Thor's Hammer

Thor's Hammer...yet another tale of prison high-jinx.

A couple of years ago I was getting out on the shower when a fellow inmate turned the corner in a panic.

This all happened at a disciplinary joint. A joint I was sent to after an unsanctioned letter, penned by Mama C, was sent to the warden at my previous facility threatening to ruin the professional lives of several of his employees should any harm befall her baby boy.

I was immediately relocated. An emergency ride-out.

Thanks mom.

The terrified inmate was Chad. I actually knew him before prison, though only technically. We were locked up in county together. And while I went to prison, he stayed in county to serve his sentence. Chad was eventually released, almost immediately rearrested, and finally sent upstate to the big leagues where we were once again reunited. Chad is a statuesque male-model type who, if you didn't know any better, would seem more at home on the set of The Bachelorette In Paradise than on a prison yard. That's only if you didn't know any better.

Each prison unit had two wings. Each wing had an upper and lower level, making four separate rocks. At the beginning of each rock two shower stalls were tucked off into a small nook. I guess it was to create the illusion of privacy, while still allowing the COs in the bubble to see the showering inmates. When both of the showers on a rock are taken, the inmates are allowed to form a short line down the rock to wait.

While I was busy washing off the convicted stink of that night's weight pit, Chad, and Outlaw (my bunkie at the time ) were the only two in line waiting for a shower. On each rock there was an observation cell directly across from the shower nook. It was designated for problem inmates or, more often, transgender inmates, who they didn't want operating fast and loose dens of inequity on their watch. 

Waiting for the shower put Chad directly in front of the main observation cell: cell 225, which housed a transgender inmate who went by the name Rio. Rio was a fabulous, and fully effeminate, convict; dark skinned, always in full makeup, with an unthreaded nylon belt crafted into a perfectly coiffed weave. Rio dressed in expertly tailored state pants, and always smelled of some kind of citrus perfume. And though relatively thin, Rio also stood an easy six-foot-four inches tall, and could undoubtedly palm a basketball before the age of twelve. She was hard to miss. And though Rio bothered no one, who wasn't looking to be bothered, my fellow inmates, being childish and rather immature, took part in the typical homophobic teasing bullshit.

They called her every name except Rio. They called her Ricky Minaj, Leslie Snipes, Scottie Pippen, or Deuce and a Quarter (for the cell number she locked in) Around other inmates I used Deuce and a Quarter. It was less mean. More of a neutral choice.

Coward.

I'm my defense, the few times I did exchange words with her, I called her Rio. I know, I know; what a fucking hero.

So Chad is in front of Rio's cell door, which weren't the doors made of steel bars that you'd see in Escape From Alcatraz, or stock footage of San Quinton. These were solid steel doors with a narrow shatter-resistant window about six inches wide and three feet tall running up the middle of the door. Perfect for casting reflections. And because the weight pit had just let out, and this was our last chance to avoid going to bed smelling like rusty iron and ball sweat, meant Chad has a post-workout blow and was really feeling himself. Not that he's ever need much of an excuse; no one has ever loved Chad more than Chad. I used to have real heart to hearts with him about how dangerous it is to invest so much of your self worth into something as fleeting as beauty. I'd remind him of Janice Dickinson. He'd remind me of J-Lo.

Touche.

Needless to say, the reflective surface proved too much for Chad to resist. In no time, he was engage in a full-blown flex off with his reflection in the narrow window. Which, I'm guessing, he either assumed was empty or, much more likely, was so distracted by his own reflection, that he never even thought about it. Either way, to the inmates walking back and forth from their cells of hanging out in the day rooms, it must've looked like Chad was giving Deucey quite the show.

Sometimes life just knows exactly where the punchline should go.

In the middle of his best Mr Universe pose, one of Rio's suitors: Ackavelli, a slight man in his early twenties—named for his Arabic descent and his love for Tupac—comes up the steps with a package of duplex cookies.

Side note, I once heard Ackavelli, waiting for a microwave in the day room, say, "hey, happy wife, happy life," in reference to Rio. I also once saw Rio blockade the small yard exit, like Dennis Rodman in the paint, to tell everyone that she had recently had her way with a willing Ackavelli, who had apparently spurned her in some way. For proof she had a stack of love letters and a photo of Ackavelli. As an exclamation point after her brief but HILARIOUS speech, she held up the photo, saying, "Yes, him right here!", held as high as she could reach was a closeup photo of Ackavelli with two thumbs up and the biggest, dumbest, guiltiest smile you've ever seen in your life.