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Click HERE for part 1. Who wanted to talk? Who could? The esprit de corps
had been drained out of us, and rag-tagged legionnaires
shuffled toward the elevator, 7th Cavalry returning from
the Little Big Horn, AFTER Sitting Bull was finished with
them! As we neared my tier, I foolishly contemplated the
idea of getting some nod, at last some sleep. Before I
could turn into my driveway a "hey you" stopped me in my
tracks. Stopping was my first mistake. Turning around was
error numeral dugan. A chunky-built woman, with a mas-
sive tangle of overly dyed red hair, addressed me.
"You shoppin' canteen today?"
Before I could respond she slapped some money into my
hand. "Good! Stand in line and buy me ten candy bars!" I
hesitated, beginning to understand why Norma never asked.
Nobody asked, they just gave orders. The chunky woman
grew worried at my apparent reluctance and her entire de-
meanor changed. Her voice was almost a whine.
"I need um bad, baby . . . I'm chuckin', and we can
only get ten apiece . . ."
"Canteen's coming! Everyone in line! No talking! Ditty
bags ready!"
"What's a ditty bag?"
"Oh shit! Go get your pillow case! Hurry!" The woman
pushed me into a running start. I was back in a mini, huff-
ing and puffing like Wilma Rudolph right after winning the
Indianapolis 500 on foot. Even at that I made it only just in
time.
"Where's your list?"
"What list?"
"Get out of line!" L.A.C.J.'s finest snapped. "You must
have a list!"
I watched the chuck-wagon move out toward the Rock-
ies, without feeding lil' ol' "Priscilla Prickly The Pioneer."
Right before it disappeared behind a giant cactus, the red-
haired fluff rolled up and unsheathed her verbal tomahawk.
I muttered something about a list, while she growled out
things like "Dumb assed bitch" and "dizzy broad" and oth-
er such delicacies. The situation seemed destined to turn
into quite a scene, but it woke Norma up.
"Uh, say, Dinky," she called through the bars at the red-
head, "leave Ima alone. She don't know nothin'."
Norma had that right! I gave the woman her money back
and dragged myself into the cell. "Did you get the dress?"
Norma asked, lighting a cigarette. I had hoped she wouldn't
ask. She blew the smoke out in rings, extra slow, so it was
easy to see she was holding in her anger. She exchanged it
for some dry sarcasm.
"You didn't get it," she said to herself matter of factly.
"Did she come?"
"Yeah, she came." I didn't take any pains to conceal my
weariness.
Norma shook her head from side to side. "That broad
took a chance on being busted, and you didn't even show
up. Boy oh boy . . ."
I was pretty disgusted myself, not only about the dress,
but with the entire day. I opened the locker door and
plomped down on the commode, trying to decide if I
should continue with just the quivering lips or move on up
to a cloudburst of tears. An announcement crawled down
the tier.
"Ladies! Get Ready! A tour is coming."
Norma giggled, obviously no longer upset about the
dress, came over and slapped me on the knee. "C'mon , Ima,
suck it back in. You don't want them peeps viewing you on
the throne, do you?"
What a trip! What a place! Not even enough peace for a
girl to sit down and have a simple cry.
At last! Sleep! I just let everything go and sank into my
long awaited slumber. Hmm . . . did it feel good! Eventu-
ally, my journey into the land of zzzz's was invaded by a
dream, a brilliant light shining from on high, accompanied
by a dreamy voice that kept crooning my name.
"Ima! Ima! IMA!"
Oh no! It wasn't no dream! I blinked my beepers open
and sho'nuf, there was the friendly neighborhood police-
man, pointing her flashlight at me face.
"Hurry up! Get dressed! You're going to court!"
Court? The sun wasn't even up yet. Eyes still plastered
together with the sandman's refuse, I eased off the bed,
careful lest the squeaking wake Norma. When my feet
touched the icy cement, I stifled a gasp, not only because of
the sharp chill on my moon men, but because my night-
gown had caught on a loose spring. My predicament was
such that I had to remain poised on my toes or risk tearing my
nightgown. In a state of near-panic, I counted to ten, then
again, and once more for good measure, then forced myself
to be calm while I figured out the alternatives: I could
stand there the rest of my life, try the risky business of
climbing back up and untangling the gown, or I could just
say "fuck it", rip the mother loose and put up with Nor-
ma's growling.
