Greenmax
"I heard Crazy Rollo was back at it today."
"Yeah, he was locked onto that fence like a pit bull. They had to use the tazer on 'im again. He just laughed at the pepper spray. He's back in solitary."
"He don't give a shit." The older of the two men paused for several minutes, planning his next move. The younger man, Lance, waited patiently. Like most good friends, the two were bound more by common condition than by common ideals or beliefs. They played checkers together each day as much to fill the time between supper and bed as for friendly competition. Red punctuated his final move on the checker board with a question, as was his custom. "He still got that injunction against the prison system?"
"Yeah, they cain't put no drugs in his food to calm 'im down or nothin'. I feel sorry for the bastard. How would you be if you had four balls?" Lance looked inquisitively at Red but got no answer. He was used to losing to Red at checkers and reset the board without conscious direction from his brain as he spoke. Red stood and paced across the small room, conditioned to pivot and reverse direction after only three strides like a bear in a sideshow cage. He always paced as he thought.
"They say delayed gratification is what separates us from the animals. But it’s what turns us into animals if you ask me." Lance finished setting up the board and prepared to hear the speech about Red’s father. "My old man worked 51 years at the paper mill. Started workin’ there at age 14 and retired when they shut the place down. He was always talkin’ about how he was workin’ so we could have a better life and how we didn’t appreciate it but that one day we’d understand. That is, when he wasn’t beating the shit out of one of us or Mom." Red took a deep breath and stared out an invisible window in the wall. "We never even went on a damn family vacation. He was always sayin’ how I never understood the value of hard work and how I couldn’t ‘pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel’. Then one day when I was about sixteen I blew up on him. I asked him how if he was workin’ so hard then how come we didn’t have shit and how come the only time he was happy was when he was drunk. I stood there and waited for him to smack me like he had done hundreds of times before for much less than that, but he didn’t. He just looked at me with those hurt, bloodshot eyes and turned away. As he was walkin off he mumbled something about me understanding one day. Now, when I try to imagine my father that’s the only image I have - the image of him turning around and walking to his room. Well, I understand all right." Red looked at Lance. "You know what the funniest part is?"
"What?" Lance asked mechanically.
"He thought he had saved all this money up with Merril Lynch. So much money that he ‘couldn’t spend it all if he wanted to’. Turns out the son-of-a bitch had put all his money into life insurance policies on me and my brothers. After he died, Mom kept sittin’ around waitin for those policies to "mature" as she always said. Sittin’ on that goddamn porch of that shack shellin’ peas and waitin’ for those policies to mature. Her goddamn hands deformed from shellin’ peas before those policies ever matured. And when they did you know how much she had? $4,500 goddamn dollars. She sat on that porch all those years, at night sweatin’ her ass off in an unairconditioned house for that. $4,500 goddamn dollars. When she found out she tried to act like it didn’t bother her none. Just took it like she got what she deserved. Know what I done when I found out?" Red never gave time for a response at this part of the story. "I got drunk that night and took his old work boots that she kept in his closet for all those years. Pissed all in one of ‘em and poured it all over his grave. I kept laughing and saying: ‘See! See, you son-of-a-bitch! I can do it! I can do it!’ That son-of-a-bitch worked his whole life for a future that never came. It was his delayin’ gratification that turned us all into animals." Red stared through the invisible window for several seconds, then turned back to his companion as if snapping out of a trance.
"Well, I've had about all the fun I can stand." This was Red's standard exit line. The balding forty-five year old stood to his full six and a half feet as he spoke. "Keep practicin' and you'll beat me one of these days." Red patted Lance on the back, exited the recreation room, and headed for the mess hall. It was half an hour before lunch, but the hall served the dual purpose of trading ground in black-market goods. It was the most efficient way for Red to distribute his wares and take new orders. The guard had delivered three cartons of Winstons to him the night before. They were easy to sell. It was true what they said about inmates giving up cocaine or marijuana long before they would nicotine. Red paid the guards a monthly fee to be the sole distributor of cigarettes. The guards insured the business by destroying the cigarette vending machines. The business was lucrative, but the overhead was high. The guards were the only ones really making much money. Since the greyhound track had been snuffed out by the casinos in Mississippi, the prison was the biggest single industry in the chronically depressed county.
