Jim's Imagination's 2

THE MASK

Chapter One...The Outsider


Beads of perspiration glistened on Jim’s forehead, but it wasn’t from the scorching august heat. In spite of his practiced look of indifference to life, he was shaking inside as if clad in only a thin undershirt in sub-zero temperatures. He was scared to death. After turning nineteen a month ago, here he was, jammed into an antiquated pre-war vehicle with twenty-one other convicted felons on his way to prison.


Self-reliance, always his source of strength and comfort, seemed as insubstantial as a loose hummingbird feather in a high wind at the moment. Little by little, he got numb as the miles rolled past them with a faint humming sound from the tires running parallel to the deep truck tire ruts in the asphalt surface of the freeway.


Everybody’s nerves were on edge. The six hour ride from the overcrowded jail in the southern part of California to Duel Vocational Institute in the central part of the state without air conditioning was no fun. Confined by handcuffs and leg shackles, everyone grunted and strained trying to get comfortable in the cramped seating arrangements. The musky odor of so many bodies packed together was nearly overpowering. When someone’s stomach growled, he quickly joined in with the sarcastic laughter. If he copied their defiant, devil-may-care behavior, perhaps he could keep his true feelings hidden. This was nothing new. He had role played to escape pain all his life.


Jim wasn’t a violent or aggressive kid, even though he grew up in a rough neighborhood in San Pedro, California. By nature, he was tender-hearted and could never purposely hurt another human being. This character trait left him defenseless, but using his quick wit, he discovered a way to escape the usual neighborhood brawls. He learned how to bluff.


At first, it took all of his will power to maintain a look of emotional detachment when a school yard bully, fists clenched, was inches from his face calling his courage into question with red-faced, spit-riddled insults. With practice, he got better at it and by the time he reached high school, his silent, intense look caused other kids to label him as unpredictable. They didn’t know what he was capable of and left him alone.


He was certain that the prisoners surrounding him on the bus were far more dangerous than the schoolyard bullies where he grew up. He heard them recounting stories about the pleasure they experienced when kicking and stomping someone on the ground, while ignoring their pitiful cries for help. Severely injuring or killing some helpless person seemed like a favorite pastime, a test of manhood, or perhaps even a form of worship all rolled into one.


These guys were hard core rapists and killers, not first time offenders like Jim and a few others on the bus who committed petty, non-violent crimes. He feared that his tough guy play-acting might not be convincing enough to fool real tough guys.


For a fleeting moment, he tried to kid himself into thinking that he had gained some measure of acceptance after being with this group during their thirty day stay at county, but he knew he was kidding himself. It felt more like he was being tolerated; sized up.


His future in prison looked uncertain as he sat wedged into a tiny space between a massive barrel-chested, no-neck guy and the molded gray metal side of the prison bus. He could hardly breathe.


This almost reminded him of how he felt when he tried attending church (why?) for a few months before getting in trouble with the law. His deep mahogany tan, sun bleached hair, and proverbial “Hey man, what’s happenin’” greeting, guaranteed him minimal acceptance from the pale-skinned churchgoers. He felt hemmed in on every side by religious conversation he didn’t understand, and shirt and tie formality. He tried to learn how to talk to God and to them, but finally gave up and left. Things were different now. He wasn’t trying to talk to God any more and this guy outweighed him by a hundred pounds.


Jim began to regret his decision to burglarize the drive-through dairy where his friend Georgie worked as he wriggled around in a futile attempt to loosen the damp shirt that was sticking to his back and to the ribbed Naugahyde seat. This was miserable. He had to say something to his seat mate, even though his goal at this point was to not be involved in any significant confrontations; to somehow find a method of acceptance as an equal without violence being involved. It was beginning to look like a tall order.


After several dry swallows, Jim hazarded a polite comment. “I hope the food in this place won’t be worse than it was at county.” The high-pitched sound of his voice revealed his inner tension.
Unconsciously, he squared his thin shoulders as the man next to him turned the upper portion of his muscular bulk in the seat, leaned over and silently studied him, as if trying to decide how to deal with such a minor annoyance.


