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There were five of us, shackled hand and foot with heavy chains, riding to McNeil Island Federal penitentiary in a large van. Besides me, there was Spencer, who turned out to be Richard Prior's cocaine dealer; a middle aged heroin dealer from Los Angeles, who looked like Uncle Ben (on the rice package); an international heroin smuggler, named Danny Duran, who had just been extradited from a Mexican jail; and a bank robber who had been caught in the act of robbing a military bank. Except for the last named, a very sullen and uncommunicative man...when asked what he was in for, a routine question, he said "Jaywalking"...he turned out to be doing a "twenty" (that's YEARS)...for first offense armed bank robbery...a long sentence...they were really pissed with him...I became friends with each of the others, friendships that lasted until I was released. Each of them had longer sentences than mine, which they characterized as a "walk in the park" or "a short visit," but, at the time, after only a week of depressing lockup, eighteen months seemed like a very long time indeed.

Nor was this impression softened the first time I entered the main cell block. For reasons that I explain elsewhere (see: You ain't so fucking big!"), I had been sent to a maximum security prison, despite the shortness of my sentence. So when I came through the main entrance and beheld the five tiered block of cells, it took my breath away. I arrived just before morning lockdown, so only had a short time to "socialize" before being led to my temporary quarters. Only one man spoke to me, who I later learned was am emissary from the "sissies" (open homosexuals) delegated to check me out. He made some small talk about what-was-I-in-for, how-long-was-I-staying, etc., then said, "You know that there are a lot of fairies...queers...homosexuals in here." It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.

I wasn't in a very good mood, so I simply asked, "So what?"

He asked in return, "That doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it?" I responded, trading question for question.

Later, I was to learn that this simple exchange forever cemented my relationship with the prison gay community. I was to get constant advice and assistance from many gay men who either assumed that I was also homosexual or, at the very least, sympathetic to their "cause."

When I got locked down a few minutes later, I found that I had been housed with Danny Duran, on the bottom tier, a temporary arrangement until we were assigned permanent quarters. It turns out that Danny had shot and killed a border guard when he was arrested in Mexico, and that he was related to Roberto Duran, then a world champion boxer in one of the lighter weight classes, making him somewhat of a celebrity. Since I was housed with him and segregation was rather strict in prison, the Chicano community assumed that I was also some sort of Latino and I was duly welcomed into that Community by one Tough Tony, a many time loser for various violent crimes. He handed us a joint and right there, in front of God and a bunch of guards, lit it up and smoked it with us. Afraid to turn it down, I dutifully toked up and, after a week in jail without, got rightly stoned. This did very little to relieve my paranoia at being in the "Big House," but did lift some of the depression I was feeling. To my immense relief the guards seemed not to notice us. But, the adventure was far from over.

When we were signaled to enter our cells, Tough Tony accompanied us. At this point he pulled out a couple of papers of heroin, a small homemade syringe (made with a needle and an eyedropper) and offered one to Danny and one to me...as a housewarming present from our fellow Chicanos. I politely declined. Tough Tony said, fine, he would do it himself. So, when the cell doors slammed shut, he was still in our cell, a violation that could have resulted in severe penalties to all three of us. Tony and Danny moved behind the waist high screen that gave a modicum of privacy to the crapper and prepared to shoot up. As you may or may not know, that is a somewhat complex procedure involving melting down the smack in a spoon, tying off one arm with a rubber hose, finding a vein and then injecting the preparation. I wondered wasn't this a tad risky?

"Not to worry?" says Tough Tony. "If a guard comes by and sees us, they will first have to open the whole cell block, giving us plenty of time to flush the stuff. Or, if they move too fast, you just throw yourself at the feet of the first guard that comes through the door, knocking him down. Then, we'll for sure have enough time."

Now remember, I hadn't been in the place for longer than an hour at this time and Tony was telling me that I should just assault a guard if we get "in a bind." When I expressed some of my misgivings, Tony asked, reasonably, "What are they gonna do to you. Throw you in jail?"

I was worried that they could do more than that, but I conceded that he had a point. Besides, the whole situation was beginning to beguile me with its absurdity. And, the pot had taken hold quite nicely. So while they transported themselves to wherever (I was never much of a fan of heroin), I began to relax and enjoy myself.

But, this day of days was still not complete. Since it was Saturday when we arrived, it was time for the weekly movie, when the whole population was treated to some second rate Hollywood cops-and-robber product in the prison auditorium. That week, the film was The Friends of Eddie Coyle...actually quite a good movie, starring Robert Mitchum and Peter Boyle) and I got my first taste of what it was like to root for the bad guys. As you might expect, the convicts enjoyed loudly cheering whenever a cop got beaten or killed, if for no other reason than to make the guards nervous. On the way to the movie, Spencer intercepted us and, taking me aside, said that he had told the Imam of the Black Muslims about me and he thought it was a good idea if I made an "alliance" with them, offering up my well educated services in exchange for a bit of immunity in the Black community.

"What could I do?" I wondered. But, Spencer assured me that there were plenty of favors someone as well educated as I could do for them. I could write appeals, type letters to their congressmen, tutor those studying college course.

So, I agreed to sit with the Imam during the movie and discuss this issue.

Actually, we got our business mainly finished before the movie started. I agreed to do whatever I could do for the "brothers," and he said, "Then no brother will ever lay a hand on you. I guarantee it." None ever did.

However, there was still one little step that had to be taken. He had to somehow inform all the black men in the place that I was "all right." So, as soon as the movie ended, he climbed up on the back of his seat and gestured for me to do the same. Waiting until everyone else had filed out into the aisles, he whipped out a joint, lit it up, took a deep toke and passed it to me. Scared shitless, but determined to do "whatever it took," I closed my eyes and did the same.

When I opened them again, I realized that every eye in the place was riveted on us. All the prisoners, all the guards. They watched in silence as we slowly finished the joint. A few shouted things like "Hey, why don't you share?" or "Can I have some?", but mostly just watch and figured out what it meant. When nothing untoward occurred, I once again relaxed and began to enjoy the high.

"Shit! Maybe, I'm going to like this place!" I thought to myself. In the first few hours of being there, I had been welcomed into three of the major prison subcultures and had gotten high not once, but TWICE! And, I got to see a good movie. Not bad, not bad. Of course, things were not always to be that good, that painless. I still had the white communities to deal with...which included the self proclaimed "Nazis"...the white supremacists...but that is another story.

See you tomorrow...

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