deweydidit

The Dead Illusion Blues  

     Pop is a 73-year-old black man who exists within this system as a sound exists in a void. Tonight he enlists from me my attention. How he copes must be a statement so profoundly sad that it is beyond my limited understanding. To contemplate his confusion after 17 years in prison, after informing me that he is innocent, steeps me in compassion and I labor to control the surges of sadness as they rush to the surface and threaten to flood my eyes. He’s hunched up with his back contorted and his expressive wrinkled face is revealing his pain, his eyes look straight into mine and my whiteness, that bleached pallor indicative of prison. After perhaps years, he is again in repetitious desperation, asking another white man for understanding. I casually slouch against the wall, beside the never-ending presence of the barred window puffing on my pipe, resembling another apathetic, petulant, fucking lowlife bureaucrat.

     As he is speaking, my control is waning and I feel like shedding these tears that are on the surface, that will erupt momentarily. Fortunately he does not recognize that I, however inadvertently with sympathetic intention, parrot the attitude of the very system to which he has totally succumbed. I’m an inmate and regardless of the parallels my image must reflect, he trusts the inmate in us all.

     “Dey don’t touch me, even dat Reverend D., has left me, he flipped on me. He jus wants me to work for im and clean up all his shit. He makes de law library brothers stop helping me. I sent dose letters to de Court, and de Attorney General and even de Federal Court, every one of dem…. Don’t tell de Reverend I tole’ you, he say dat dey denied me, shit I know dat, dey think I an old mans with no memory, but dey never talk to me, de Judge don’t call me to come see im.”

      As he continues speaking I notice that every word that requires annunciation is pronounced with syllabic correctness. It is as if he studied these alien words intently, because they do not integrate well with the da’s and do’s.

     “De Reverend say he sent de letters to de peoples and when I got dose green cards, the ones that tell you dey received dem, dose cards from the Post Office, day blank, nobody signs dem… Now don’t you go tellin’ the reverend bout my tellin’ you dis… I showed the Reverend dose green cards, I tell ‘am, lookit here, you sent dose letters and nobody put dere name dat they received ’em. Dere ain’t no names..No signature on dese damn cards. He take ’em, ya know, and he rips ’em up..son of a bitch … He dissin’ me bad.”

     “Lookit here, you know I down for a body, but she been dead a long time, I tolded dem I didn’t mean to shoot her, da gun went off. Day say, what you doin wit’ de pistol. I tell ’em hey niggers out dey minds don’t have no pistol. What day tink I’s crazy … Shit I can’t member doin it..don’t member nothin’…l got 20 to life and I libbin’ hard now, I’s needs to have da work release..I’s need da furlough … I ain’t no badass nigger, I never was..Iookit here des young badass niggers are gettin’ demselves out on da work release, I keep writtin’ letters and I don’t get no answers.”

     “I think de Reverend will give my letters back, but he says I get him in trouble writtin’ dese letters..so he says I better stop it and tells me to get out of his office … Now lookit here, I need your help, they conspirin’ against me, that’s sure what they’re doin’. You gotta help me to appeal my work release application dat they denied. I applied for da furlough and they say dat I got no kin to stay wit’, Hell, I’m almost 73, days all dead. After 17 years in da penitentiary I can’t have a goddamn furlough like dese other convicts … Tellin’ me I ain’t got kin, I knows dat. They think I’m stupid. My lady friend, she a good woman, writs a letter tellin’ dem dat I can stay wit her anytime, she’s a retired nurse with a good pension. She tol ‘ them dat she would help me. She owns her own house and bank account in da Bronx and I can go there any time. Shit, they know I have no kin, it’s in my record file. She a good womans..she write directly to the Temporary Release Committee.”