As the behemoth leaned closer, his physical presence was overwhelming. “It must be obvious to him that I’m not one of them,” Jim thought. “Can this guy tell how desperately I’m trying to act cool to conceal my real feelings?” The hulking man’s eyes were dark and penetrating with a pale blue glint that successfully imitated the reflection of metallic color on the rounded surface of a bullet poised in front of an empty chamber.


Jim got light-headed for a second. The gun in the guy’s eyes was loaded now, and the hammer just clicked back. “What am I going to do,” his mind screamed. He battled to maintain the detached expression on his face, but was shaking with fear inside. He heard that when cons perceive any weakness, any kind of fear, they would take advantage of it and make life a nightmare for you. Jim couldn’t take his eyes off the man because he sensed that some others were watching with interest to see if a fight was going to start. Anything to break up the monotony.


Then it happened! So fast he thought later he must have imagined it. The bus jolted across a bumpy spot in the road and the man next to him winked. Maybe the sudden movement of the bus jarred his body. He didn’t know. Every pothole and road wrinkle this aging contraption traveled across felt like an 8.5 on the Richter scale to Jim. He managed not to flinch, but his expression began to stiffen and feel unnatural, like onion skin paper stapled to his skin. He turned away, searching for something to concentrate on in the passing blur of sun-scorched fields outside the window.


This was a taste of what it was going to be like.......a constant feeling of emotional and physical intimidation. During the rest of the ride he would try to forget how queasy his stomach felt.


Two hours later, anxious to be free from the unwanted company of his large seating companion, Jim was almost glad when the bus neared its destination in the farming country of central California. As they turned off the interstate onto Kasson Road, there were crops of tomatoes, cabbages and tobacco plants growing everywhere, but all he could see was what loomed up in front of him.


Bloodless gray ramparts seemed to reach into the heavens. Jim hadn’t imagined anything like this, even in his worst nightmares at county. He learned later that this monstrous place spreads out over seven hundred and eighty-three acres like some kind of malignant concrete growth. Nothing grew near it, as if it was sucking the life and vitality from the soil of the surrounding farmland.


He was to find out it was like a foreign country with its own language and culture, a place where freedom of choice was nothing more than a memory.


Chapter two---Prison Life


With a loud grinding noise of metal on metal, the iron gates slid open to admit the bus, and two detached looking guards escorted them from the dust-covered bus. The silent man from the bus plodded along behind Jim with a heavy step. His overactive mind imagined the guy’s thirty-eight caliber eyes boring holes in his back. He was still uncertain whether the guy winked at him on the bus or not. Jim shuddered inwardly, worried about what his intentions might be. He had heard stories at County jail.


Those stories were uppermost in Jim’s mind when he was told to strip naked and stand in line with the rest to get prison clothes and bedding from Receiving.


Though he usually ate a lot, he had a high metabolism so his body was thin, only a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. It was pretty embarrassing when he shed his underwear because he sported a deep mahogany tan which he always showed off at the beach, but his lower abdomen was as pale and smooth like the underside of a fish’s belly.


Jim was very self conscious and tried to appear more confident to the other larger men surrounding him just as he did on the bus. He straightened up, inflated his chest, and squared his shoulders, but no one paid the slightest attention. They were too busy laughing and joking about renewing old acquaintances. For many of them, this was home because they couldn’t make it on the outside.


An officer assigned him a tiny four by eight foot single cell in E unit. Jim meticulously spaced a few personal articles on the small porcelain sink so that there would be some appearance of order, because his world felt so out of control.


He peered through the bars. The cool touch of metal against his skin forced him to face the reality that there was something wrong in his life and the burglary was only a symptom. He wanted to cry, but his emotions remained bottled up inside. The mask of make-believe he wore was so much a part of him now that he hardly knew how to express real emotion any more.


He was keenly aware that the biggest personal problem the mask hid, was a deep feeling of failure, a feeling of being unable to live up to others expectations. When this monster lumbered to its feet inside him, saliva dripping from it’s long, curved fangs, he knew he was in for it.


His jaw set stubbornly as he thought about his upbringing. He had learned early by example that he was no good. Hugs, or any other form of affection weren’t part of his childhood, only constant reminders in his mother’s slurred, drunken voice that he was in the way, or didn’t do anything right. He wondered if anyone could ever understand how angry he felt inside. And more importantly, would anyone ever love him?


