have tied the record of thirty-six murders in a year; the record for stabbings, one hundred and seven, had already been broken. T.J. and Bad Eye worked in the gym, and he saw them only at the night movie when the Brotherhood filled two rows of reserved benches. Earl would have come out during the day if heroin was on the yard, but the prison had been dry since he’d gotten an ounce three weeks earlier. Pot, acid, and mini-bennies were abundant—through the Hell’s Angels—but Earl was not interested. In a paranoia -laden atmosphere, he couldn’t risk being spaced out.
Earl did know about a strike that was to happen the following morning, but it was known by everyone, including the warden. Someone had illegally used a mimeograph machine to run off thousands of copies of a bulletin calling on all convicts to either stay in their cells in the morning or not leave the big yard at work call. The first demand, an end or a modification of the indeterminate sentence—a term anywhere between a year and eternity until the parole board decided—was something Earl fiercely agreed with. It was the cruelest torture never to know how long imprisonment would last. And the demand that prison industry wages be raised above the present maximum of twelve cents an hour was also reasonable . But then the writer had turned irrational, demanding that all “Third World” people and “political prisoners” be released to the various People’s Republics. This absurdity would attract whatever coverage the press gave the strike and blunt any consideration thoughtful people might give to the other demands—not that many cared about what went on in prison. A strike was futile, yet at least it showed that the men had not surrenderded. It would bring a lockdown of everyone while the leaders were rounded up, clubbed, and segregated. “And I’d better go get some cigarettes, coffee, and food to last until the unlock. Four salami sandwiches a day won’t make it.”
As he stood up on the top row of bleachers, he saw two convicts climbing toward him at an angle. One was Tony Bork, a chunky young con who was the East cellhouse plumber, not a tough guy but personable and known as a “stand-up dude.” He had in tow a slender youth in the stiff, unwashed denim of a newcomer. Even without the clothes, Earl knew the youth hadn’t been long in San Quentin, for although he often saw faces for the first time after they’d been around for months, this one he would have remembered . He was too strikingly good looking and young looking, especially because of a clear, pale complexion set off by dark blue eyes that were serious but inexpressive. There
He’d decided to follow Seeman’s advice and avoid trouble by avoiding the situations. He was keeping to his cell during the day, reading a lot, and when something happened, it was over before he heard about it. One of the Brotherhood had killed a man in the East cellhouse, and the next day during the lunch hour two Chicanos had ambushed a third and cut him up pretty bad. If he’d died, it would have tied the record of thirty-six murders in a year; the record for stabbings, one hundred and seven, had already been broken. T.J. and Bad Eye worked in the gym, and he saw them only at the night movie when the Brotherhood filled two rows of reserved benches. Earl would have come out during the day if heroin was on the yard, but the prison had been dry since he’d gotten an ounce three weeks earlier. Pot, acid, and mini-bennies were abundant—through the Hell’s Angels—but Earl was not interested. In a paranoia -laden atmosphere, he couldn’t risk being spaced out.
Earl did know about a strike that was to happen the following morning, but it was known by everyone, including the warden. Someone had illegally used a mimeograph machine to run off thousands of copies of a bulletin calling on all convicts to either stay in their cells in the morning or not leave the big yard at work call. The first demand, an end or a modification of the indeterminate sentence—a term anywhere between a year and eternity until the parole board decided—was something Earl fiercely agreed with. It was the cruelest torture never to know how long imprisonment would last. And the demand that prison industry wages be raised above the present maximum of twelve cents an hour was also reasonable . But then the writer had turned irrational, demanding that all “Third World” people and “political prisoners” be released to the various People’s Republics. This absurdity would attract whatever coverage the press gave the strike and blunt any consideration thoughtful people might give to the other demands—not that many cared about what went on in prison. A strike was futile, yet at least it showed that the men had not surrenderded. It would bring a lockdown of everyone while the leaders were rounded up, clubbed, and segregated. “And I’d better go get some cigarettes, coffee, and food to last until the unlock. Four salami sandwiches a day won’t make it.”
As he stood up on the top row of bleachers, he saw two convicts climbing toward him at an angle. One was Tony Bork, a chunky young con who was the East cellhouse plumber, not a tough guy but personable and known as a “stand-up dude.” He had in tow a slender youth in the stiff, unwashed denim of a newcomer. Even without the clothes, Earl knew the youth hadn’t been long in San Quentin, for although he often saw faces for the first time after they’d been around for months, this one he would have remembered . He was too strikingly good looking and young looking, especially because of a clear, pale complexion set off by dark blue eyes that were serious but inexpressive. There
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