NOTES FROM AN INMATE

My teach lost what little cool was left in him. Put three of my road dogs on ice. And all we was doin’ was chillin’ man. Doin’ our time the ways we likes it. Waitin’ for the tooters to get off their asses and check our works. It don’t matter no how. We was turnin’ in our papers. That’s our game—shove piles of shit on them—no names, no page numbers, not even fingerprints or DNA. We starts the flux. Let the tooters sort it out, that’s what they get paid for. It ain’t like theys gonna dry snitch on us. Specially when the Teach starts actin’ like the Po-Po. Dress this man in blue, I say. Make him a Black Tag. We start spittin’ for fun.

Never fails man. The Teach, Mr. Five-Fucking-Oh himself, gets in the mix, starts pressin’ our bits. Says we gots to sit down. Stay seated, he yells. Then all kayahs (I think I spelt it write)—all kayahs breaks out. He flexes on my man McAllister first. Tells him in so many words to get ta steppin’. Next, it’s Brewster, tells him to kick rocks. The third guy, Parker, he’s okay, still learnin’ how to jail, he gets his work back. But Mr. Five-Fucking-Oh won’t back off. He says, Lemme see your stuff. Nothing to show, I knows, just numbers and letters on paper. Instead of giving in, Parker throws his shit on the floor, and Teach makes him into another Jimmy Hoffa.

Now it sounds like death in here. Nothin’ worse than doin’ your bit in a vacuum. I can’t breathe. I needs to shake the stink off. I’m gonna hook up with my dogs later. We gots us a portable hot tub near the greenhouse and a Shop Vac full of spud juice. Teach says we cants take our hands off each other. He’s probably right. I’m hopin’ Parker shows and gets drunk. I’m gonna turn him out.