I. Vicious State of Mind
“Caution, approaching platform.”
The announcement drowns out the clipped whispers, but the furtive eyeballing remains. Some knew me immediately. The celebrity-like recognition flashed like fat paparazzi Nikons as they traced the familiar tattoo slopping down my cheek, burning into the path of another that peaks just above the collar of a grimy Seattle Sounders T.
Most don’t. You got the ones boycotting the news. Media war on truth, yea? Can’t trust shit. The conspiracy theorists, ya know? All tinted shades and darting eyes. Illuminati everywhere, man.
High school kids too young to know my face or past. Too absorbed what actor is currently fuckin’ the latest big thing in the music biz. Who the fuck is Taylor Swift? Sounds like all kinds of jailbait.
And then there’s my favorite group, the ones mirroring me. The ones too strung out on their own vices, too worried about bills, child support, and late night gunfire. Pip-pop drive-byes, ya know? Too big a bucket’a personal hells to care about the story of another black struggling right along side them in the Twomps.
Shit if whispered gossip ain’t the addict’s heated spoon of heroin though. You know it’s a bad idea as it shimmers and melts… shit do ya fucking know it. But the intoxicating need to have it flowing through your veins overrides rational thought and self-preservation. One taste and… haze… it feels good to drown your own pain by tasting other’s, especially if it’s good product. Good gossip. Real black and white Romeo and Juliet shit. High society and gutter trash. So pure you wouldn’t even know you were ODing until it was too late.
And yet, the kid in me notes the curious fear mixing with their gossiping greed. As a kid in the dubs, I grew up with the pip-pip-pop-pop symphony of gunfire. They grew up with clean spoons in mouths and no cans of spam. Bastards didn’t know shit about fear.
They probably think of me as just another one of those mindless gangbangers you always hear about on the 4 o’clock news. The fat, small station moneymaker: crime and death, brother, crime and death. Another scary black man let loose on their streets… again. They ain’t exactly wrong, but they sure as hell ain’t exactly right either. They don’t know me. They got no right to measure me. And yet, I can’t really blame them for their twisty predilections.
Self-doubt. Self-recrimination. Hate. And a crumpled dollar’s worth of short-changed self-pity. I’ve gone through the 12-steps of bullshit too many times to count. It’s all one big circle-jerk in plastic chairs with a plate of cookies and a dozen years of sob stories. If you’re real lucky, a few scripture verses too. What do they say though? Guilt festers and consumes when you think you deserve it.
At the same time though, when you got blood like mine… when that blood has painted back-alleys into ruby-red murals because you were just another punk-ass kid with the world to fight, there’s always that scrap of pride that can’t be beaten outta you completely.
So, about half a dozen stops ago, I abandoned my sketchbook and inks and charcoal pencils and stared right back, fingers tapping out a hip-hop beat on the handrail. That only got’em riled up, the whispers traveling through the cramped metal tube like paint in water. Not a single bit of clear liquid is spared the dirty truth of who and what I am. What I’ve done. It moves right on down the line.
A group of teens, not much younger than me when everything tumbled off axis, stare the hardest. The longest. But unlike the rest, their mouths don’t move at all. They don’t need them to, which both fascinates and disturbs me cuz it’s another reminder that the world doesn’t stop moving even when you do. It keeps on advancing, sometimes for the worst.
Their fingers, replacing the cupped hand whispering of childhood I remembered, tip-tap across shiny sleek screens, futuristic phones buzzing like angry hornets with a flurry of messages. I can almost picture little thought bubbles sprouting above their heads with tiny people in them, trading words in a language I’m cut off from.
It’s a good idea for a thematic painting so I tuck that stray idea away for later when insomnia rears its ugly head and the screams beat bongo drums against my ribs.
And yet, one of the teens is oblivious to the finger tapping communication. She’s a dark haired girl with pouty lips and bright slanted eyes. Asian maybe. Don’t know which flavor. The kind that draws eyes though.
There’s a sort of morbid curiosity in her slate grays, a dark magnetic pull that has me wishing I could bleed through the seat beneath me to the tracks below. I’ve seen that look before. Taken advantage of it. Been taken advantage by. Won’t succumb to either again.
And yet, another voice, real basic and instinctual, and fringed with the danger dad’s warn daughters about, has different ideas and seedy carnal cravings. They’re the sort prison tries to beat out of you, make you forget, make you hate. And, perhaps worst of all, designed to make a black man fear.