     “I asked da tall brother over there … now don’t look, he’ll think I’m talkin about him. I asked him to write my appeal and he say I don’t have no kin, I knows dat … But if I don’t have no families, I have to get permission from da Commissioner of da Corrections. But nobody wants to write the fuckin’ letter and I’m gettin’ mad, not even a brother. That’s all I want you to do, is write to dat Commissioner, dat Hoghlin guy. Maybe you could do that, da brothers say you da best letter writer in dis prison. Lookout here, dis womans will take care of me, she has money and a house. So I give you the copies and maybe you can writ da letter, they say you do letters for nothin’ you not a homey, but you’s do da letters just to help the convicts. Now I can’t pay you nothin’ cause I ain’t got nothin’ anyways.”

     Pop pauses and looks around the dorm to make sure that no one is near enough to overhear his next monologue. He moves closer to me and in an effort to suppress his rage regarding his next revelation, he bends his head down slightly and begins to whisper. I lean down to accommodate him and he starts growling and spitting out the words.

     “And another thing… I tried to talk to da inmate grievance committee and they sent a representative to my cube with a bunch of them dumb ass grievance papers, an I tell em…. Hey…. You know…I can’t walk mush, goddamn it…I can’t even go to chow my legs keep gettin’ numb. I’m a dying old mans and nobody in this prison gives a shit. And the grievance jerk says, ‘why don’t you go to sick call’ and I tell him if I can’t walk to chow how da fuck do you tink I can go to sick call, you don’t tink at all … ICANTWALKMOTHERFUCKER, I’s almost 73 years old. I needs to go to de hospital … will you listen to me … I don’t want to have a grievance hearing. Dat all bullshit. Grievance for de mans, he’s not stupid, he gives you the grievance committee to … what’s that fuckin word … you know pass you by, PACIFY dats it, pacify the dumb fuckin’ inmates. Nothin’ about no grievance, I already through dat, I did that. Nuttin’ happin’ and dem deputies and superintendents just bullshit with da paper day write.”

     “So I tell this grievance inmate, I tell em I wanna go directly to de Hoghlin guy. He probably as full of shit as de Reverend and dat Priest, all dat Priest do is fuckin’ curse and play de horse racers and de counselors ain’t worth shit, never see de sons of bitches anywhere, an dem woman’s counselors, struttin around dis prison wit dey tits hangin’ out all over de place.. Tryin’ to tease de dumb inmates. Ugly bitches too, day actin’ like dey God’s gift to mens. Don’t even understand dat de convicts look at any old dried up womans anyways. Dey so busy teasin’ dees niggers dey done do nottin’ for an old convict specially dat blond cracker, white trash tit showin’ bitch, she see me commin’, she hides. Been down 17 years I know how dis stuff works, I know the real deal, I ain’t no dumb nigger like these young brothers always writin’ grievances, I ain’t goin’ to those admin..administration assholes no more, you understand, I want you to go straight to dat Hoghlin guy. And this grievance guy, he says, ‘ Well Mr. D. I will go to see Deputy of Programs and he should be able to tell us as to when you will be transferred to a facility that can take care of your needs.’ I say JUSTAMINUTE…. You stand up so I can see if you wearin’ green, cause you talkin’ like dose civilian fuckers. Now you wearin’ green and you a convict, so stop talkin’ like an asshole an’ write my letter, ‘ and den he tells me, ‘dere is a problem with the pro–ceedure’, I says fuck you, I tell him fuck his PRO-CEED-URE. Bullshit with problems, they got problems. I got the troubles with my legs. I CANT WALK … YOU GET DOSE DUMB MOTHERFUCKERS TO DO SOMETHING, I BEEN WAITIN’ FOR A YEAR. You know what that dumb grievance committee inmate says, he says, ‘ OK I’ll bring the situation to the grievance committee.’ After aII that talkin’ and splainin’ dats what he says and I tell ’em, man do what you want. Do whatever you want, dat what all des motherfuckers do in this jail anyway. You just another fuckin’ inmate, dis committee stuff ain’t worth shit, you inmates just dumb ass kissin’ fools, you a jive turkey, ofey motherfucker. Me, I’m a goddamn convict and des assholes don’t know nuttin’ bout convicts. Now get your grievance inmate committee ass out my cube, dats what I tole him, ignorant son of a bitch.”