Those in charge made all his decisions for him now; told where to sleep, what to wear, and what to eat, his normally long-legged stride and eager “I’m going to devour life” step became a measured plodding like all the others; chow hall, aimlessly wandering around, then chow again, watch some TV and finally crash in his cell. Days and nights began to run together in a meaningless blur.


Jim burned a lot of energy trying to appear relaxed and nonchalant while he cautiously checked things out. Some guys nodded at him, but no one had engaged him in conversation yet. He was glad, because he didn’t want to attract any attention from the prison population until he figured what group in its social hierarchy to align himself with.


He took a walk out to the exercise yard which was about the size of two and a half football fields. You could feel the tension in the air. Everyone milled restlessly around in small groups having hushed conversations as if waiting for something to happen. He learned later that the overcrowded conditions created an atmosphere of racial hatred and rivalry, so that the place was nicknamed “gladiator school” by inmates and guards alike. Physical violence was the answer to every problem in this place and was central to everyone’s thinking.


One group in the left hand corner of the yard was busy pumping iron. They were huge guys. And scary. The large, silent man from the bus was with them, and looked Jim’s direction. He murmured something in quiet tones to the others as he walked past, trying to look indifferent.
Shirtless, and slick with sweat, their massive upper bodies covered with outlandish tattoos of bloody daggers, girl’s names, and snakes coming out of eyeless, bony skulls, they turned and studied him with hard, glittering eyes.


In Jim’s overwrought imagination, the tattooed images seem to crawl across their bulging muscles as if they had a life of their own and were thinking about coming his direction, but only the silent man walked towards him. In spite of himself, his skin got clammy and a chill ran up his spine, but surprisingly, the stern look on the guy’s face relaxed into a crooked smile as he drew closer.


His tone was friendly as he stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Mike. I thought I’d come over and see if you’d like to work out with us. Oh, and by the way” he said with a chuckle, “I was only messing with your head on the bus. All the new fish get that.”


The offer was so unexpected that Jim barely kept his composure as he shook Mike’s hand, but the tightness in his voice betrayed his nervousness. “Uh, sure, that’d be great.”


Mike smiled, turned, and beckoned for the tattooed weight lifters to come closer. There were five in all. Viewed at close range, they were even bigger and imposing than before. “Haaay vato, que paso?” Other than this opening greeting by a very dark-skinned guy, introductions consisted mostly of brief grunts in English and Spanish. This wasn’t a very talkative bunch.


Silence can hide a multitude of things, and Jim had no idea what their real motives might be for offering friendship, so was still on his guard.


(SHOW; BY SPEECH, BODY ENGLISH, ETC.) (Include some dialogue? )


When Mike, who seemed to be the natural leader of the group, suggested working out inside because of the scorching heat, it didn’t take much persuading. There were immediate grunts and nods of approval and Jim tagged along as they all headed towards the indoor gym in the East wing. Some kind of acceptance was better than nothing.


As they neared the the gym, Jim got a real shock. He used to lift a little with a friend in his garage near the beach, but they rarely used more than two twenty-five pound weights on each end of the bar. That backyard experience didn’t prepare him for what he saw when he entered the gym doors.


Jim couldn’t help but think about his own skinny body when he saw a guy eagerly slapping four quarters on each end of the bar, plus a bunch of dimes and nickels. How could anyone be so enthusiastic about lifting that?


He hesitated in the doorway as the metallic sounds inside briefly played with his imagination. He thought the rapturous uproar of clanking quarters reaching his ears sounded like a brass band playing some kind of up tempo call to action. Perhaps each new weight added to the bar symbolized a some layer of anger and hatred about the condition of their lives. being temporarily released when it was successfully lifted.


He looked around. The gym was in a roughly rectangular shape, maybe five hundred feet wide by twelve hundred feet in length. It was divided in half by a twelve foot high wire fence, the kind with rigid interlocking quarter inch wire squares you see on schoolyards. On the other side of the wire was a basketball court with a shiny parquet wooden floor. It was time to get down to the nitty-gitty.