Terry - Part 2 - The First Night in Prison

Segregation, usually reserved for punishment of recalcitrant inmates, was located in a wing down a long hallway. Instead of bars, the doors were made of solid steel with a small window insert into it, through which a guard, by raising the shutter which covered it, could look to check on the cell’s occupants. Below the window was a panel, which we were later to learn, served several purposes. Although each cell was designed for one inmate, they had moved bunk beds, which were bolted to the floor, into this one. There was a toilet and sink at the far end of the cell. There were no furnishings, no table or chair, in the cell, nor was there room for them. There was less than three feet between the bunk bed and the wall. In the ceiling was a bare light bulb encased in a wire basket, and a vent through which blew hot air. The Walls was not air conditioned.

The guards who escorted us to the cell removed our leg shackles before we entered, but didn’t remove our handcuffs. After they closed and locked the cell door, they dropped open the panel and had us, one at a time, stick our hands through it. They removed Terry’s handcuffs first-then mine. When Terry’s hands were free he sat down on the lower bunk, his elbows on his knees, with his face buried in his hands, covering his eyes.

When mine were off, the panel was shut, the clang of it’s closing, signaling our metamorphosis-our change from what we had been, teenage boys who were worried about how they were viewed by their peers or by the girls in their classes, who had striven, each in his own way for popularity, for acceptance, for approval, and who had achieved it to some degree. Terry had, of course, been more successful than I. He had been the most popular boy in our class at school. His popularity, his good grades, his success at sports, no longer mattered. We were no longer sixteen year-old boys. We had been sentenced as adults. Our ages no longer mattered. We were convicts; that’s all that counted. Terry’s good looks were no longer an advantage. They were a threat. He may as well have been a beautiful girl locked up as he was with these sex starved-sex crazed men. Of course, I was in danger, too, if for no other reason than because I was young-vulnerable. The predators among the other prisoners were drawn to us as if by the scent of blood on a wounded prey. It was only a matter of time before they ran us to ground.

I stood for a moment watching Terry sitting on the bunk with his face hidden in his hands. Suddenly, I started crying-bawling, actually. I was afraid that it was going to be a repeat of the time in the Fort Worth jail, of the time spent on the bus ride here. During both, Terry had not said a word. Possibly, I could survive prison, this unbearably hot, small, cell-the taunts, the treats of the other convicts, the maltreatment of the guards, but I couldn’t abide Terry’s silence. I wanted him to curse me, to scream at me, to blame me, as I did myself, for what had happened to him. Anything, but his silence.

“Terry,” I cried, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I got you into this. It’s all my fault. I’d give anything to be able to change it. Can you ever forgive me?” I said-or blubbered-more, but I can’t remember all that I said. Probably, by that time, I wasn’t making much sense anyway, as punctuated as my speech was by sobs.

After a moment, he tilted his head up some, slipping his fingers down his face until his eyes were revealed. He glanced up at me. “It’s not your fault, Lyons. My mother said that it was. She blames you for what happened-but I asked you if I could go. You didn’t make me.”

I had often called Terry by his first name, instead of his last, which was Kimsey, but, in school, all the boys had called the other boys by their last names. Mine was actually Lyon, not Lyons, but they all, without exception, had always added an “s”. I had given up correcting them. I can’t remember when Terry had called me by my first name, which was Jon, other than possibly when he had been talking about me to his mother. He had always called me Lyons.

Sitting down on the bunk, I put my arms around Terry, sobbing into his shoulder-sobbing as much in relief that he was speaking to me as for the desperation that I was feeling. He didn’t move-didn’t take his face out of his hands, but neither did he pull away.

After my sobs had subsided, Terry said, speaking into his hands, “Did you see how they looked at me, Lyons? Did you hear what they said? I’m scared, Lyons. I hope they leave us in this cell. I don’t ever want to go out there.”

“We’re supposed to go to Connolly tomorrow. It’s a newer prison. I hear it’s even air-conditioned. Maybe it’ll be better there.”

Terry’s reply was to shake his head slowly, “The way they looked at me, Lyons-like I was a piece of meat and they were starving. Are they all queer, Lyons, like that guy we rolled?”

“I don’t think so. From what I heard when I was in jail at Fort Worth, they’re like that because there are no women. They like young guys because we remind them of women. In Fort Worth, they had always teased me, telling me that I was going to be someone’s punk-that I’d be fucked regularly in prison. I had thought that they we joking-but, now, I don’t know.”

“Were they looking at you like they were at me, Lyons?”