     Pop pauses again and catches his breath. His face is cracked and worn. The cracks run from his eyes, spreading down to the hollow of his sunken cheeks. They wrap around his cheekbone and cascade down to his jaw line. These cracks are discolored, and are a stained dark brown. They are etched into his ashen brown skin. The lids above his eyes are heavy and drooping, his dark-brown eyes have pupils that do not reflect light, and they stare out of a yellow veined field that has turned gray with shadows. The lenses of his eyes are dead; the optic nerves are numb to light. It is a portrait by an artist who forgot to highlight the subject’s pupils. His nose is long, wide and flat and beneath it is a mouth without shape, just a line above his chin that is a perennial snarl. Gray stubble, varied in length, sticks to his chin in patches that have abandoned any reason to grow.

     A face of weathered driftwood, beaten, battered and stained, in a place where time is a dead body. A dead body that he killed, an insane act executed in anger that follows him through the shadow of the prison walls. Long, lonely and dense shadows only confinement can create. He is a human brown skeleton that has drifted in and out of too many penitentiaries, seen to many bars and felt too much pain.

     He reaches into the rear pocket of his prison-issue green pants and takes out a small folded piece of yellow legal paper. With his bony veined hands he uses his thin fingers and long gray nails to unfold the paper. It is creased with as many folds as the years that he has spent in prison. His hands move slowly, reverently with great concentration, time for him is suspended, and the only thing in his world is this yellow piece of paper. He looks up at me now and there is a flicker of sadness in his eyes; it passes quickly and the dead dark brown returns.” I wrote dis letter to my womans an I’m gonna’ send it out tomorrow, she’s a good womans, maybe you tell the Temporary Release Committee about her in da letter.”

     I look down. His right hand is holding the unfolded yellow paper at the bottom and his left hand is cradling it as if this letter holds the answer to all his problems. His hands move toward me with expectation and reverence. He is handing me his hopes and his soul in a sacred and solemn consecrated ceremony. I take the letter, ritualistically. I am holding a document that he would not allow any one in this prison to see or read. The moment is so private, so absolutely sacrosanct that I can feel his dead eyes penetrating my amour, waiting for a mistake, a disrespecting reaction to his gesture of trust.

     He has written the letter in a manner that he obviously considers intelligent and profound. It is typed, single-spaced and each word is emphasized with a dash following it and the next words a dash again. There is a mixture of upper and lower characters without any detectable reason. Its visual structure is more graphic and abstract then I could imagine and reading this letter will take an enormous amount of concentration because it is the most alien written expression that I have ever seen. Atop the bulk of the letter is a unique interpretation of standard letter formatting, the text is flush left, I read the following;

Henry J ackson, 77-A-5000) (To the Sweetest, and beautyfulnessWoman Greene Correctional facility In the wide, wide, World, was my A-1 Dorm, box, Cocksakie, ny 12671 1150 Broadedge Road, Bronx, ny  Sep’t-13. Dated-with-Love Thanks for your time Darling Lovealways ( As far as I Can See God Bless you Pritty-baby you Mean So Much To Me doll)