That voice scribbles out scenes in garish graffiti and it plays out with frightening simplicity at first: stick figures coming together as the pages they inhabit flip by at film reel speed. Soon enough they’re tearing away from the paper, jumping into a stylized, three-dimensional world of M.C. Escher’s Relativity. Their smiles, our smiles, twist, and bodies warp. We’re rutting upside down, pressing against ceilings and walls at impossible angles, the laws of gravity and reason funneled into incomprehension and dizzying madness. A bad coke trip.
I blink and it all warps, a black and white silent film, fluttering frame by horrifyingly slow frame.
She’s bent over on tiled floor, round ass pointed to the sky. Fat pearled drops of semen drip from her flared pink pussy. And just before a giant invisible eraser wipes the scene away, her slim neck cranes around, and frosted blue lips grin ear to ear.
I can’t breathe. Everything’s cold. I run my hands up my arms, looking for the raised little bumps from a needle, breathe out raspy relief when I don’t find any. The girl’s smile still remains though, taunting. I grimace and squeeze my eyes shut.
I'm crazy.
Five years. Can you really lose that much of yourself?
Rhetorical.
I know all about both prison experiments and prison realities. My boy Zimbardo showed what happens even to those claiming to be good people. And there aren’t many of those to begin with. Real ones I mean.
It doesn’t take much though. For damn sure. What? You surprised? Thought I wouldn’t know him? Oh, I know his work, have experienced it firsthand. Prison creates roles to be filled, man. And you change yourself to fit into them. And it’s real fluid-like that change. Like diving into water.
The train jolts slightly as it pulls into the platform and I’m… back… eyes opening slowly. The whispers have picked up again, louder, more frenetic.
I realize three things in that moment. Each more fucked than the last.
One. My eyes are burning a hole through the mouth of that pale, dark haired girl.
Two, there’s an uncomfortable, pulsing erection in my jeans.
Three. The atmosphere inside the compartment has shifted. I look around. And in everyone’s eyes lies accusation. Disbelief. Contempt. Fear. Disgust. Rage. They’re the same emotions I saw on the daily growing up in Ghosttown, only magnified by a thousand. Cuz, being honest, people round here always seem to know when you’re from the dirty thirties. And they judge you for it.
Except her. She doesn’t even bat an eye. Doesn’t whisper. Doesn’t smile either. Her eyes are trained on the bulge I’m trying to hide beneath a sling-bag. Those slate grays of hers make my skin crawl. Reminds me of a prison therapist. There was a dichotomous split to that freckled broad: the dead eyes of someone who’s seen too much evil in the world, was scared by it all, and yet… had a certain kind of twisted, starry-eyed lust fueled by the very criminals perpetrating that frightening evil, by dangerous men locked behind bars, a cold decadent zoo designed to fulfill fucking fantasies. Fantasies many of my fellow inmates were more than willing to help provide under the guise of research for a book on prison psychology.
I’m unashamed in saying I volunteered more than once. Tasted her sweet hellish mouth in cramped closets. Put dick to ass. Gave her all she wanted and more. Until fear and intoxication merged and she changed into something I sometimes regret helping along. Little white girl psychologist had no idea. Had her mind fucked to pieces with no puzzle master to put it all back together. But when you’re desperate, and the only other way to numb the world out is drugs, you made the hard decisions. And I wasn’t going down that trap again.
So here I am, inner voice humming at those memories as this small, not so innocent girl glides slim tan fingers up slim tan thighs, higher and higher until they drift under baby blue skirt. The tip of her red tongue pokes out as her fingers manipulate the junction between her smooth thighs, working quickly to beat the next PA blast.
“Stand clear, doors opening.”
The suction seal breaks with a hissed sigh of relief and bodies flow from the metal tube and out onto the platform. I expect jostling. Impatience. A maddened collective need to push through the crowd and escape the close-knit confines of steel and aluminum and a monster they cannot stand, nor understand. But there isn’t. Just movement. Serpentine. Cold. Just warm bodies hiding cold blood moving from one place to the next before clocks tick and the cycle begins again. I’m merely the un-caged, potentially violent entertainment to get them from point A to point B without falling asleep. I imagine they’ll send messages from their strange phones. Tell a friend what they saw on the ride home. Sympathies and horrors exchanged. And move on.
Forget.
Easy as eating granny’s warm apple pie.
The bizarre nature of the moment brings forth a rage I thought buried for good, a part of me that prefers cold stone, colder iron and a pallet thinner than a deck of cards. When the company of fellow convicts feels more sociable, more natural, and less like rats scuttling mindlessly for their one bit of happiness, their one bite of cheesy goodness before death, you almost want to go back.