I didn’t answer. Some of them, I guess, were, but, as frightened as I was by their stares and comments, I, too, had thought that they were staring at Terry. I wasn’t ugly, and, although I was insecure about my appearance, I guess I was even fairly good looking, but, while standing next to Terry, I was the Moon on a sunny day. I could been seen, but only if one made an effort.

“Why are we here, Lyons? Why me? I’d never done it before. God damnit, I’ve never done anything-except maybe steal some hubcaps for my car-and now we’re gonna be locked up for six years. What have I ever done that deserves six years in this hell hole with those animals out there? I’m not like them, Lyons,” he said, then, raising his face from his hands, he shouted when he repeated, “I’m not like them.”

“That damned Rick picked you out along with me as the one that hit him the most. Once we were found guilty, my lawyer said that the judge had no choice but to sentence us to seventy months because of the mandatory sentencing laws. A few years ago we probably would have got probation, or at least you would have. I might have ended up here because they said I was the ringleader, and because I had admitted to rolling queers before that night, but not you Now, however, the judge didn’t have that option.”

“Shit, Lyons, I know that. My lawyer told me the same shit, but that’s not what I mean-fuck, I don’t know how to say it. What I’m trying to say is, ‘Why me? Why is this happening to me?”

Suddenly, I realized that Terry wasn’t looking for a rational answer-wasn’t expecting an answer from me. He wasn’t really asking me the question; he was, like Job, asking God, “Why me, God? Why are you doing this to me?”

My guilt make me feel that I had somehow deserved my fate, if for no other reason than for having involved Terry, but I couldn’t explain how God could have done this to him. I think, at that moment, I began to doubt the existence of God. The God who I had learned about in Sunday School-a loving Jesus-couldn’t have done this to Terry.

Not having an answer-there not being an answer-I sat in silence on the bed next to him. We each, lost in our thoughts, sat there until we were interrupted by sound of the panel being opened.

We found, when a trustee, accompanied by a guard, brought our supper, that prisoners in segregation were fed in their cells. Although we were not in segregation because of any disciplinary action, we were treated no different from those that were. Supper was peanut butter sandwiches-on white bread, and they weren’t sandwiches like my mother ever made. There was a small amount of peanut butter spread in the center of the bread. They were mostly bread-bread which had been smashed by having containers of sandwiches placed on top of them. We retrieved cups from a rack above the sink. Into them the trustee poured some weak Koolaid. To pass food into the cell was the second purpose of the panel.

The sandwiches did little to ease our hunger. We hadn’t eaten since Fort Worth. I was starved, but I gave one of my sandwiches to Terry. “Don’t you want it?” he asked.

“No, I hate peanut butter,” which was the truth, but there wasn’t much I wouldn’t have eaten at that point. I would have eaten the boiled okra which my mother often fixed, and there was no food I hated worse than boiled okra; but, I knew Terry was hungry. He had scarfed down both of his sandwiches before I had finished the one I ate. At least I had come from the Fort Worth jail where I was used to bad food. I had been hungry for six months. Terry had eaten his previous meal at his mother’s table.

After we ate, Terry stretched out on the bottom bunk. There wasn’t any discussion about who would have which bunk; it didn’t matter to me. I don’t think that Terry was being inconsiderate. I think that he was just overwhelmed by what he was experiencing. He was sitting on the bottom bunk. Lying down on it must have seemed the natural thing to do. He turned onto his side-away from me-facing the wall. I stood watching him for a while, then climbed onto the top bunk.

Lying on the bed in the sweltering heat, sweat dripped from me, soaking my prison uniform and the bed; so, sitting up, slipping off my shoes, I dropped them onto the floor, then pulled off my pants and shirt, throwing them to the end of the bed and lay back on top of the sheet in my prison boxer shorts. Air from the vent, blowing across my body, although no cooler than the room, cooled me somewhat by evaporating my sweat. Otherwise, lying on the top bunk would have been unbearable. I was looking forward to transferring to Connolly which reputedly had air-conditioning. Except...here I was locked up in the same cell as Terry. The cells at Connolly were individual cells. We would be separated. There I might get to see him rarely, if at all. I was struck by conflicting thoughts and emotions-some of which were making me feel even more guilty.

