Tarzan Syndrome Breakout
by J. Clayton Stoker
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Prison Counseling
A small conference room without windows. A long wooden table in the center of a concrete floor and a green chalkboard on the wall at the end. A short, heavy-set woman walks in. Black business jacket with matching black skirt. A thick overly sweet perfume fills the space around her. The top of her breasts spills out of her low-cut fuchsia top. If she had not been obese, if not for the round face, double chin, thick arms, protruding paunch, enormous derriere, the display of cleavage may have been an issue in an all-male prison. The Professor looks at her and guesses her weight to be about 250 pounds.
“I am very happy to be with you today. My name is Berta. I am the prison social worker,” says the anti-beauty queen in a Mexican accent.
There are about ten inmates seated around the table. They all look under forty. None are smiling. Most have tattoos above the neck. The Professor guesses that these are the select few who might benefit from someone like Berta. The air conditioner is blowing hard, and the men are rubbing their hands together. The temperature is like every other room at Jungle Lake.
“I’m here to talk about overcoming adversity and to try teach you skills to prepare you for life outside of prison. Many of us come from tough backgrounds. I am myself am an immigrant and the daughter of immigrants. I grew up in South Central Los Angeles.
“We will mainly meet in groups. But, if you want, I can also talk to some of you individually. And, believe it or not, what you tell me is private. But if you tell me you are planning to steal a knife from the kitchen and stab another prisoner with it, I have to report that.”
The Professor scans the room and notices that half of the men chuckle at that.
“Any questions?”
Sitting next to Charlie is a bald guy with tattoo of a scorpion on his neck. He raises his hand.
“How can you help us? What can you do?” he asks.
“Teach you to take responsibility. A lot of people in here like to think of themselves as victims. They like to make excuses for their behavior by talking about their messed-up past. That don’t cut it. We can’t change the past. We must deal with the hand we are dealt. We might mess up from time to time. But, like riding a bike, if you fall, you get up again. You learn from it.
“My father was killed in a drive-by shooting when I was 11 years old,” she says. “I was in a gang for three years. I did six months in juvi for holding up a liquor store. Then I turned my life around and became a social worker. It’s hard. I know. Even now, I sometimes worry about screwing up. I don’t think I will. But, if I do, I won’t blame no one but myself. And that’s what I can teach you.”
That’s when the Professor notices the disconnect. The way Berta looks at Charlie when she says “I sometimes worry about screwing up.” What she is saying is not what she is thinking about.
The Professor raises his hand. “Where are you from?”
“Mexico.”
“Do you ever go back?”
“Yes. My uncle manages a hotel in Rosarito Beach. I go back often.”
“Sounds nicer than this place.” The men at the table laugh.
“It’s beautiful! I hope you get to see it one day. I have to say goodbye for now. Normally I have more time. Today I have to get to court.”
“Are you testifying for a prisoner?” asks the Professor.
“No. It’s family court. I shouldn’t say this, but I find when I am open, it helps others to open up. It’s for me. I am finalizing my divorce.”
Part 5: Prison Plans
“We have an opportunity here,” says the Professor during lunch the day after in the prison cafeteria. They are seated across from each other on benches over a dining table in a dimly lit open space eating meatloaf and potato soup on a metal tray. “I can tell she likes you.”
“So what?” asks Charlie.
The Professor looks around and tries to keep his voice down. Most of the men have a blank look while eating the bland food. No fights today. So far.
“Tell her that it really hit home what she said about not making excuses. Tell her it was powerful. Tell her your story about living in a car with your mother for six months when you were in middle school and your aspiring actress mom was trying to break into the movie business. But thanks to her words, you know that you can’t use that as an excuse.
“Let her know how wonderful you think she is. How much you appreciate her work. How you can learn from her. How much admiration you have for her coming so far. Gangbanger to prison social worker. Then tell me her reaction.”
“Sounds pretty messed up, huh, living with Mom in the car?” Charlie says.
