Story © by Tucker 1998
All rights Reserved
Page by Jilli

WARNING!!     EXPLICIT LANGUAGE

WISHING WELL

by:   Tucker aka Riskall

This is a sample of a a novel I am working on.   It will stand by itself as a short story.   I have to warn you that it is profane and harsh,   the language used is explicit.
-Riskall-

March 28,   1983
San Quentin: Tamal California

Not for the first time, Father Tom shook off the malevolence that seemed to cling to the bars, walls, inmates, and even the guards. Also, not for the first time, he wondered that any one could stay sane in these conditions. Perhaps no one did stay sane here, sanity would be a dangerous handicap to these men.

The clanking echo as he walked up the metal staircase broke through his reveries and he was once again astounded at how loud an individual sound could reverberate through the constant block noise. A cacophony of radios, voices, keys, rattled bars, television sets and the heralded movement of guards by the inmates, who probably monitored their jailers more closely than their jailers monitored them.

The place was always the same and always a surprise to him. Like life, he reflected, its always the little things that are the most surprising.

Father Tom cared for, sometimes feared and often felt overwhelmed by the men in this place. Strangely it was here that he found revival in faith in God. He also knew, he was supposed to be here. there was a reason even if he had yet to see it. The feeling of destiny was always strong here and although he did not know it yet, tonight he was going to meet it.

*     *     *     *

March 28,1983
San Quentin: Tamal California

Skinhead's twangy second generation California okie drawl crashed through the block noise and into my cell, where I was finishing my daily calisthenics. " Hey Words!! what ya doin? Chokin yer chicken again? Ya shouldn't do that man, makes ya go blind, homey! Grow hair on yer palms too dude, you never heard ah this man?"

I was not ready to be interrupted by my cell neighbor and yard dog yet, so in good humor I responded. "Drop dead Skin!! I'm busy, you can tell me all about the dangers of self abuse later, seein as how yer the expert an all." Not a great reply I thought but shet, it's hard to be witty while workin out and I still hadn't finished the number of sit ups I had set myself today. Still my response musta been good enough, judging by the laughter rolling out from Skinheads cell. Either that or he was laughing at his own wit, weak as it might be.

"Yo hey Words, you call whackin yer wiener self abuse man? How you doin it? With sand paper or sumthin?" Skinhead asked, then fell apart laughing. So apparently he was laughing at his own brilliant conversation and not mine. What the heck, saying anything to Skinhead was like given a puppy a sock, he was gonna tear it up. Still ya had to like the guy, he was always ready to laugh, a standup guy for some one doing life, for killing a cop. He was almost always cheerful, then again I might be the same way if I had a death sentence commuted to life months before the state began to execute again.

I still had another 20 situps to do, I would wait till I finished, then talk to him. Skinhead would keep up the harassment till I answered him I knew, but hey, everyone has their faults.

"YO! hey Words, I go an hurt yer feelins or what homey?"

You could count on Skin to at least be predictable, as I crunched out the last 2 sit ups and collapsed on the cool concrete cell floor made slick with sweat. Grunting I got up to wash off the sweat. Heading toward the back of my cell I replied. "You aint got that much game to hurt my feelins Skin, not even with crutches, and what did I tell you about that "Words" shet man? That stuff is dead and weak Skin, so lay off."

"SHeeeeeiiiiit little brother," drawls Skinhead, "sorry man but its you, and you aint supposed to like it."

"Fuck you Skin. I told you to stop and you just head on like it don't mean nuthin, like maybe I'm some goggled-eyed geek with a word fetish or maybe its just your under-educated Okie butt that has trouble pronouncing any word over one syllable let alone comprehending it. While you may not believe it Skin," I went on, "the English language has more words than the 50 or so you choose to employ."

Skinhead burst out laughing. "See little brother, there you go man .. s'why yer the Words. You just got em and hey man aint no insult you just act like it is."