Hi” Brown-Sugar, Hi’s the-findest-and-the-Prettys,-brown-frame, to-be-Seen,on-a-picture-,I-do-wish-you-good-luck,and-God-bless-you, Henry-will-pray-that-God-will-handown-his-wonderful-blessings-to-a-living-doll-like-you-After-all-tall-dark-and-handsom-you-did-act-like-a-Woman-and-tellin-me-that-you-Love-all-parts-of-me-I-like-the-way-you-wrote-this-letter-and-I-am-always-readin-the-letter-all-the-time-and-you-trying-to-help-me-with-the-work-release-Please-O-Please,don’t-worry-about-It, because-it-is-Just-One-of-those-Crazy-Things, My-love-for-you-will-be-with-Me-forever-but-My-God-is-able-O-yes-he-is-And-also-I-love-you-for-telling-me-you-will-help-and-things-will-work-out-in-due-time,-God-bless-you-Darling-forever-Pritty-baby,-but-one-day-I-will-get-the-work-release-and-it-will-pass-and-then-I-will-be-able-to-smile-again,for-My-God-is-able-and-I-Still-have-him-to-Love,all-ways-remember-Sweetie-pie,that-Henry-Jackson-have-been-Hurt-before-,So-keep-smiling-and-be-happy-and-be-kind-and-lovely-an-try-to-stay-away-from-the-Mens-an-wait-for-me-to-get-home-with-the-work-release-and-get-that-young-an-foolish-way-out-of-your-mind-youes-pritty-but-we-is-both-old-and-people-See-you-as-you-are- especially-Mens,-My-way-of-jealoussy-got-me-in-the-troubles-befor-and-Pritty-baby-I-been-payin-for-that-a-long-time-Sweet-Juses-that-womans-was-a-lier-and-Cheater-and-a-woman-with-no-Knowledge-for-nothing-she-was-a-bad-type-of-woman-she-knew-nothing-but-love-and-Sex-and-wants-a-lot-of-Mens-and-a-woman-as-Pritty-and-as-fine-as-you-are-would-not-have-no-Mens-Comming-to-her-House-like-she-did-all-the-time-I-tried-to-teach-her-the-ways-of-life-in-womanhood-but-baby-she-beats-the-hell-out-of-me-laying-around-with-So-Many-Mens-until-I-had-to-kill-or-be-killed- and -den– the damm- pistol -just- up -and- went- off -and-da-damm-mans-run-like-hell-and-I’s-left-there- tryin’-to-get-her-to-wake-up-but-she-just-lookin’-at-me-with-them-dead-eyes-and-the-Good-Lord-knows-that-I-is-sorry-that-it-happend-and-Is-paying-with-a-lot-of-hurt-and-pain-for-Seventeen-years-I-been-livin-with-that-womans-she-followed-me-every-where-I-went-in-this-prisons-an-even-when-I-talk-to-Jesus,-it-don’t-help-none-and-workin-for-the-reverend-picking-up-his-garberge-don’t-help-none-to-and-now-Is-got-the-pains-in-my-legs-an-that-dont-help-no-matter,But-Sweet-baby-you-is-givin-me-the-help-and-I-ask-the-Lord-to-never-let-you-fall-in-love-with-another-jealous-Man,Baby-doll,you-said-in-your-letter-that-our-bad-days-was-Over-and-that-you-was-a-respectable-woman-and-that-you-would-give-me-a-home-so-Is-can-get-the-work-release-I-been-here-for-so-long-that-I-deserve-the-work-release-And-Sweetie-pie-please-just-for-Me,Try-not-to-Over-do-your-thing-I’s-Older-Now-and-I-Cannot-Stand-the-punishment-as-I-could-before-when-I-was-younger-now-I-can-look-upon-the-Picture-of-you-and-it-proves-that-you-are-Good-for-Me,So-baby-now-days-a-Man-wants-a-young-woman,any-Man-do,-even-Me-sometimes,-But-we-Cannot-go-so-far-with-an-Old-runed-down-and-dead-feeling-of-haven-with-pictures-that-are-not-real-because-Pritty-baby-that-is-all-that-I-has-had-for-seventeen-years,-and-I-forgot-what-is-the-feeling-of-being-touched-by-any-Womans-and-when-I-looks-at-your-picture-I-thinks-I-remember-some-Lord-Sweet-Jesus-I-remember-some-things-so-Pritty-Brown-Suger-we-have-to-keep-writin-to-the-Tempory-Release-Committe-an-get-Me-the-first-furlough-so’s-we-can-begin-to-see-ourselves-together-and-not-be-only-writin-and-talken-on-the-phone-forever-and-everyone-will-know-that-you-waiting-for-me-and-I-looks-at-your-beatiful-picture-to-see-what-I-wants-to-have-and-tohold-to-love-And-to-protect,-to-teach-and-to-help-to-take-Care-of-to-Honor-and-To-Obey-as-Long-as-we-both-Shall-Live,and-baby-Henry-begging-you-plase-don’t-let-him-down-because-Henry-loves-you-Can-you-understand-that-One-day-Henry-is-going-to-walk-out-of-this-prison-and-see-you-as-real-and-talk-to-you-if-it-is-the-last-thing-he-do-in-this-World-and-let-you-know-that-he-Can-Make-you-Listen-and-Make-you-Happy-and-we-can-be-free-together,doll-baby-will-you-Please-Don’t-try-to-take-apart-what-God-has-put-together) and-you-know-what-that-is,.