“Better than having an explosive mother who was obsessed with handguns and plagued by hallucinations. Better than driving with Dad a hundred miles every Sunday in a car with no AC to visit Mom at the loony bin only for her to look at us as if we were men from the moon. I would trade families with you,” says the Professor, “in a heartbeat.”
“You hadn’t mentioned that,” says Charlie.
“Truth be told, I’ve inherited a bit of Mom’s mental issues myself. Not as acute. Anyway, we all have our stories. You should use yours to get in good with Berta. Then ever so gradually, take it to the next level.”
An older big black man with short gray hair is seated next to Charlie. He is humming to himself and looking down, engrossed at this soup. The Professor can’t tell if he is listening to the conversation or really obsessed with his meal.
“Gradually, if you two get along, start asking if she can get us Hershey bars, cigarettes, then little bottles of cognac. Then, if that works, you can work your way up to cordless drills and hacksaw blades. Baby steps.”
“What’s this? Escape From Alcatraz?” The black man flashes a mocking smile. “You guys are too much. When you make it to the Cayman Islands, you be sure to write,” he says with a toothy grin. “Don’t forget your friends at Jungle Lake.”
“We won’t,” says the Professor chuckling. “We’re just kidding around.”
“I’m just playing with you,” says the black man, who gives a knowing nod then returns to his musical meal.
“Five minutes remaining,” comes the voice over the PA, followed by a loud buzzer.
‘By the way, did you catch the line about the divorce?”
“Yes,” says Charlie, “couldn’t believe she was married. Wonder what her husband ever saw in her.”
“Nothing. He knows she is sack of—”
“Don’t say that man!” interrupts Charlie. “That’s not cool. Come on. Like you said, she has come a long way. And if that’s how he felt, why did he marry her?”
“Poor bastard, best he could do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Think of it. If he could be with any woman on the planet, or for that matter, any woman in his neighborhood, you think he would be with her? She was the most desirable woman he could attract. Or rather, the least undesirable woman he could attract. I haven’t seen the guy. He’s probably no great prize either.”
“Wow! That is some dark, twisted stuff, Professor! Tell me this, since you’re so smart. Why are they getting a divorce?”
“Couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Who? Berta?”
“Wrong. Try again.”
“Her soon to be her ex-husband? The one you call ‘poor bastard’? He couldn’t take it anymore?”
“Bingo. Charlie, trust me on this, there is an opportunity here.”
Racing South: Second Call
Camp Pendleton to the left, dark Pacific to the right. The ocean and the sand are without color at this hour. The encore of Mexican trumpets rattles the Ex Con Express.
“Mi amiga is here,” says Berta. “I have the passports in front of me. They look great.”
“Perfecto,” says Charlie.
“You’re not going to make me regret this. Right, Charlie?” asks Berta through the cell phone speaker. “I’m starting to ask myself what the hell am I doing? Dios mio, helping convicts escape from prison. Risking my job. Que locura. If you break my heart, I think I would do something crazy.” She sounds like she is holding back tears.
The Professor squeezes Charlie’s upper arm hard and gives him a stern look.
“Baby, I thank God you came into my life! I think you’re the best. A number one. Numero uno, mi amor.”
“OK,” Berta says softly. “That’s what I need to hear.”
Prison Romance
“How is it going with her?” whispers the Professor between the bars. Thanks to the influence of new friends at Prison Social Services, Charlie and the Professor are now next-cell neighbors.
“We’re looking good,” says Charlie quietly. “Tools in a week.”
The cages across from them are dark. Most of the inmates are sleeping. It smells like ammonia and bleach after the cleaning today. The chemicals must have been poured on extra thick, and the concrete floor does look a bit cleaner. They are both at the edge of their cells, leaning on the bars. They can’t see each other, but they are within three feet. Every few minutes, they are interrupted by the grating hum of big heavy electronic doors opening.
“What did you tell her?” whispers the Professor.
“Today, I told her about living in the car. She came back with how her father used to beat her mother, once so bad her mother was in the hospital for a week with a broken jaw and a concussion. So when it comes to who has the most screwed up past, Berta might actually beat us both.”