Norma made my decision for me. She startled me with
her whisper. "You going to court?"
"Yeah", I said, raising up on tip-toes. If I could make the
gown slack, a quick jerk might tear it free with little dam-
age. I jerked hard. Instead of the loud, tearing noise which
usually accompanied cloth ripping, my yank encountered
no resistance at all. In fact, I must have freed the gown en-
tirely, because I tumbled into the locker, causing a skelter
of noise and banging bones on metal. I thought sure, at the
very least, my elbow was broken. My funny bone sent a
charge up my arm that brought tears to my eyes.
"Ima! What the hell are you doin'?" Norma hissed.
"My gown was caught!" I hissed right back at her. My
crazy bone was raising havoc with my arm and I was in no
mood for anyone hassling me.
Norma laughed and lit a cigarette. The glow made her
face visible and I could see her propped up on an elbow.
"Don't worry. This is just for a plea. They'll tell you to say
you ain't guilty and to come back in two weeks."
"What? . . . Oh yeah . . ." I was too busy primping in
the dark to pay full attention to what Norma was saying.
"You got any peeps out there, Ima?"
"Hmm hmm," I gurgled with my toothbrush jammed in
my jibs, "mby mbolks, mband ma mbew mbriends . . .
Mbhy?"
"Because you'll be able to use a telephone, that's why."
She fumbled around in her pillow-case. "Here, here's a
dime. Make sure you call collect, so you can use it over
again. Don't lend it to nobody, you understand, rubber-
band? That goes for smokes too!" She motioned toward the
locker. "Take a pack, but keep in mind that that stuff
comes hard in here, so don't go playin' the role of some
good time samaritan with the goodies. These moochin' bitch-
es will drain you dry. You dig?"
Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle, bwoosh! "Gee, thanks". Norma
viewed my "gee's" and "gollies" with much distaste, be-
cause to her these were expressions of naivety and an open
invitation to the jailhouse hustlers and con artists. Yet life-
long training and habits are not easy things to discard, and I
was having very little success with the ejection of the Ima
Fibbon I had known all my life.
"Duh, shucks, ma'am," Norma mimicked. With a chuc-
kle, she pulled the covers up to her chin and rolled over.
My head spun. Where was my dress? How was I sup-
posed to comb my hair in the dark? How was I expected to
make a good impression in front of the judge? It was bad
enough just going in front of one, because already I was in
possession of a long-seeded image of those stern-faced indi-
viduals, enshrouded in their black robes, scowling down at
the fallen from their heaven-high benches. It gave me the
shivers to think of myself in the clutches of these self-pro-
claimed gods, so I conjured up Perry Mason for the defense.
After a few magic exchanges with "his honor." Perry smiled
benevolently and said, "justice has been served, Ima. Go in
peace."
I was still drooling at myself - walking arm in arm with
those I loved, out of the courtroom and into the sun - when
reality struck.
"All courts stand back! When your door opens, step out
and come to the front immediately!"
"Bye, baby." Norma's tone was warm and gentle, and I
tried to see her face in the gloom. I couldn't, because of the
semi-darkness and because she had turned toward the wall
again. Her hair was braided and this somehow indicated the
mellow Norma, the woman behind the tough facade.
"Don't worry 'bout your bed. I'll make it up."
The door rattled open. Myself and several other courts
lined up at the tier gate. I glanced at a wall clock. It was
four in the morning. After surveying my court pals, howev-
er, I didn't feel half as bad about my appearance, because
any one of us could have easily won the "Miss Nightmare"
title, going away.
Our first stop was the mess hall. The dimly-lit hallway
was so cold that my teeth began to chatter. As I took my
tray from the rack, my heart warmed at the thought of dig-
ging into some hot grub, until, that is, I saw that the main
course was SOS, initials for a concoction commonly re-
referred to by residents as "shit on the shingle." A woman be-
hind me started humming under her breath: "If it was good
enough for my army daddy, it's good enough for me."