Red waited patiently for his usuals to arrive. Luke showed up right on time, his money pouch fastened to his belt with a chain as always. Without speaking, Luke traded Red a five for a pack of Winstons. He told Red the same story at least once a week and had been doing so for the duration of Red's tenure as smoke man. "You know how I got started on these don't ya?" The elderly man spoke with a barely discernible Belgian accent and started his next sentence without allowing Red to respond. "It was back in my homeland during the war. Because of the years of war everything was in short supply, even the cigarettes. The GIs always had five or six cigarettes along with their daily rations. Instead of smoking them, some of the GIs would sell them to us. My father would always get me and my older brother to go down to the train tracks and wait for the troops to come through. He gave us enough money to buy cigarettes along with one or two other little things. My brother would always smoke one on the way back home. One day I told him: 'If you don't let me smoke one too, I’m gonna tell Papa that you are smoking his cigarettes.' He gave me one and told me I had to smoke it all. I did and I almost puked, but I didn't let him know it. It was a Lucky Strike. He thought he was gonna break me from asking, but the next time I did it again. Before long I was hooked. That was the best part about coming over after the war- getting Lucky Strikes again." The man stared into space with a faint smile.
Red responded with his customary lie: "Yeah, I been tryin' to get us Lucky Strikes in here for years, but they don't ever get 'em for me." He waited for Luke to shuffle off to his cell as he usually did, but the old man continued to stand as if contemplating what to say next.
"Well, the new smoke claims he can get me anything I want. Maybe I'll give him a shot." Luke challenged Red.
"New smoke? What are you talkin' about, Luke? You know I got exclusive rights," Red thundered.
"There's a new guy down in B that says he can get us anything we want. Cheaper too. I'm the only one that's coming to you today." Luke smiled as he spoke, knowing the words were barbs.
"Is that so? Well, who is the motherfucker? Where the hell did he come from?" In an instant, Red changed from calculating businessman to violent brute.
"I think his name is Macelli. He's been in before. Now he's back again as a vendor. Says he's going to make the system work for him this time. Says since you're leavin' he's gonna take over." Although the years of incarceration had taken away the old man's ability to actively participate in violence, he still enjoyed causing it whenever possible.
"Oh yeah? Well he's a couple days early. I ain't left yet." Although Red was getting out of GreenMax in less than 48 hours, he could not just let this Micelli fellow slide. He needed the money for life on the outside and in order to mastermind his last big gig from the inside as he had planned. Besides, it was a matter of pride and honor. "Listen. You tell Micelli he and I are gonna have a little talk. I think he'll be seein' things my way before too long." Red scribbled something onto a pack of Winstons and handed it to Luke. "The cigs are for you. The message is for him." His jaws clenched. The old man accepted the gift with an impish smile and tottered off. Red waited for a few minutes, testing Luke's claim. No one came. Red lit up one of the Winstons and stormed back to his cell on the second floor of block A- the so-called "skybox." The double occupancy cells were 20 square feet larger than the rest of the cells and were given to the inmates as a reward for good behavior. Good behavior meant paying the guards anywhere from $20-50 dollars a month. This was big money for many of the inmates, but for Red and some of the gang leaders and drug lords it was affordable.
Upon reaching his cell, Red found his meal of beef jerky, Twinkies, and a can of Coke waiting on his bed. In addition to his other roles, Lance served as Red's personal caterer. Red picked up the can and smashed it against the wall, sending a geyser of hissing, spewing foam into the air. His appetite ruined, he raked the food onto the floor and plopped down on the bed. His mind raced as he contemplated what to do about Macelli. He had only had to defend his right as sole distributor on one occasion, four years before. That time he had soaked a cigarette in lighter fluid overnight. Enlisting the help of two of his henchmen, he made his competitor "smoke it the hard way." The punishment involved catching the man as he was exiting the showers. He was given a choice as to where he wanted the cigarette inserted before being lit. The man chose the place that would leave the least visible scars. Red knew he would have to out-do his previous performance this time. Italians did not learn easily. Red had just the thing for Macelli.