They stop talking as a guard in a black uniform approaches. They go back to their thin mats on their bunkers and pretend to be asleep. As soon as he disappears, they get back up.
“Sounds good,” says the Professor. “How is her attitude? She cool about all this? You need to keep her happy. She needs to know that her feelings are mutual. That is key.” The Professor takes pains to keep his voice down.
“She smiled when I told her how impressed I am by her. And you’re right, she does seem to think I’m the cat’s pajamas. Don’t ask me why. She is really looking forward to some serious private time in Rosarito. We’re limited here in the conference room. We’re alone, but there’s always a chance that someone might knock on the door and intrude. But she hasn’t let that stop her from performing a certain intimate act on me using her mouth. She puts a lot into it, very passionate and energetic.”
“Sounds great,” says the Professor.
“Yeah, it’s OK, I guess, but I can tell she is waiting for me to reciprocate.”
“That’s only fair,” whispers the Professor.
“I’ve been stalling. Telling her I’m afraid we might get caught. I’m sorry. I don’t see kneeling down on the grimy floor, pressing my head between fleshy thighs under that pleated wool tent and getting busy.”
“Charlie, our freedom may depend on it.”
“I understand. I just don’t know if I can do it.”
“Of course you can. All you need to do is close your eyes and pretend that Berta is the beautiful blonde from the high-end jewelry store in Santa Monica.”
Racing South: Third Call
The ring tone of trumpets sounds for the third time minutes after the Chevy passes the illuminated twin steeples of the Mormon Temple near La Jolla. The Professor is tempted to throw the phone out the window.
“Where are you now?” asks Berta. Sounds agitated. She is speaking fast.
“Getting close,” Charlie says. “We can see the lights on the wings of a big jet descending. Must be near the San Diego Airport.”
“Charlie, I need to ask you something. I was thinking that we could get married by the beach in Rosarito. It’s a really nice place for a wedding ceremony. A lot of people get married there under white silk canopies on the sand. Muy hermosa. Wouldn’t that be nice? Would you like to marry me on the beach?”
The Professor starts to give Charlie a signal.
“We can talk about it,” says Charlie.
“What the hell do you mean talk about it? You think I’m dumb? You think I’m stupid?” Berta’s voice is louder, accent thicker. “You think I don’t know you’re playing me. Yo sé que no te importo. I was hoping if I were good to you and treated you nice and tried to help you, your feelings would change.
“What did you think? We’d get down to Rosarito and you would start fucking around behind my back. With the young muchachas in those tiny bathing suits. The ones with the skinny little cuerpos, skinny little bellies, skinny little culos.
“You thought you would make a fool of me? I told you about how it was in my house and on my street. There’s a lot more I didn’t tell you. I’ve already taken ten lifetimes of shit, cabron! There’s no room for any more. No mas!
“I’m packing my electric carving knife I bought last Thanksgiving. Great for slicing meat. And it’s cordless. If you start fucking around behind my back, I’m gonna come to you with it while you’re sleeping and cut off something of yours. And, Charlie, you won’t like it. It won’t be pleasant. It won’t be pretty. But when I’m done, cabron, you won’t be fucking no more of those skinny pinche bitches, I can tell you that.”
“Babe, why are you talkin’ like this?” says Charlie. He is now speaking to himself. The phone call has ended.
“What was that?!” says Charlie. “What the hell was that?!”
“That,” says the Professor in an unusually quiet and somber tone, “was our prison social worker having a moment of clarity.”
“Can we trust her?”
“Can we trust her?” repeats the Professor, looking at the speedometer and the next exit sign on the freeway. “Let’s analyze this. Can we trust a woman who just threatened to cut your penis off with a cordless carving knife while you sleep? Tough question. Close call. But I’m gonna go with ‘No’.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Who? Me? At a time like this?”
“What now, Professor?”
“What now?” repeats the Professor. “We’re on our own.”
Copyright © 2022 by J. Clayton Stoker