I probably would have been amused, were I not so hun-
gry and had the time been apppropriate for human life, rath-
er than hours before the chickens started scratching. But at
least the coffee was hot, and while I sipped I noticed that
one woman was actually shoveling in the main dish. I
caught her attention, motioned with my spoon to my SOS,
then her coffee. She nodded and we made the exchange I
felt really proud of myself, my first transaction without
the assistance of Norma's eyes there to clue me in. The
only thing lacking for my moment of triumph was the New
York Philharmonic, playing their rendition of the Notre
Dame Victory March as a tribute to my craftiness in jail-
house bargaining.
"All courts file out! Deposit your spoons at the door!"
We marched through an acre of hallways and into the
booking area, where we waited in a crammed, smokey
room. A few minutes later we were called one by one and
ushered into another room. This was filled with a row of
dressing stalls.
"439126!"
I jumped forward, immediately cursing myself for so
quickly responding to a number, automatically. The action
frightened me, not only because my name had been exchanged
for a number in a file, but because in my own mind I was be-
ginning to lose sight of my true identity. The habitual finger
pointed directions.
Inside still another room, a trustee in a striped dress
handed me my street clothes from an alcove with a Dutch
door. I had completely forgotten my navy blue bells, blue
workshirt and sandals. I slipped into them as quickly as
possible, even though no one gave the "hurry up" order.
Once again I reprimanded myself for the conditioning that
was taking place within me.
After I dressed I sat waiting, until I saw another woman
march to the closet and turn in her jail clothes. I emulated
her, now acutely aware of my lack of individual identity, but
finding it much easier to fall in with the regimented proce-
dure.
In wrinkled civvy spendor, we were marched from the
building and into the back of a bus, where an officer
checked our wristbands before marking off our numbers on
a clipboard.
It was pitch black outside and my attempt to get a
glimpse of the sky was in vain. The summer sun was the
only thing that could penetrate the light fog, and it had not
stuck its smiling face over the horizon yet.
I found myself a seat by a window, looking forward to
the ride. I felt a deep tiny tingle when the big engine roared
to life and we pulled out into the street. Eagerly, I peered
out the window, wondering if freedom was still free, if peo-
ple walked the streets and children still galloped around
like crazy while shopping with their mothers. All I could
see in the gloom was desertion - desolate gray streets and
sidewalks, dotted on occasion by a sparse patch of green, or
a tree. After a while I just stared out, but at nothing, mere-
ly pointing my eyes.
We stopped at another jail, the men's hotel, and there we
ended up in a holding tank, with six benches bolted to the
walls and a telephone booth. On one side of the tank an of-
ficer sat enclosed in a thick glass cage. I fought down the
urge to shout "will the real goldfish please stand up?" There
was no sink or any other toilet facilities, so I gathered that
mother nature wasn't allowed to function, unless she got
busted.
My first thought was the telephone, but after watching the
swarm of screaming and clawing women there, I decided it
was best to wait. I lit a cigarette and occupied myself by
admiring the artwork on the walls of the penal museum.
Most of the graffiti was from one human to another, tatoos
of devotion: "Baby loves Peaches. Bobby and Sue por
vida." A few slogans expressed other ideas: "Viva la Raza!
Jesus saves! God is alive and well - he's hiding in Argen-
tina!"
The clamor around the telephone reached nerve-wrack-
ing proportions, and a craving for solitude overtook me.
The thick smoke in the air also began to affect me, so I
crushed out my cigarette and found myself a seat on the
floor.
An hour later, an officer called numbers over an inter-
com. We lined up at the door, showed our wristbands, then
boarded the bus as our numbers were called relentlessly.
"439126." I climbed onboard.
This time there were men sitting in the rear. I had been
on buses before with men, but under far different circum-
stances, and never gazing through a wire-mesh, or listening
to the Tarzan/Jane wolf-whistles, all in tune with the rat-
tling of chains and shackles. I settled in for an interesting
ride.
"Anyone looking back will be written up and taken im-
mediately to lock-up upon our return!"
We booed the villian, but turned to face forward, pout-
ing. The majority dreaded lock-up, much more than a hur-
ried love affair through a screen, yet a few continued to
play, finding that the insinuating smiles and eye signals
were worth the risk.
By the time our chariot backed into the courthouse un-
loading area, the sun had turned the sky into a rainbow of
smoggy colors.