"Yeah," I say as I finish drying off and begin putting on a shirt, "out on the yard one of these days some lame muther is gonna is call me that and then I'll hafta set em strait next thing I know I'm back in the hole all cuz yer Okie ass finds that handle hilarious, and Skin I really don't need that. You know what I'm sayin bro? What you want anyway Skin, other than just to run conversation?"

"Jesus Wor, uh, I mean Michael you went an got all serious and I was just gonna tell you I got a care package all fulla zuuzuus an wham whams and was wonderin if you want any bro."

Sticking my mirror out the bars I ask "So what did you get homey? If its any more of those pictures of yer girl friend, keep em man cuz she is one big chick an the crap you ask her to pose for is just fricking gross bro, almost made me glad I was in here."

"There you go, talkin bad about my ol lady even after she sends all this good shet. Aint you got any class Words? I mean she may be fat an all, but she do, she do me right."

"I am not disrespecting yer ol lady Skin, I'm just sayin don't show me any more pictures of her naked. She is a fine lady and good to us, but even you gotta admit, that is some scary lookin puss Skin, and only a locked up muther would even think about doing it with her."

"And where the frick are you, and what the frick are we Mickey? If this aint locked up then you must be doin better dope than me and not sharin either"

"OK Skin you got me there, but right now what I would really like is something new to read, you got anything over there?"

"What?" Skin asks, adding even more okie to his drawl, "Me read? I'm jest an under educated Okie what would I read for? OOh that does remind me though I was gonna tell ya while you was in there jerkin off that some old priest dude comes in on Fridays with shit to read. Not that a under educated Okie like me reads or anything." Skin broke into his "aint I so funny laugh."

I had to laugh too, Skin was good at making jokes at my expense, "Just when I wonder what good you are Skin you come through with the goods, I knew there was a reason I put up with your ignorant, puerile, verbally provincial, under educated Okie ass."

"OOOOh Words you talk so pretty," Skinhead cooed. "Was that like an insult or was you making a pass at me? Cuz if you was tryin ta pick me up Homey I gotta tell ya, you have been lookin fine these days."

That was a pretty good come back, I had to laugh. "Head ol buddy Ol pal if I was about to go queer it wouldn't be fer your ancient, been bent over way to many times, large ol butthole, hell I wouldn't even be interested if you promised to take yer teethes out an just go gums up."

Before Skinhead could respond the tier gate crashed open, the guard was letting some one out onto the walk. It had to be the priest "dude" with the books, I reversed my mirror and began to wait for him to get to my cell. Books were more important than trading insults. Skinhead knew my priorities.

Skinhead is OK, for an ignorant Bakersfield boy, 2 generations off the dust bowl and Okie to the bone, I reflected. I watched out the bars with my 4 inch by 4 inch mirror waiting for the priest with the books. I wished I had more access to books. Aside from sleep, reading was about the only escape I had from the 5 foot by 12 foot box that was so claustrophobic some days that the only way to silence the terror was to do pushups and sit ups till I collapsed in the pools of sweat collecting on the cell floor. I'd been locked down in maximum security for one year and it wasn't getting any easier to deal with.

*     *     *     *

At the front of the 4th tier Father Tom waited for the guard to open the security gate. checking the 10 books he was holding he didn't figure he would get rid of more than four or five unless he managed to trade up.

As the prison guard opened the security gate, Father Tom once again got that feeling of being inspected and assessed by the inmates as hands with mirrors slid in and out of the bars up and down the tier. It was a ceremony he witnessed on each tier every time he visited any cell block. He wondered if these men where just bored or some survival instinct would not allow for surprise on any level. As often as he came here the visits gave him more questions than answers.

Walking past the first empty 2 empty cells he abruptly realized he would have to live here to know the answers, stifling a shudder, He realized that the price for that knowledge was far to high. Locked in his thoughts he almost jumped, when a voice reached through the bars and grabbed his attention.