LOVE ALWAY HENRY

     I handed the letter back to him nodding my understanding; there was nothing to say. He examined the letter, and with great care began refolding it slowly, as if to contain it’s content. He looked up at me and smiled, knowing that I had just read something profound that he had written with great care.

     ” I’ll write your letter Henry”, I said, ” and I’ll do the best I can.”

     ” I know you wills, Mr. Dewey.”

     Standing in this overcrowded dorm, with some one hundred other convicts yelling, and shouting, in this noisy place, listening to this broken man and reading his personal thoughts, his revelations, sends a chill through me. The thought that is forced repeatedly, despite my attempts to curtail it, to blur the moment, to control the desire to scream, but the strength wanes, it is depleted and the words form in an indistinguishable whisper of absolute cynical truth, it is almost a growl:

     THIS MAN IS GOING TO DIE IN THIS FUCKING PRISON.

     He will just disappear and the woman, who was his victim, is the only event, the only situation that he has ever influenced. Who should cry for whom? Him for me because I cannot begin to comprehend what his life must have been, or me for him, because he wants help with an appeal that will never be read. We are joining in a collaboration that has no more meaning than the screams of laughter vibrating in this desolate place, for this “convict” there was never any help, he’s been dead for 17 years.  And here I am pontificating about the inequities of prison life, with righteous indignation. Intellectualizing about, “doing time, being down, doing your bid”, and writing self-proclaimed revelations while this shadow, this dark skeletal man, with a stocking on his head, had finally succumbed to absolute abject indifference and he still wants another fucking letter written after 17 years of dying.

     I watched as he started to shuffle, stooped, through the dorm. He looked back and mouthed a whisper really, just loud enough for me to hear that he would get his papers and his minutes. After all these years he still supposes the truth is in those court minutes, those systemic transcripts of dead words that are recorded by the court reporter and have little meaning beyond functionalism. In this environment they are crucial to an inmates sanity, they become hours, days, months and sometimes years of illusions and hopes. For inmates believe that those minutes contain the key to understanding their predicament and absolve them from further punishment. Those records will explain rationally their anti-social behavior and define, in their favor that moment when at the crossroads of their life, criminality and authority collided. But these legal records remain meaningless buried rubble in the basements of the courthouses, just pages of innocuous unimportant words.

     I was drained, as I continued to watch his shuffle. It seemed to me that all my body fluids were rushing to the nearest exit. So I adjusted the earphones and turned on my Walkman and headed for the bathroom and another reality arrived. “THIS IS WMPT RADIO IN HUDSON NEW YORK WISHING YOU A WONDERFUL NIGHT BEFORE SIGHING OFF THE AIR, AND NOW FOR OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM.” I turned the fucking thing off. Fact is that I’ll write another appeal to the Temporary Release Committee, whose propensity for denial is legendary. “It’s OK pop,” I thought, I’m with you now. And as Rosey says, ” Let’s ride the fucking wave right on in”. It seems fair to write the letter for this old man, about an hour for me to type it and a lifetime for him to get them to fucking read it. So I will attack the typewriter again and I will start another letter to an administrative body that has no soul, for an inmate named Henry, who has no life. I don’t imagine that the content will cause any changes or influence the Administration to re-evaluate their position on aged inmates. Which is similar to their position on inmates with AIDS: ignore them and maybe they will vanish, as I think Henry will vanish, and the last days of his life will just be another quiet tragedy gone unnoticed. His spirit will slip out of his body at Greene Correctional Facility in A-1 Dorm. It will rise like cigarette smoke from the cube that’s been his home for years. It will mingle with the gray haze that lays like a fog over this dorm and his soul will forever be doomed to roam the halls of the structure that was dedicated to confining him. Dragging behind him the body of the woman he killed.

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