"Ladies first".
An elevator zipped us to the top. Four right turns, three
lefts, one dip and a curve later, we were deposited into still
another holding tank. It was a duplicate of the last tank,
but in minature. Neither was there a glass cage or an
officer present, so two women took advantage of the situa-
tion and set up house. I looked away quickly as they em-
braced and exchanged a yard of tongue. I wasn't repulsed,
but rather frightened at the unfamiliarity of the scene. I
concentrated on the walls, nearly bored with the incarcerat-
ed jottings - until, that is, I spotted Norma's name on the
makeshift billboard. I gasped at the thought of my bunkie
being a lesbian, then asked myself if it really mattered. I fi-
nally decided that she was my friend and that that was all I'd
need to go on.
A hand on my shoulder scared the nibbles out of me. It
was the same woman who'd been behind me in the mess
hall. She was a small, pretty blonde. She ran her fingers
through her short-cropped hair and pointed at Norma's
name.
"That's your tight, ain't it?"
Innocently, I asked of whom she was speaking.
"Whom!" she exclaimed with a laugh. "You know damn
well, whom!" She laughed again and emphasized, "whom
else?"
"Well . . . You could have meant someone else." I
blushed, realizing my own susceptibility.
She motioned to the other name with her cigarette.
"Don't worry, that other broad is long gone."
"You don't understand. We're only . . ." I knew my
face was beet red.
Her blue eyes twinkled. "Have no fear, sweetie, you're
safe with me." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her
blouse pocket and offered me one. I showed her mine, but
she insisted on giving me one anyway. Before I could find
my matches she was ready with a light. James Dean
should've been so cool!
"Thank you." I spoke coyly, then excused myself from
her penetrating eyes by heading for the telephone.
After six attempts to call someone I gave up. Every num-
ber I tried came up blank, but at least I still had my dime. I
tucked it back in my bra and started toward a different
seat. The blonde caught my attention and patted the bench
next to her. I felt obligated, since I had accepted that damn
cigarette, so I guessed that made us friends of sorts. The
thought of another woman making me ill-at-ease was con-
fusing and discomforting, but I swallowed the lump in my
throat and forced a grin.
"What's your name?" I asked her.
"Sparky . . . and yours is Ima."
A few minutes later I found myself involved in the game
of "how did you know?" Every word seemed to fit into a
performance, part of which included an obvious pleasure at
my uneasiness. I reached for one of my own cigarettes, but
before I had it shook loose, Sparky had the match lit.
"You're just a baby," she said soothingly, "and you're
doing right by sticking with Norma. Just don't ever do her
wrong though, you hear? Of course, if you ever
do . . . Well, let's just say you got a friend in me." She
winked. "Count on that, okay?"
There was no way to respond to that, so I changed the
subject. "What do you do?"
Sparky laughed. "Time." I caught onto her humor and
laughed myself.
"So, you'll be in for a while, eh?" Now Sparky was prob-
ing and I wasn't having any double-standards, plus I re-
membered what Norma had told me: "No one is to be
trusted!"
"I really don't know what's going to happen."
"Well, lookie here . . . If you come to the joint, I'll
make sure you get off on the right foot."
A commitment was being offered and I wanted no part
of it. Once again, Sparky had succeeded in making me
nervous. "Well, I don't really know what's gonna happen."
Sparky raised an eyebrow and peered at me. "Think
about it."
At about 10 o'clock, a female bailiff called my name. We
traveled 'round the bend, past the end, by pack train
through the Sierra Madres, finally arriving in the court-
room. The only sound there was the rustle of clothing from
the waiting audience. I was parked in front of the judge's
bench, where a male bailiff asked me if my baptismal han-
dle was Ima Fibbon.
"Affirmative."
The judge appeared indifferent, and in that genre ques-
tioned me about whether or not I had an attorney.
"Negative."
Next thing I knew, a tall, slender man, wearing a gray
suit and a peppermint tie, slid out of the wallpaper. He
mumbled nervously in my ear and handed me a card.
"I'll be up to see you as soon as I can. Plead not guilty."
"Ima Fibbon," His Honor queried, "how do you plead?"