*     *     *     *

I watched the priest glance into the first couple of empty cells as he slowly made his way down tier toward me. He appeared to be in his mid forties and his black clothes hung from a thin narrow frame giving him a waif like appearance. He looked soft, or maybe just very innocent, either way, the only way he could make it through this place would be his collar and the fact that the inmates were all caged.

He was so preoccupied I thought for a moment he was going to walk past. Not very smart, this is not a place for daydreaming, I thought, and decided to give him a wake up call.

"Pay attention Father, this aint your parish your walkin, personal reflection is best left to safer climates." The way he flinched at my voice, added weight to my message. More importantly he stopped, almost mid stride, which was what I wanted. "You the Priest with books?" I asked, the lame question trying to fill an uncomfortable silence as he turned a pair of bright, living eyes on me.

"Yes" he began "yes I am" then stopped talking.

Talkative sumbitch I thought and asked "what books you got there?" He read off a list of titles and authors I had never read, but what the hell, I was not in the position to be too choosy. I wanted something new to read and if I didn't get it I might actually ask Skinhead for a look at those pictures of his fat, ugly, ol lady cavorting naked. Maybe I would get lucky and she would have kept her teeth in this time. Suddenly desperate at that thought I asked, "How many of those books can you give me?"

He seemed to increase the amount of attention and focus on me before he replied. "One, unless you have something to trade." I had maybe 7 books I was willing to trade out of my small library of 12 and that was pushing it for unknown authors. For new books though, it might be worth the risk, it wouldn't be the first time I had traded down. Still it never hurt to check before you jumped.

"I have a few I could trade, maybe, but I'm taking a chance. You read any of them?" I asked.

He seemed to ponder my question while turning up his attention detail almost as if he felt a need to remember all that was being said, before replying.

"No I just traded for these so I cannot tell you if any of these books are worth reading, or for that matter, are worthy reading, if that is your concern."

What the hell do we have here I wondered, a Jesuit? Yet his response woke up a dead spot inside of me and I realized this guy scared me. My own attention to detail went up a couple notches as I realized this guy in front of me was neither as soft nor as innocent as I first made him out to be.

Aggressively I shot back at him, "Look here Father, does it seem to you that such subjective considerations as worth and or worthiness in a book have any validity here? I didn't ask you if any of those books have any merit, I asked if you had read any of them. Check it, Padre, I got 7 books to trade you, none of which have any merit other than entertainment value, these 7 with the 1 you promised makes 8 of the ones you got there. If your deal still stands and the books you have are in good shape, and have all of their pages, I'm willing to trade if you are."

The Priest, with a slow smile stuck his hand through the bars of my cage and offered it replying, "Before we trade I have a rule, I like to know who you are, or at least the name of the man I am trading with."

His words cut me like a knife, it was the first time any one had called me a man, I had been treated like one, prosecuted as one legally at the age of 19, and perhaps even thought of myself as a man. Yet this was the first time I had been verbally addressed as one. It was also the first time in a long while anyone on that side of the bars had offered me their hand free of fear and open to friendship.

Grasping his soft hand in mine, "My name is Michael," I replied, "My friends call me Mike," this time with much less aggression. This man was far less weak than I first assessed him.

"Pleased to meet you Michael. You seem more of a Michael then a Mike, so if you don't mind I will address you as Michael. My name is Father Tom, Michael, and I believe we can do business."

*     *     *     *

That was my first meeting with the man who later, over a period of months, brought me books to read by authors I loved and introduced me to Victor Hugo and other authors I had never read before. His choice of authors was always very appropriate. I was 21 when I first read Les Misirables, I read it in prison. Later I read that same book while on parole. I was no Jean Marie but that story was my first glimpse at personal redemption and the dignity afforded in the accepting of help when in need. Like all ironies in life, I had to experience the gift of charity in its true form in order to give later of myself. In that Jean Marie and I have much in common.

It took Father Toms insight and our shared love of literature to break me away from my cold value system more related to the Marquee` De Sade, and Camus's existentialism. Father Tom introduced me to the romantics and the heretics.

