Monkeyshines
chapter 15
Indiana State Prison was a harsher experience than the federal prisons. Being separated from Chris was agony. I had no firm release date under ten years, and the population was more violent, some of the prisoners even going around armed with pistols. Peter and I quickly exploited our college experience, and got assigned to Grant's Writ Department. It was named after the judge who ordered the prison to permit a writ department to operate. James exploited his military experience to survive in the kitchen.
A large, self-educated Black prisoner named Marcus Kingsberry, called King by the inmates and guards alike, was chief of the Writ Department. He assigned us clients from a list of inmates seeking assistance with legal problems. We’d listen to their problems and help them if we could.
My office was an empty cell in the defunct Death Row. To relax, I’d watch a TV that was plugged in where the electric chair used to sit. One of my first clients was a guy from Kentucky who was furious because he hadn't received a fair trial. Prejudicial pre-trial publicity, he said. He'd returned from the Army in Europe with a bad ‘speed’ habit, found his wife in flagrante delicto with another man, shot the man to death, then killed his wife by firing his pistol into her vagina several times. The papers reported these facts, which convinced the guy that his chance for a fair trial was shot. He wanted me to help him get his conviction overturned. We had some pretty weird conversations before his fried brain failed totally, leaving him wandering the prison incommunicado.
I did calisthenics in my cell to keep fit, and to send a message to the population that I was disciplined and dangerous. But I also cried myself to sleep occasionally and this was dangerous. If other prisoners found out, it would be like blood in the water, and soon sharks would come. I did get caught once by our tier attendant, the guy who sort of managed the cells on the sixth floor. A seemingly super-hardened, vicious dope dealer from Gary, Indiana, this guy, Floyd, had often shown animosity for Whites. He passed my cell one night as I lay in my bunk wracked by emotional pain. Floyd heard me stifle a sob and he stopped. I peeked toward him, saw a look of disgust form on his face, and heard him start to say something. It was going to be something like, "You pussy motherfucker, shut your honkey face." But it came out, "Man... !" Then Floyd's face softened as he recognized my feelings. He erased the scene from his mind. He walked away and never gave me any hint he remembered it.
I finally came to the conclusion that my life wasn't worth living. Emotional fatigue, embarrassment, shame, the knowledge that Chris was in anguish on the outside, and that my family was falling apart, and the irreversibility of it all, and the horrific atmosphere my brothers and I were forced to breathe every day; it all ganged up on me. I decided to end it the only way I could. The big S, suicide.
I lay in my bunk considering the techniques I could use: drugs, a razor, rope, or maybe a leap from a high place. I could go alone or I could take some worthy subject(s) with me.
I knew a hillbilly chemist who could make explosives from damn near anything. This chemist, Billy ‘Goat’ Flanker had lived beyond the pale for a long time. A tall lanky country boy, unflinching, and called Goat by most of his friends, I called him Billy, because it seemed to bring out his more thoughtful side. He was almost 40, and serving his third term in prison. His first followed a bank robbery he committed when he was 18. He’d run out of a bank with a pistol in one hand and bag of money in the other. Easy as pie and goddam exciting he thought at that moment. Then he crashed his getaway car and ran on foot. He hid under a parked car on a residential street while police searched for him. They missed him and went away, but a guy watering his lawn remained on the street. Billy watched him from underneath the car. When the guy went to turn off the hose at a faucet that was low to the ground, while bending down, he saw Billy's hiding place. Billy saw the guy's look of disbelief turn to astonishment then resolve. The man ran toward his front door screaming, "Police, Police!"
Like a cat, Billy propelled himself out from under the car. He was going to catch the guy and shut him up, but the guy beat him to his front door, and slammed it in Billy's face. Billy shouldered the door a couple times, then a grim voice behind him shouted, "Police, drop the gun!" He turned around quickly only to see three uniforms aiming guns at him. One shouted, "Freeze, asshole!"
Billy thought he froze, but actually he'd extended his hands, as if handing their contents over to the police. "This is going to be a damn hard thing to explain," Billy had thought, as he focused on the spectacle of himself standing on that porch holding a gun in one hand and bag of money, marked Bank of Rapid Falls, Kentucky, in the other.
As the police approached, one said, "You're lucky you're still alive, boy, next time you hear the word 'freeze,' you better freeze. Now drop that gun."
Billy dropped the gun and the money, saying, "Thank God you're here, officers. The guy you want just ran in the house. He dropped these." Then the redoubtable Billy Goat charged straight into the cops. It was a big surprise to them, because Billy didn't have a chance.
Billy told me, "Sheeit, I went through them cops like shit through a goose. I was still runnin' down the street, must a been a mile from that house, and my chest was on fire. It was just after sunset, you know, just barely light out, and there were a lot of old oak trees on that street, and the sidewalk was old and cracked, and that's when I felt that first bullet hit me. It was a kind of soft thump, like gettin' hit by a high speed marshmallow, then I did a belly slide on the sidewalk. I was still thinkin' awright, I mean, it didn't hurt like I thought it would, but I was through runnin'. Then I felt more a those thumps, and I passed out. I was shot six times in the back. My lawyer proved it happened after I was down, 'cuzza all them concrete chips they dug outa my chest."