I hated what had happened to Terry-as anyone would hate for something so disastrous to happen to someone he loved-and there was no doubt now in my mind that I loved Terry. There was also the realization my love was more than that for a friend. There was a sexual component to it. Wanting to suck his cock-to have some kind of sexual relationship with him-had been more than a passing thought or fantasy. The thought of him, of having him hold me, of having him kiss me, of sucking his cock, had made me hard during those long nights in the Fort Worth jail. My jerk-off fantasies had no longer been of Jane Scott, the head cheerleader, but of Terry. I had jerked off rubbing my lips together, rubbing my tongue over them, imagining that I had his cock in my mouth. Sam had swallowed my come. I wondered how Terry’s would taste. I wanted to find out. Sure-I hated what had happened to Terry-but-at least he was no longer with her-with Myrna, his girl friend. The thought of his kissing her made me jealous. I had never liked her; now, I hated her. Six years in here alone, knowing that Terry was with her, would have been unbearable. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t want to be transferred to Connolly. I wanted to stay here, in this hot, cramped room-with Terry. I didn’t care if the conditions at Connolly were better. There, I would be alone.

Once again, I had become hard while thinking about Terry. I wanted to pull down my shorts-to beat off, but the light was on, and I didn’t know whether or not Terry was asleep. Although the bunk beds, made of steel and bolted to the floor, were sturdy, I was afraid that, if I jerked off, Terry would know what I was doing; there was also the possibility of a guard’s looking through the window in the door. I would at least, I thought, wait until the light was turned off; but, it never was.

The light of the bare bulb was shining in my eyes so I placed my pillow over my face, blocking out most of it. Having been awakened in the jail at Fort Worth at 5:00 AM, I was exhausted, both mentally and physically. I had never in my life, even during my time in jail and throughout the trial, experienced such emotional conflict and trauma. I wanted Terry to be free of this-but I also wanted him to be here with me. Such thoughts and feelings were speeding through my consciousness. I felt like a pedestrian trapped on a freeway in the middle of speeding traffic. Thoughts were hurling past that part of my consciousness that I defined as me so fast that I had difficulty discerning one from the other. I didn’t think that it was possible that I would ever go to sleep, but I must have.

Awakened by a loud piercing whistle, at first I didn’t realize where I was. I had been dreaming of home-although it hadn’t been a pleasant dream. I had been in my bed, but the house had been on fire, and I hadn’t been able to get out of bed-at least not until the whistle. “Get up-out of bed and stand on the yellow line,” someone was yelling through a speaker in the door. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I had hesitated. “Now,” the voice boomed, “on the yellow line.”

I, as most sixteen year-old boys do while sleeping, had an erection. Sliding to the floor caused it to poke through the slot in the front of my shorts. Embarrassed, I started to push it back in. “Put your hand to your side and stand on the line, if you don’t want to be gassed.”

A yellow line, parallel to the door, was painted on the cell floor about five feet from the door. The shutter on the window in the door was open. I could see the outline of a face behind it. Since it was brighter in the cell than in the hall, it was difficult to discern the person’s features. I stood on the line facing the door. Fortunately, the shock and embarrassment wilted my penis, and it hung limply out of my shorts. Terry stood beside me, still in his prison whites. Glancing out of the corner of my eye-I didn’t dare turn my head-I noticed that he was drenched in sweat.

“Get your clothes off,” the speaker announced.

When we hesitated, the panel dropped down and the guard-we could now make out his uniform-sprayed pepper spray on us-not much-but enough. It burned our eyes, our faces, and our lungs.

“If you don’t want more, get your clothes off and stand on the line.”

Quickly, we stripped and stood naked on the line facing the door. He shut the panel.

“Spread your legs,” he said, then, after we had, “now raise up your balls with your hand.”

I imagined that he wanted to see if we had something taped or hidden beneath them. After we had held them up as he had instructed, he told us to turn around; then had us bend over. Another look at our assholes, I thought. Told to turn once again, we stood facing the door; he said nothing, just watched us. For long minutes, he watched us. I hadn’t been in prison long. I didn’t yet know the routine, but this somehow seemed wrong. The other guards had treated us as less than human; if dogs in a pound had been abused in such a manner, there would have been a public outcry, but there was something different about this guard. I was reminded of Terry’s earlier statement, “like I was a piece of meat and they were starving.” Although, I couldn’t clearly see the guard’s face, his silence gave me the same feeling.

Eventually, without saying anything-without telling us we could go back to bed-he dropped the shutter over the window in the door. With the panel closed-without the speaker in the door turned on-we could hear nothing. I didn’t know whether he was standing behind the door or had walked off. After being sprayed with the pepper spray, I was afraid to move, or to speak. Since Terry continued to stand beside me in silence, he must have been, too. I was afraid to even whisper anything to Terry. I was certain that the speaker also doubled as a microphone-that, if he wished, the guard could hear everything we said.

The light was always on; there were no clocks. Time, without out reference, had become meaningless. I don’t know how long we stood there. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. I had no way of measuring it. It seemed hours; it was probably minutes before Terry whispered, “Do you think he’s gone, Lyons?”

