I once thought I was the good guy, the hero in white. But in truth few of us are heroes, and black is more wearable than white. White shows the soul’s stain.

My first six months in jail, I was in the tiers.

In a tier, there are five two-man cells and a shower, all enclosed in bars. Each night, we’d be locked in our two-man cells; each morning we’d be let out to wander the 10 by 50 foot communal area. Our tier had Ringo. He claimed they couldn’t legally get him for murder because the dude he beat to death was still alive when he walked away. Ringo was big, black, brutal, and did not like me. Not because I was white, but because I wouldn’t get out of his way when he walked. And he walked all day, in this continuous oval, with a short detour each loop around me. He was working towards hurting me, and said so. He scared the shit out of me. But I scared me more because I couldn’t give in. When I’m that afraid, I seem to go out of my way to piss off what I’m afraid of even more – and what I was afraid of was bigger, stronger, faster, meaner, an admitted fatal fighter. I felt ill.

Then the odd backhand of salvation.

I smuggled one too many letters out of prison. Unfortunately this letter described a psycho guard called Sarge. The warden called me down. He showed me the letter and said smuggling was worth an extra 18 months added to my sentence. He wondered if I had anything to say about my charges against the guard. I said what I’d written was not only true, I hadn’t even scratched the surface of his verbal and physical abuse of visiting wives. Warden told Sarge to return me to my cell, for me to think about the 18 months and we’d finish tomorrow. I went to my cage and I worried. I worried about tomorrow. I worried about Sarge’s retaliation. I worried about the 18 months. I worried about my wife who was sleeping with an ex-con who wasn’t me. And I really worried about Ringo.

Next day, the warden casually told me I was moving downstairs to the dormitory where he was making me head cook. No mention of the letter, or Sarge, or the 18 months. The one thing every prisoner wanted was a job that got you to the dorm with its one locked gate, its radio, TV, eating what you wanted when you wanted where you wanted. And of all the jobs, cook was cockerel’s walk. Switching so quickly from certain sorrow to overwhelming wealth fucks your mind, sends too many simultaneous threads in way too many directions, yet I instantly flashed, “I’m free from Ringo.”

I tell you that to tell you this.

Once I got down to the dorm, one of the trustees there ratted out one of many illegal activities by Ringo, who in punishment was in a locked cell in a locked tier 3 floors up. We were watching TV, and in he walked – taller, stronger, larger than any of us. Rat was Woody Allen’s size. Ringo said, “You ratted me out.” Rat said, “No.” Ringo repeated, “You ratted me out.” (He really did rat Ringo, and we knew it. He had also ratted my letter). Rat tried to explain, but Ringo hit him, hard, knocking him to the concrete floor, then stomped 5 times on his head with his work boot. With each stomp, Rat’s head banged against the concrete and bounced up to meet the down coming boot which smacked his head even harder into the concrete as Ringo said (one word per stomp): “You … shouldn’t … have … done … that.” None of us moved, or spoke. After he was done, Ringo turned and looked at us to see if he had a problem, decided he didn’t, turned and left. Rat got up, stemming the blood, his head already swelled to thrice its size.

That’s when I knew I was not the me I thought was me, the me I needed to be.

It’s not my only lesson, but it is the one that worked.

Had I said or done something, one of two things would have happened. I’d be dead or broken, or the others would have rallied and we would have stopped him. But had that second happy Hollywood scene occurred, at some time, at some place, Ringo would have found me, and hurt me. I know now I did the right thing for me, but it did cost me “my mirror, mirror on the wall who’s the hero here of all” view of myself.

Love the can do. Hate the do do.

To read Part IV, see Armed Robbery – Part IV