But then, in a six-by-eight cell neighboring another six-by-eight cell, fifteen per wall, forty-five per floor, you share something in common with those around you. You don’t trust them. You hate each other. Would kill each other to survive if you had to. But they’re like you, in certain ways, and that’s something you can trust. Can connect to. Even with a shiv in the back. You’d at least understand, in some perverse way.
The platform empties just as quickly as it filled, bodies piling in so the process can begin again at the next platform: stranger for stranger, destination for destination, until the crackling PA system crackles out that the next stop is the last stop, the end of the line.
That frightened me as a kid growing up, ya know? The last stop I mean. The kind of scared that’s wholly irrational. Makes no sense. Ain’t no rhyme or reason for it. Just is. Except there probably is both rhyme and reason and I’m not at all inclined to accept them quite yet.
The train jerks and begins its slow crawl away from the platform. I look up from my empty sketchpad to catch sight of a figure running frantically towards us, arms wind milling. But there’s no stopping now. No one cares. It’s Oaktown, man. Always gotta see to yourself first.
Even so, I capture this desperate figure with charcoal nibs on the page in my lap. Give life to a face I can’t see from this distance.
Wild pink hair.
Sleek ruddy cheeks.
Bright eyes with laughter lines.
I continue on and for reasons I wish I can’t explain, I also bring a subtle sadness into the face. Pain hidden behind below porcelain surface.
Yet, I give the face a smile. So wide it hurts. Fucking megawatt intensity. Hot enough to scorch away all the two-faced expressions and bullshit people wear throughout the day.
I stop.
Look down.
Grimace tightly.
I’ve drawn… the past, or rather, a reminiscent imagining of it, with slight changes here and there. It’s not pleasant one. I tuck the pad into my beat-up sling-bag and pull out a block of post-it notes.
“Caution. Approaching platform.”
The train creeps to a stop. Bodies pile off. Bodies pile on.
When I’m finished, I flip through the block of post-its.
Masked stick figures dance to silent beats
Over moonlit sheets,
Oblivious to the world,
To each other.
Until they press together,
Morph into one,
Bouncing over beds,
Bouncing against walls,
Down empty boulevards…
Bouncing, bouncing, bouncing…
Until they separate again
Into two distinct forms,
Silent again. Considering each other
The way I guess the Martian and the man
Might… What the shit is that?
Who are you?
What are you?
Alien dreams in
Convoluted space.
II. Bubble Gum
“Caution, approaching platform.”
The aluminum can is a boiling furnace. Sweat beads on foreheads. Heads droop. Eyes flutter. The broken A/C system spits and clunks along, adding only lukewarm air to the suffocating Oakland heat pushing through the windows.
It’s ninety-five degrees outside and hotter than hell in the tube. But it’s a hell I welcome. Two weeks released and this is the first time I don’t have to worry about the stares and the whispers.
I struggle to finish a warm-up sketch, twisting a charcoal nib in sloping waves, blending with the pad of my thumb. It’s rough. Normally crisp lines are sloppy.
“Stand clear, doors opening.”
Muted sighs of relief filter around as bodies struggle up and out into the blistering afternoon sun.
I’ve drawn her again. Well, not her exactly I guess. It’s more symbol attached to an early memory. A hummingbird, wings blurred, hovering over snapdragons.
Under the oppressive heat of the sun, I struggle to relive a particular memory. It was winter I think and we were tangled beneath a quilt next to a space heater, her slick pussy radiating warmth against my leg. I remember how she used to complain about being cold all the time. Even when Oakland was a veritable sauna compared to the cold tundra she was born in. She liked to say it was the Russian blood in her, punishing her family through her for leaving the Motherland. Would mutter a few obscenities in her native tongue and raise a middle finger up to the sky.
She’d been humming that night, as she often did, while I traced that hummingbird ink at the crease of her thigh, content to watch the wings flutter each time she moved.
Then she’d stopped suddenly, lotion soft hand skimming over my groin. Little secrets and dreams spilled from her lips like fruity ambrosia. Dark secrets. Vivid dreams. Kaleidoscopic. I thought it was the shrooms talking, but it was all her. Always her. Her mind was beautifully eccentric and too fucking good for this goddamn planet. And it had my fingers itching, desperate to draw that pensive look of peace on her face. She was…
A loud pop shatters the daydream and I fight like hell to keep it going as it puffs away to black smoke.
“Whatcha drawing?” a breathy voice asks.
I look up and you’re hunched over like Auguste Rodin’s, The Thinker, green eyes working me over with surveillance-like intensity, a predator drone skimming Middle East desert for targets.