I twisted my hands behind my back. "Not guilty." I held
my breath, almost expecting some sort of hue and cry from
the spectators, something like "off with her head!" But
there was not a word, only the heavy feel of goggling eyes
as they pierced my back.
"Very well," the judge sighed. "I direct your case to
courtroom one oh nine, where a preliminary hearing will be
held in two weeks."
"Is that all there is?" I asked my female escort.
"That's it. Walk faster, please. I have a long list of cases
and I want to finish before lunch."
When I returned to the tank, I noted that Sparky was in-
grossed in a conversation. The woman she rapped with
looked like a case of plastic surgery that had failed. Sparky
picked me up the minute I entered and signaled for me to
sit next to her. As soon as I sat down she put her hand on
my knee. The gesture made me uneasy, but I didn't pull
away. Sparky winked at me knowingly, realizing that I
wasn't going to object, because on the surface the act was
quite innocent. She continued her conversation with the
other woman.
"Man, that's a tough break." Sparky shook her head
from side to side. "Are you going to try for the joint, may-
be get out of the program?"
"I don't know . . . Is there any choice?" The woman
reached to straighten her knotted hair, found a hairpin and
stuck it between her teeth. She had some job in front of her
and I didn't think MGM's hairdresser could straighten out
that mess. "Five years of naline," she gritted. "You know
they must be tired of my ass by now." She popped the pin
in another spot, but just as I suspected, her hair looked the
same, except maybe for a reverse angle.
Sparky went on with the investigation. It was difficult to
tell whether she was sincerely interested or just being nosey.
"So, how'd you get shot down?"
"Aw, man, you wouldn't believe it." Sparky gave her a
cigarette, which served as encouragement. "I was doin' this
burglary, dig?" Sparky and I nodded while whe exhaled
some smoke. "And everything was going super cool, not a
creature was stirrin', not even a mouse . . ." She paused to
giggle at her own witticism. "And when I left, my arms was
full of goodies. It was a beautiful score and a clean geta-
way. That was when I got greedy, like there was so much I
left behind, ya know" She spread her arms, like in the
giant fish story. "On the third trip, the fuzz met me comin'
out the door. I couldn't figure it, 'cause NOBODY, and I mean
NOBODY, was anywhere in sight! Well, I ask one of these
cops how they got a why on me, and one dude points up to
the sky. Well, who should be there but this goddamn tele-
phone repairman! Not only that, but the son-of-a-bitch has
the nerve to wave good-bye to me!" Her face mirrored her
disbelief. "Now, ain't that about a bitch?"
"You're shittin' me!" Sparky exclaimed.
"Naw, man, that's square biz. But I can dig where you're
comin' from. I can hardly believe the shit myself."
I began to feel like part of the conversation and inched
in closer. Sparky took her hand off my knee and introduced
us. "Dee Dee . . . Ima. Ima . . . Dee Dee."
Not especially enthused at the new acquaintance, Dee
Dee half nodded at my big smile. "This is Ima's first fall,"
Sparky said. Dee Dee's features softened.
"What's naline?" I wanted to know.
"A jive test for dope fiends, baby, and it's a bitch."
"Oh, you mean a test for . . .?" I sounded naive and
knew it.
"That's right, honey . . . hmm hmm hmm . . . Wish I
could get a positive right now." Her eyes shut and peace
came over her face, just at the thought of a heroin high.
I was fascinated. "I've never shot any of that stuff. What
does it do?"
"It makes the world go away," Dee Dee dreamed, "just
the way the guy asks for in the song."
"So, what's gonna happen now?" Sparky asked.
Dee scratched her cheek. "Man, I dunno." Suddenly she
popped her fingers and stared at me. "Hey! Now I know
you! You been walkin' with Norma, right?"
Sparky answered for me. "Yeah, that's her roomie." I
was glad in a way that she had spoken in my place, because
even though she had been playing with my awkwardness, I
wasn't about to let the whole damn jail give me a hard
time.
Sparky swung the conversation around. "What happened
in court, Ima??"
"Oh, nothin' . . ."
Sparky curled her upper lip. "Nothin' ever does. You see,
we ain't zero to these mothers, just numbers in a jive num-
bers game." She kicked at a butt that was on the floor.
"Well, I'll tell you one thing for sure," Dee Dee put in,
"I'm gettin' off the merry-go-round this time."