I played chess with Billy occasionally. Ordinarily, I stayed in my cell to read, and anyway, Billy was hooked up with the KKK guys. I got along with them alright, but I didn't want to be identified with them. Billy was smart, though, and I was curious about his attitude toward Blacks. I learned a bit about this one day in the course of Billy's telling about a killing he did. Peter and I had stopped by the soap factory where Billy was the chemist, and I’d mentioned the story about Billy being caught with a smoking gun.
"Smoking gun? Sheeit! I never fired that gun," said Billy, "You wanna hear about smoking guns? I was escaped from Tennessee State Prison a few years ago, and me and some friends went in this bar, and these two niggers came in with some white girls. They was the only niggers in the place for a start, and they was really sportin' those white girls, talkin' loud, you know, and my friends, well, to me niggers is just like anybody else, I mean, you know all their talk about, 'Yo momma' this and that. Well, they can fuck my momma, and I don't care if she don't, but these friends of mine, they hated niggers. So they went after these two, and the niggers pulled out knives, and it looked bad for my friends, so I had my gun, and I shot one of 'em without takin' the gun outa my pocket. Shot him dead.
"Then the lights went out. Somebody musta called the cops when the fight started, cause they showed up the same time as the lights went out. I had to get rid of the gun, but the hammer got snagged in the lining of my pocket, and I couldn't get it out, and when I fired it, it started my coat burnin'. So there I was in a dark bar, cops runnin' in the front door, nigger layin' dead on the floor, gun in my pocket, and my coat's on fire. That's a smokin' gun, brother."
"So what happened?" I asked.
"They took me in, and later that night they took me to a meeting with some guys who said they were the mayor and the chief of police. They said they didn't want the expense of a murder trial, and they didn't give a shit about me or that nigger I killed, and that if I left the state for good, I'd live, but if I ever came back, I wouldn't."
"You're shittin us," I said.
"I believe it," Peter said.
"I didn't believe it either," said Billy, "but that's what happened."
Anyway, I was sure Billy would build me a bomb if I decided to go that way. The effect each method might have on others needed careful consideration. If I bumped off the warden or someone like that, I might get a trial that I could use as a forum to rail against the hypocrites who’d persecuted me/us, and give 'em the finger. But I still saw killing as an ultimate failure. I might kill someone who was on the verge of doing some real good thing. Whoever was in charge of this Earth experiment might take off the lid, lift me out, and explain that I'd been doing real well until I’d fallen apart and killed the guy who'd been sent to help me.
For a while, I thought death by hunger strike might be interesting. As I thought about this stuff, an old feeling crept back into me. I felt empowered. I realized that my decision to kill myself was itself a vital act, a kind of determination to live on and have impact. It eased somewhat the fear of failure and pain of rejection that had been torturing me. I was positioned to create. I didn't have to worry about an agenda set for me by a cruel fate. I could take my time. I left my body in my cell, and traveled abroad to imaginary fields beyond fate.
******
Light years above my head, in the direction of Sirius, the Dog Star, a dis-corporated spirit, a soul, if you will, initiated a communication. "Lor Davit Yoway reporting to Central Registry." Central Registry lay just a few light years away from Sirius toward Betelgeuse.
"Central Registry here," was the telepathic response.
"Sensors monitoring Earth's parallel system signal the presence of threshold awareness."
"Thank you for your report, Lor Davit Yoway."
Lor had reported this many times over the past 10,000 Earth years. The response from Central Registry was always the same. Not having been asked to report more fully, Lor had always felt restrained from doing so. This time, however, Lor pressed on. "The presence of threshold awareness in Earth's parallel system is a milestone for the Earth Project. Do you understand, Central Registry?"
"A milestone, yes, I understand, yes, Thank you for your report."
Seeing no sense in getting cold feet at this stage, Lor continued, "Central Registry, I've reported this many times. I need to consult on the future management strategy for the Earth Project."
"Yes. We can do that. Could you explain Earth Project?"
"Is this the only Central Registry for data on Central Galaxy Development Projects?" Lor was slightly startled at the thought of Earth Project reports going astray for 10,000 years. That was only eleven galactic cycles, but it was still a long time for reports to be misdirected. Lor hoped the project wasn't compromised. "I used to report to a senior spirit, God. Where is He now?"
"Yes, this is the only Central Registry for data on Central Galaxy Projects, and I remember you used to report directly to God, but I don't know where God is right now. I was asked to monitor reports while God was on the far side of the galaxy with some other senior spirits. I've been looking for Earth information since your first report eleven cycles ago."