Yet, in the end, Father Toms greatest gift was the willingness to take the time for one lost soul.

*     *     *     *

May 1981
Memphis Tennessee

I pulled into Memphis on a southern morning, it had it's own flavor and texture that I would forever remember as my first taste of the south. I had caught a ride out of El Paso Texas two days earlier, grateful to get out of the desert. I didn't mind the surly old man who had little to say except to remind me every few hours he had a gun. 1800 miles of mutual distrust was something I found to be a wearing experience. So I didn't thank him for the ride and he didn't thank me for driving non-stop while he slept.

Retrieving my pack from the trunk I reflected the ride was another prime example of the mutual use and short term relationships that seemed to make up the framework of my life. Slamming the trunk lid closed I reached down for my pack as he walked back to watch me and we looked each other in the eye for the first time since he had pulled over and offered me a ride outside of El-Paso. He had washed out blue eyes I couldn't read.

He climbed into his Pontiac and drove back onto I-40.

The route toward H-78 wandered through old Memphis. Walking down the cracked sidewalks past the sleeping elderly houses, I ran into my first Magnolia. It was excessive. From the large leaves piled at it's base to the giant white blossoms that sweetened the air, the tree was a wonder and a marvel for me. It was foreign country. Truly different from the mountains, beaches, deserts and even the plains I knew as a west coast boy.

There was a feeling of having entered a story, and it didn't feel like my story or even my life. It felt like an adventure, it held the wonder and the promise of a thousand summer mornings, and the mystery of half forgotten childhood nights. It felt expectant.

For the first time since my crime spree, and quick departure from Southern California I felt that there may be hope yet.

*     *     *     *

March 23,1986
San Quentin: Tamal California

Five years ago. That happened five years ago, I thought, gazing out at the San Francisco Bay from West block of San Quentin. I caressed the memory of Memphis as my last taste of boyhood. I wondered if Memphis would be such a dear memory if I hadn't been running. These memories of who I wanted to be verses who I became intruded almost daily now. I almost cursed the day I met Father Tom and even more the reading of Victor Hugo. Looking down at the tattoos on my arms, violent, savage images, and listening to my fellow inmates it hit me I was very different in so many ways, yet, at the same time, all too like them. What the hell, it isn't really Father Tom or some book by a long dead author that had me going, it was the thought of parole, and thoughts of who I was versus who I am, that has sparked these memories and thoughts.

What I had learned behind these walls could fill volumes. I am no longer the boy with whimsical thoughts or hopes. I am a convict, and I am not sure I am ready to be let out into society. I want out badly, so badly I will not even think about parole to deeply for the fear of jinxing it. Unfortunately today I have to think about my parole, there are decisions to make.

*     *     *     *

March 26, 1986
San Quentin

Sunlight filters through the early morning fog, reflecting off the glass of the gun towers. Small groups of men in blue denim walk the track or sit huddled against the south wall just off of the laundry. The only sound is the occasional call bell from the prison, and the clanking of iron from the weight pile. The walking men, float like ghost through the mist that mantels the lower yard, whispering confidentially to one another. Squatting against the laundry wall staring at the yard and sipping coffee, Skinhead and I quietly smoke camels.

Skinhead turns his sky blue crazy eyes on me, snorts, then goes back to his coffee.

"All right Skin why don't you just frickin say what you wanna say?" I asked.

Skinhead stares out over the yard, then in his crusty voice starts in "How old you think I am Words?"

"Skin" I start, "What the heck have I told you bout that Words shet?".

"Words you didn't answer the question, how old you think I am?"

For the first time since I met him I wondered and realized he could be anywhere from 38 to 50, trying to be diplomatic, I respond "Oh shit Skin you look ancient, ya gotta be at least 50."

Still gazing out at the yard Skinhead smiles, "Would you believe I am 55 years old?"

"NO way Skin, now yer just yanking my chain."