"Is that so?" Sparky took no pains to hide her cynicism.
"Yeah, man, I been in this amusement park too long,
and I'm bailing out now." Dee Dee began to shiver, even
though it wasn't cold.
"I hope you make it," I told Dee, not feeling that it was
fair for Sparky to knock her good intentions.
The conversation rolled on and on, for what seemed like
a month. When an officer strolled into the tank, two dec-
ades later, our rumps were sore and our smokes were on
empty. She called our numbers and lined us up. At last!
Home sweet home! I caught myself. What home? Oh well,
at least Norma was there, but then again, I had come to
like Sparky too.
The men were on the bus already, but most of us were
too burnt out to play peek-a-boo. To my dismay, a few
minutes later we turned into the parking lot of the first
holding tank.
"Now ain't that a bitch!" Sparky growled.
"Ain't it?" I echoed.
"Aw shit!" a woman in the back snapped, as another bus
passed us going out. "That means we ain't going back till
this fuckin' place fills up again, and that could be hours!"
Our chariot squeaked to a halt. "All right ladies... out."
The tank was twice as dirty the second time around, and
by now everyone was dog tired, with nerves sho 'nuf fraz-
zled. In the space of ten minutes, two fights started and
were broken up. I listened with half an ear while another
pair bickered as to whom their pimp would bail out first. It
would be interesting to see which one would be missing
from the mess line. My bet was the shorter of the two,
mostly because I felt the taller hustler exaggerated the
amount of money she brought home to daddy. There were
some mental cases in with us too, but the other women
bombed them with an array of optical threats, like "don't
you dare go off now!" Most of these women sat alone,
mumbling to themselves. Several women cried, while still
others held hands, saddened by the fact that their new
found loves would soon be gone forever. All in all, we were
a sorry bunch, and I couldn't help thinking about and
agreeing with the various articles I'd read, concerning what
prisons did to the human mind. It caused me to dwell on a
passage from a poem titled, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol,
which had been written by Oscar Wilde:
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellow's got to swing.
Finally a bus arrived and took us back to the County
Jail. We went through the checking out procedures, but in
reverse. We showed our wristbands and were escorted to
our tiers. On my way by, I spotted Norma in the T.V.
room. She was concentrating heavily on a game of Tonk
with Rio, her partner from the streets. She didn't see me
and I was too tired to get her attention. I shuffled into the
cell, plopped down on the desk and began massaging my
weary dogs. I was sho 'nuf ready for some R&R!
"All late dinners from court, to the dining area! All late
dinners . . ."
The cell gate opened and, what the hell, people in jail are
always hungry. The mess hall was half full. On the way to
my seat I passed Sparky. Dee Dee occupied a seat next to
her, not eating, but simply staring at the floor. Sparky gob-
bled down her own food, switched trays with Dee, and then
scoffed up her portion too. When my tank number was
called, I picked up my tray and spoon, brushing Sparky's
back on my way by.
I dragged into my cell, engulfed again with visions of
slumber. It was well past lights-out and all were tucked in
for the night. Norma was still awake.
"Hi there." She'd been reading a magazine, using the
light that filtered through the bars from the outside catwalk.
She seemed happy to have me back.
I took off my dress and wriggled into my gown, wonder-
ing where to begin. "There were so many things . . . I
didn't get anyone on the phone . . . I met Sparky and a
friend of hers, Dee Dee . . . She's gonna kick her habit
and . . ."
"Hold it baby." Norma smiled tenderly. "Slow down be-
fore you get flagged for speeding. You look tired, so you
can tell me in the morning, okay?"
"That sounds cool." I tossed my dress into the locker,
noting that I was beginning to feel comfortable with Norma.
I hopped up onto my bunk, then leaned over the edge.
"Goodnight."
Norma reached up and tossled my hanging hair. I started
to touch one of her braids, but hesitated. She tossled my
hair again.
"Go ahead."
"I can?" I asked shyly.
She smiled. "Sure, baby."
I twisted a braid around my finger. I felt good about Nor-
ma, really solid, and lucky that I had found a rosebud in
the manure pile. I closed my eyes and went to sleep, with
that thought in my head.Click HERE for part 3...
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