“I don’t know.” Tentatively, furtively, watching the shuttered window, I bent over to pick up my shorts from the floor, slipping them on. There were no barked commands from the speaker; the window remained shuttered. After a moment, Terry retrieved his clothes, putting them on. I picked up my pants from bed. Although it was much cooler without them, I could still feel the guard’s eyes on me. I felt the need to put as much as I could between me and those eyes, between those eyes and the part of me I had felt he was watching.

The comments made by the convicts had been explicit, graphically detailing what they had planned for us and included: “You gonna you suck my cock, boy; I’m gonna ram it up your ass until you squeal; I’m gonna cut off your nuts and make you my bitch.”

As frightening as they had been, at least here in the cell, the convicts had no access to us, and, since we were scheduled to be sent to Connolly tomorrow, they might never have. The threat from them was not immediate, and there was always the possibility that we would be protected from them by the guards. We had, after all, been placed together in this cell for our protection.

The guard had said nothing, other than for us to take off our clothes, and we had been strip searched while being processed. I understood that strip searches would be a regular part of prison life, so he had done nothing particularly unusual, except, for, perhaps, having us stand for so long naked facing him during which he had said nothing. That part had been creepy. I had vaguely been able to see his outline in the window, but had not been able to see him clearly enough to possibly recognize him. I didn’t know whether he was one of the guards who had escorted us or not.

Despite the heat, the chills that I had experienced upon my first sight of the Walls Unit returned-not as badly, but enough to cause me to shudder. I had not realized until then that fear could cause such a reaction. I didn’t know why this guard was causing me to fear. I could bring to mind no single action that he’d done which should have caused it. It must have been our vulnerability. He had complete control over us-complete access to us. There was no one to protect us from him.

After pulling on my pants I sat down on Terry’s bunk. He sat beside me. “Jesus, Lyons, that guy was weird.”

“Shit, I guess.” Staying at the Walls was no longer an option. Even if I was to be separated from Terry, I no longer contemplated staying here in this cell. It must be nearly morning, I thought. Before long we would be on the bus to Connolly.

I stood up, intending to climb back into my bed. “Where are you going, Lyons? I detected a quiver in Terry’s voice. “Stay here, Lyons. You can lie down on my bed for a while. I don’t want to be alone.”

The idea of lying in bed with Terry made me hard, even though I knew that there was nothing sexual implied by his invitation. He must have been as frightened-as lonely-as I was. He lay down on the bed, next to the wall; I lay down next to him. After a minute, probably because of the heat generated by our two bodies in such close proximity, he sat up, removed his shirt, and draped it over the rail at the head of the bed, then lay down once again beside me.

I rolled over onto my side, facing him, so I could watch him. He lay with his eyes closed, breathing too quickly to have yet fallen asleep. I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, then looked at his face, almost overwhelmed by the love I was feeling for him. I wanted to throw my arm around his chest. I wanted to kiss his closed eyes-wanted to kiss that mouth which I so loved, but I knew that I didn’t dare-knew that, if I did, I would lose him forever. He would think that I was no different from Rick-no different from all the convicts that wanted him. Yes, I wanted him. I wanted to have sex with him, but I wanted so much more, and I was willing to give so much more. I wanted more than his body; I wanted his love. I had already, in my heart, given him mine. I searched for some means to let him know.

After a few minutes, Terry’s breathing became rhythmic. Assuming that he was asleep, I continued to watch him until I heard a slight noise at the door. Rolling over, I glanced toward the door. The shutter had been raised. I could see the dim outline of a face behind it. Startled, I wanted to jump up from Terry’s bed-to climb onto mine. The guard was back; it must, I thought, be the same one. I was afraid that he had read my thoughts, had known that I wanted to have sex with Terry, would think that we already had. I expected to hear the door open or to have the panel in it dropped and to have gas or pepper spray released into the cell. My heart was pounding. Sweat was pouring from me, but I was too frightened to move.

Nothing happened. He had to know I was watching. Although I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew he was watching me. Time ceased. I don’t know how long we stared at each other. There was no sound from the door, no sound other than that of the air blowing through the vent on the wall. I couldn’t hear Terry breathe-I don’t think that I was. Then, hearing a moan from Terry, I glanced at him. That he was in the throes of a dream, I could tell from the rapid movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids. When I looked back at the door, the shutter was closed. Although I wanted to stay in bed with Terry, I quickly climbed onto my own bunk. I didn’t sleep or even close my eyes for the rest of the night.