"I understand," thought Lor, deciding immediately to give a brief synopsis of the Earth Project as requested.
"The Earth Project was initiated 9,000 cycles ago, when God implanted a custodial gene in a simian life form on Earth. The program's objective was to develop a caretaker species for Earth by modifying one of its naturally occurring life forms. It took 8,000 cycles for the experiment to bear fruit. I was that first fruit. My Earth name was Eve. I realized self-awareness quite unexpectedly as I ate an apple one day. I shared the experience with my counterpart, Adam, and a period of consciousness development began for humans. God recruited me when my body died, and I agreed to monitor the Earth Project.
At the Earth Project Symposium and Picnic eleven cycles ago, some senior spirits, with God as coordinator, installed themselves in the minds of humans in order to evaluate their progress. The site of the picnic was Mount Olympus. The agenda... ."
"Lor Davit Yoway. This is God."
"Oh, God, your expectation regarding human spiritual development that we considered at the Olympus picnic has occurred. Do you recall it?"
"Yes. We thought humans might eventually reach threshold awareness and enter the Earth's parallel system. I saw a few ants at the beginning of the picnic become a torrent toward its end. I used that analogy to explain the need to watch for early arrivals of human spirits."
"Yes," interjected Lor, "And you suggested I direct sensors toward the Earth's system and inform you if they began to arrive."
"And they have?"
"Yes. We used to re-cycle virtually all their motivating spirits. When humans died, their spirits released, and came through the veil stillborn, with no consciousness at all. But in the last 10,000 Earth years, an increasing number have arrived with retained consciousness. Many exceed the threshold 1.72 RAM/ROM ratio. (Random Access Memory to Read Only Memory). Millions have passed into the extraterrestrial zone already. Olympus ended before we decided whether to recognize them or re-cycle them with the stillborn."
"Millions of them, eh? The Earth Project has gone well. What do they do after they pass the veil?"
"With no recognition from us, they drift forever on the solar winds."
"Didn't we agree on a recognition configuration?"
"We did, but some technical points arose later. The recognition configuration required a 1.72 RAM/ROM awareness ratio, understanding of paradox, and some spiritual identification with all life forms. A disagreement arose with Procrustes. He sees these spirits as identical and insect-like, undeserving of any recognition."
"Procrustes, please give me your attention. Lor, please describe the actions you recommend."
"Establish a Hospitality Center on the east side of the galaxy that could accommodate 100 billion spirits in their simple molecular form. The Center shall provide a format for recognizing and coordinating spirits that meet standards."
"Procrustes?"
"I am here, God."
"What do you think of Lor's plan?"
"Lor, does your plan require another trip to Earth?"
"Yes. I'd go to recruit some humans to help operate the Center."
"God, I have reservations. Her recent trips sparked new religions, cults and competing mythologies. Your objective was a caretaker species, not the megalomaniacal pseudo-religious adventures elevated human consciousness has shown so far."
"Lor, you began a thought, 'He regards', and Procrustes, you began a thought, 'Her previous trips'. These are gender assertive terms. You will communicate more effectively if you leave your sexuality with your former human selves. It's precisely this question about residual human consciousness that concerns us when we consider recognizing billions of spirits from Earth. You two are the only human spirits yet recognized in this parallel world. The fate of your former species rests in your minds. I love you both. Now, I must attend elsewhere. Farewell."
"Thank you," thought both Lor Davit Yowah and Procrustes.
"Old language infects my thoughts, Procrustes. Truly, I have no wish to dispute you. As a start we could replace the gender assertive pronouns, he, she, his and hers, with they and theirs."
"Lor Davit Yoway, I echo your thought. Beyond pronouns, I must admit to some further residual prejudice. I was the robber of Attica in old Greece, and I tortured people by putting them on a bed of my chosen length then stretching them to fit it, or cutting off their legs if they were too long. I never knew why God chose me at the Olympus picnic, maybe it was because I fiercely strove for honesty. I tortured people to insult their vanity, and some of this tendency remains in me as I consider recognizing human spirits."
My mental wandering was then interrupted by a parole board meeting. Peter, James and I all entered the meeting together. We stood in a line and faced the board members. They were all seated except the young associate warden who stood at the end of their long meeting table. The presiding board member asked, "Did you plead guilty to the charge against you?"
I said, "Yes. Our wives were in jail, one of them being kept away from her new baby, and we were told the only way they'd be released was for us to plead guilty."
Then we were asked if we sold our property as part of a deal. Peter said we had. We were then told that we were very lucky and were being paroled, and that we'd been very careless of the feelings of our parents. Then we were excused. Soon after, we were notified that our release date was set six months from the time of our initial incarceration, the soonest date the parole board was authorized to allow. The associate warden told us later that he’d been asked by the head of the parole board, "How'd they get into this, are they crazy, or what?"
The associate warden said he'd answered, "No, they don't seem to be crazy; there seems to have been some politics involved in the charges."
We began to arrange for a future.