Skinhead shakes his head and looks me dead in the eye, "What that means Little brother is that I have been doin time since before you wuz a gleam in yer daddy's eye. What that also means is that I have seen allot of smart ass muthers come and go. Some of em wuz even smarter than you Words."

"You goin some where with this Skin, or are just handing out yer Bonifides?"

My comment caught him mid swallow, choking back coffee and laughing at the same time. Skin starts in, "OOh man you reading them westerns again? BONIFIDES? you come up with em Words."

Done laughing and more serious he starts again, "Words, I am a bonifide outlaw, always was, always will be, till I hang, get shot, or some muther shanks me. The thing I am wonderin is, what are you? You are as smart as anyone I've met, yet yer doin time fer robberies. I seen you get down, but you aint no killer, not by a long shot, yer a stand up con, but you don't wear it real good, so what the hell are you?"

"Jesus, what is your problem Skin? I don't even got a clue what you are getting at here."

"The hell you don't Words, you been straight up honest till now so don't go tryin to lie to me. I see the difference. So just tell me are you gonna do that S&L when you get out?"

That question shook me, so I asked, "Where the hell you hear about that job Skin?"

Skinhead sighs, shakes his head, takes another sip of his now cold coffee before starting in again, "Little bro you just don't listen sometimes, I just told you, nobody lives in here as long as me and not get connections," pausing, Skinhead looks at me then asks, "You still didn't answer my question Words, You gonna do the job or not?"

I had never seen Skinhead like this before and I was getting a little irritated, the job was none of his business and besides that I had planned to send him part of the proceeds. Now not only was he messing with my gift, he had me worried as to how many other guys knew about the job. I was going over possible leaks when Skinhead's lazy okie drawl interrupted.

"You aint answerin Words so I guess that means you are plannin on doin it. Seems as you aint in the talkin mood, that's fine, I'll talk and I hope you do some listenin. I'll tell you up front that job is as good as they come, it would be a fairly clean hit, an yer smart enough and got balls enough to do it. You aint gotta worry who else knows bout the job its still secure. I know cuz I was asked bout you an if maybe you might want the job, told em they would have to ask you, but I also told em I figured you would be good for the job and honest on the take. Told em you was stand up all the way. Now I wanna talk to you bout this deal."

"Michael some guys, all they kin do is rob. They either aint got a lick of sense or they is just bent. You are not either one of those kinda guys, you don't hafta be one of em either. You may not ever be John Doe citizen but that don't mean you gotta be John Dillinger either. I been in prison most my life Mikey and when I was on the outs I acted like I was still locked up. I aint gonna lie to you and tell you that what I am bout to say would ever be what I would do, but if I was half as smart as you little brother I would sure try."

I listened as Skin kept talking.

"The first thing to remember is that once you get dirty, you aint gonna get clean, dirty money spends dirty. I figure you is smart enough to know that."

"The next thing is that if you get out there and try to be clean, well, if it don't work ya kin always git dirty aint no problem there." "Michael I would like it if you thought about this a little bit bro. You are smart enough go out an do some good. Maybe that good would just be gettin married and bein a Daddy, a real Daddy, the kind that visits his kid at school an goes on vacations, not the kind where yer kid visits you on his vacation."

"You could git out, get a real job or maybe go to school and if ya thought about it an never told no one, take some time fer some old folks locked up in homes by goin in an givin em some of your time, hell they are locked in too you know, an they aint never been one of us. I don't know how real people act Mikey, I never was one, but you could do it and probably do it better than John Q public."

Looking over at Skinhead, I was startled to see his eyes were still firmly fixed on me. He was not waiting for my response. He was looking at me like a father wondering about the direction his son was going to take and concerned at his possible choice.

I stared out over the yard looking at the men I had spent the last 4 years with and realized I had nothing to prove here, not any more. I was strong enough to survive here, but was I strong enough to listen to a wise old outlaw and go straight?   I didn't know.

---