Shake my head clear. Nothing. No sound, just thirst. Need a drink. God damn it all, I’m all dried up, no wonder I can’t move. Something lumpy and remotely padded underneath. My hand brushes something on my left. No, hell, my right. Something cold. Metal. There’s spots covering the darkness, gray spots, and I’m sure I’m staring at a wall. A freezer, a basketball court concrete floor, a cement factory wall. Could be anything.

No. There’s voices outside. I can hear ‘em scratching, like mice. There’s a clang, muffled and dirty, and some shouting.
Those spots turn to pale white, and I flicker my eyes open, and instantly shut them from the piercing pain of being peeled out from their sockets by the damn light. Son of a—I know exactly where I’m at. Hell. I’m in Hell. Or more precisely, a New Jersey municipal jail. Merciful God, I’ve finally done it.
I lie as still as I can and try to assess my current state. Feeling nothing but dull aching pain from nearly every part of my body I consider precious real estate, I’m guessing I won’t be going home just yet. I’m in too much pain to die, I think. I hope. Breathing’s still a jerk each time, and there’s a bruise the size of a Chrysler where my liver and kidneys used to be; New Jersey police work in violence the way Renaissance Italians worked in oils or opera.
The shouting gets closer and there’s some scuffling, and I hear splashes of hobnailed shoes hitting echoes on shiny concrete. Some guy’s cursing God, Jesus, and someone’s mother, and I hear my door open—it’s gotta be my door, it’s too close, but hell if I’m opening my eyes to look. There’s more shuffling, a thud, and the door slams shut, and immediately those shoes turn away. Better things to do.
I wait for the shoes to leave, and the new guy quits rattling his new cage door.
“Jesus Fuckin’ Christ on a stick, those fucks! Lemme take you for a ride, sweetheart, I’ll show you how to use one of them fuckin’ nightsticks. Right up your hairy Wop ass till you taste the fuckin’ oak door! God damn fuzz!”
“Why don’t you just shut up,” someone directly below me drawls, and it’s not a question. The new guy turns around. Amazing what you can hear when your eyes are closed.
“Yeah, and who’re you, shitfish? Say whatever I damn please. I’m in fuckin’ lockup now, buddy–ain’t nothin’ left to do! What they gonna do, fry my ass for talkin’ dirty? Ha!”
Swell guy. I open my eyes again and adjust to the light. Taking stock of my surroundings, I can see I’m on the upper bunk. I turn over to face the open space that comprises my cell, and I’m surprised by its size. Must have put me up in the deluxe four-person suite.
“Nevertheless,” the voice drawls, and the bed underneath shudders with shifting movement. “you will put your pretty little self down and behave like a man oughtta.” Sounds like he might be from Omaha.
There’s silence on the other end now, and I wonder what he’s looking at. The other man presumably, and maybe he’s wishing for a different cell.
“Y-y-yeah, sure. Whatever you say big fella. I got no fuckin’—got no beef with you Mister. You know, it’s them cops. I get carried away, you know, can’t help myself. They just make me so damn crazy, them cops do. You understand, right?”
The bed shakes again, and I can hear the new guy sigh like he’s just eaten a hearty meal and is now too satisfied to move. Or too scared, one. I move over delicately, the way I might when holding a bottle of rich, Hennessey’s maybe, and flop my chin over to look down on the scene.
The guy just come in is small, wiry, a lightweight with a sharp chin and the jawline of Frenchman, some kind of beat up patched coat jacket covering his thin frame, city stains all up and down his shirt and trousers; no tie–can’t expect a man like him to wear a tie–and his shoes look worn. A trenchman if I ever saw one.
He notices me and smirks as he looks up at me looking down at him. He sits down with his back up against the cage wall and stares for a couple of seconds. I know what I must look like to him.
“Goooood damn, boy, they sure beat you senseless,” he breathes, with a glance at the man in the bunk below me. “What’d they catch you doin’, scalpin’ niggers down on the waterfront?” He laughs, but a movement from the bed stops him, and he looks up at me again. “Ah, hell. You know what I mean. You a purebreed?”
I don’t nod and I don’t say anything to him. Let stupid dogs lie and chatter. I’ve got better things to do now. I put my mind out of the cell I’m in and set to figuring what I’ve gotta do next. I don’t have a lawyer, though I know someone who could do in a pinch. I know enough about the law to keep me out of trouble, or at least in most cases, so if I had to talk my way out, and I just might, I could do it.
Jail time isn’t called hard time for nothing. Sounds cliché, I know, but truth is, everything really is hard in here. Beds, seats, walls, the men who throw you inside, the men who are already inside, and the men who’ll come in after you. All hard, including the faces and especially the fists. Sometimes the shoes.
Well, that was lockup for screwups, fighters, brawlers, and the feelers. Felony’s not as bad. Fewer people to a cell, they let you have your cigs and matches, if you’re not crazy. I got a murder one rap hanging on my pretty head, so I’m feeling pretty satisfied with myself. I might have just beat someone up, but no, they got me on putting a couple of pills in a couple of wharf cops, so now they’re giving me the four-star treatment, so to speak.
The problem with jail is the sound. There’s a constant hum, and you don’t know if it’s you, or the men in the tank or the deputies talking and laughing and smoking and reading the funnies, or the lights, or maybe it’s just inside your head and there’s something inside just reaching to get out, to break free and clear of the long gray bars and the heavy tread of clanking officers. But it’s not a sound you hear with your ears so much as you hear it with your eyes–I know, it sounds crazy, but I know, I’ve been there–you look around and all you see is emptiness, men whose lives are hollow vessels, waiting to be filled up with the law. Not justice, mind you–justice doesn’t happen in jail (except maybe in rare cases)–just, the plain and awful truth of waiting and learning about time and patience and the clarity that comes from it; I tell you, it starts to hum.
And so you sit there, and maybe, if you’re an optimist of sorts, you might hum along with it, to keep your spirits up.
Most men I know aren’t optimists.
Me, I look at reality. Truth is, I got lucky. They pick me up in Bayonne, they pick me up in pieces. Here, at least I got a fighting chance. I’d better, anyway.
I figure I got some time before the DA comes to reel me out. There’s something about the peace before the storm that comforts. I admit I’m not a religious man, but I’ve got my beliefs about God. I take this whole mess like I’d take the picture of a thousand head of cattle running past like God Himself was after ‘em. Terrifying, but strangely beautiful too. And I can look at what’s in store for me, try to make my own way, or I can try and give it up. You know, like Woody might say to me, let go of my mind, make my body free. So I’ll try to do that. Just give it up and be.
There’s a grunt below me, and the bunk shakes
The Captain, who I know a bit from his days as a deputy, happened to be out, so I got stuck with Mr. Sharkey, who looked just like his name. I remember being dragged in, not even able to stand up, so they dropped me into a wooden chair that sat opposite Mr. Sharkey’s desk. He had a razor blade face, bloodless cheeks, eyes that were dark like a doll, and thin arms I knew could handle themselves in a fight. Burger. This guy could go burger all the way and come out on top.
Mr. Sharkey looked at one of the men who brought me in and asked, “Did we do all this? I thought we had a little more restraint.” One of them leaned forward and said, “He was like this when we found him. Someone else put him through the ringer, sir.” He said “sir” with a sort of awe you give to a man with a gun pointed at you, or a snake about to strike.
Mr. Sharkey leaned back in his chair and studied me, and I took the opportunity to flex myself a little bit. I was still pretty out of it, and he smiled when he saw me stretching my shoulders and tightening my stomach with the effort of breathing.
“Did he say anything?” he asked, and there wasn’t an answer, so I guess one of them shook their head.