Notes: This story was written merely as a writing exercise. It is a subject I wasn't familiar with, and so decided to take a try at it to see where I could take it.
For the next three years, this prison cell would be my home. At the age of eighteen, I was young and stupid and attempted to rob a gas station with a BB gun. Naturally, I was caught, tried, and convicted of armed robbery. If I behaved, I might be sent to a state prison farm to serve out the last six months of my sentence.
Prison is not a place you want to be. There is nothing remotely friendly or calm or soothing about it. Most of the inmates are little more than animals and generally have the IQ of one. Those that are slightly more intelligent are not the group of people you can simply walk up to and immediately associate yourself with. Just like anywhere else in society, there's a social hierarchy in prison, and new inmates are at the very bottom. And you can't leapfrog the caste system. You have to start out at the bottom of the totem pole and work your way up.
To say I was scared is putting it mildly. I was terrified. As you're in-processed, you hear all kinds of wild rumors about what lies waiting for you in the general population. Those in my newly arrived group that had been through this before seemed to take it in stride. They sat and smiled at us new guys, especially those of us that were the youngest, and filled our heads with terrifying thoughts. In short, they told us we'd be raped once we were set loose with the rest of the prisoners. But they also warned us not to fight it; when it happens, don't resist.
The day finally came when we were marched out of the holding area and assigned a cell. One by one, we were led away by a guard and taken to our new homes. As I walked through the main gallery, inmates would yell and call out all kinds of things; calling me baby, sweet thing, bitch – every degrading, derogatory name you could imagine. When I arrived at my new cell, I saw a bunk bed. I had a "roommate", though he wasn't there at the time. The guard opened the cell and gestured for me to walk inside. I did, and when he shut the door with a loud metallic clank, I wanted to fall to my knees and cry.
For the next hour or so, I sat on the lower bunk, my meager possessions in my hand, not knowing what to do. The inmates that could see me from their cells continued to call out to me, urging me to "show us what ya got, bitch!" Then the guard came back. Only this time, he had an inmate with him. He was a little taller than me, perhaps six feet, and I'd guess 190lbs. He had a long moustache that curled down his cheeks to his jaw line and a face full of stubble. His large arms were festooned with numerous tattoos. And he definitely didn't look like the happy-go-lucky type. If anything, he closely resembled a biker, which was no coincidence, as I learned later on: he was a biker.
The guard opened the door and the inmate walked in, pulling a package of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. When the guard left, my new cellmate stood staring down at me, as he held a lighter to his cigarette. Then he sucked in deeply on it and blew out a long gray wisp of smoke. He gestured at me.
"You're sittin' on my bunk," he muttered.
I jumped up, quietly apologizing. Then he pointed to the top bunk.
"That's yours," he said, putting the cigarette back to his mouth.
He stepped over and sat on his bunk, swinging his feet up and bringing his pillow under his head.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I stammered, replying, "M-Mark."
"Tony."
Then he looked away, taking another drag off his cigarette. After a few seconds, he glanced at me.
"You starin' at somethin'?" he asked.
I shook my head and instantly stepped up to my bunk, placing my items on it. Then I made my first critical error. As I went to climb onto my bunk, I put my foot on Tony's springs to prop myself up. No sooner had I stepped on it, than I felt a sharp kick to my shin, sending me down to the hard concrete floor. I sat there momentarily dazed. An inmate across the way that had seen the entire episode was laughing loudly. I looked up and Tony was still lying on his bunk smoking. As I pushed myself off the floor, he turned his eyes to me.
"First thing you need to learn is respect," he muttered, sucking on his cigarette. "Keep your filthy fuckin' feet off my bunk."
"Sorry," I said nervously. "Won't happen again."
Tony looked away, mumbling, "Fuckin' A it won't."
I finally managed to find a way to get atop my bunk without touching his, and then laid there for what seemed like forever, just staring at the ceiling. And though the prison gallery was filled with noise, inmates talking and yelling from their cells, I managed to fall asleep.
I awoke with a start, when I heard the guard calling to me. I sat up and saw Tony standing outside the cell next to the guard.
"Chow time," said the guard.
I swung my legs over the side of my mattress, and when I slid down, I instinctively put my foot down on Tony's bunk. Instantly, I knew I had fucked up. I quickly glanced at him and watched as he tapped out a cigarette from his pack, slowly shaking his head.
Just like in the prison population, there's a pecking order in the cafeteria. The best seats are reserved for those at the top of the social ladder, and you can't just sit wherever you please. And nobody is going to explain to a new guy where you can and can't sit. You simply have to figure it out on your own.
I went from table to table, trying to find a place to sit, but was less than kindly send away by the current occupants every time. At last I saw Tony sitting at a table with an open seat across from him. I didn't know what else to do, so I walked over to him. As he ate, he glanced up at me and said, "What the fuck you want?" I hesitated for a moment and was about to walk away, but reconsidered. Unlike my other attempts to find a seat, Tony didn't immediately tell me to go away. And I didn't want to break any kind of prison social rules by being impolite and not showing respect, so I said I couldn't find anywhere to sit and asked if I could sit at his table. He continued eating and glanced at the inmates sitting near him. They didn't say anything, but somehow they seemed to communicate. Tony pointed his fork to the empty seat in front of him and nodded.
Although there was plenty of talking all around us, there was very little at our table. When Tony had emptied his tray, he gave it a little shove toward me, and then turned to talk to his friends. I finished eating and, as I stood up, looked down at his empty tray. There was a reason he pushed it to me, so I picked it up and took it to the conveyor belt.
Half an hour later, we were returned to our cell.
Lights out came at 10pm. Some inmates continued talking in their dark cells. The lucky few that had radios would play them just loud enough for those in nearby cells to hear. Below me, Tony was lying on his bunk and I heard a radio click on. He tuned it to a station playing hard rock. A few seconds later, he kicked the underside of my bunk. I leaned over and looked down at him in the dark. His murky gray image was punctuated by a bouncing orange dot of light; the tip of a glowing cigarette.
