Bars

Some days in here go by quick. I'm always up first, before roll call starts; by the time the sunrise hits those blue bars and the birds start chirping, I'm already elbow-deep in cornmeal and heating up the gravy. The type of day that disappears into stainless steel, lost in the balafon rhythm of banging pots and pans, scraping cutlery, men's voices gone hollow by the killing of their dreams.

Others are painfully slow. The run-up to the holidays especially has been grinding me down with its monotony, one frozen gray day stitched into another, my existence barely acknowledged beyond a few congenialities. I don't get visitors; my only friends are the cookbooks I check out from the library cart. The others like to bicker and barter over magazines, but I'm headlong into The Sioux Chef's Indigenous Kitchen, savoring its cedar-braised beans, fried sage, and wojape mint sauce. My nose filled with the scents of amaranth and rose-hip. My mouth watering over the seared duck breast with cider glaze.

"Whatchu smiling about, OG?" That's Tyrell. Fresh fish they put on as my sous. Supposed to be a big deal on the outside, rap prodigy set to go platinum before they found a gun in his luggage at the airport. I don't answer him because I don't want to. He's moving at a snail's pace assembling bologna sandwiches, like we're in a music video and it's all for fun. "Aiight then. You keep the lid tight. Respect."

I nudge him out of the way and take over, lining out all the bread slices and slapping meat into them at a speed that belies my twenty two years' experience. I'm done in under five minutes. Which nukes the kid's jackass grin and leaves him standing there in silence. "Go in the mess hall. Guards left us a box with some tinsel. Hang it up on the walls."

"You got it, Boss."

Later, we get a shipment of frozen turkey patties and canned cranberry sauce for the upcoming Christmas Eve dinner. I let C/O Stanley know I'm taking a box cutter and mark it out on the clipboard. Huck the whole pallet myself, fire up the rice cooker, prep the meatloaf, and the kid is STILL hanging tinsel. He's only managed two and a half walls.

"Slower than goddamn molasses. You work like this when you're making music?" His face clouds over in a way that suggests he isn't used to being spoken to so directly. Like he's debating whether or not to tell me off.

"Nah man, I am kind of a perfectionist, though. Spend fourteen, sometimes fifteen hours at a time in the studio."

"Well, here in LOCKUP where your dumbass happens to find himself? Doing time don't mean time is a luxury. Dinner hits at five PM, sharp. If it's late, then YOU get hit. By a cell block's-worth of fuckin' fists, feel me?"

He eats his next words. Returns to his task urgently. Which does give me a bit of satifaction. 

**

"Ray, you forgot to check the box cutter back in. Can't let you leave until you do."

The mess hall is living up to its name. Crumbs, wrappers, a splatted mound of mashed potatoes. If it gets left to Tyrell to clean, we'll be here 'til midnight. C/O Stanley and I stand over the empty boxes like they’re part of a crime scene. "It was right here."

"Think it's the kid? He's not that stupid, is he?"

"He's just green, 'sall. You know that generation."

Stanley is about the nicest guy in the place, but at the end of the day, a boot is a boot. And Stanley's boot is bigger than most people's heads. Tyrell swears it wasn't him, turns his pockets out to prove it. "So if I check the cameras, I'm not gonna see your cellie Pete sneaking back there?"

"I mean, I hope not, man. 'Cuz if he did, wouldn't have nothing to do with me."

We both get the pat-down. When that proves fruitless, Stanley radios Control to review the footage. No sign of anyone other than Tyrell and I in the kitchen. But at 5:38 PM, the kid brushed past Pete, and although it's far from conclusive, there might've been a hand-off. "Y'all trippin'. I didn't snatch no fuckin' knife, and I for sure ain't--c'mon now. Why would I even do that?"

So then it's a cell toss for both of us. "Baby T gettin' flipped in week ONE!" somebody hollers.

"I don't have time for this," I tell Stanley. "I gotta get to sleep." He tucks his lips into an apologetic line, even as he yanks my mattress off the frame into the hall, pulls every one of my books off the window sill, and tears down my poster of Martha Stewart, ripping one corner all the way to her forehead. A cardinal sin. And Stanley's the one who gave her to me last Christmas.

There's nothing to find, of course. Not so much as an extra packet of Top Ramen. But Tyrell and Pete aren’t so lucky. Dirty magazines and a baggie of pressed Xanax, highly illegal contraband. Which means they'll both be spending the next two nights in isolation, leaving me short-handed for the busiest day of the year. "We'll get somebody else to help you. Chen in Block A, maybe."

"Chen don't speak English."

"Do you absolutely have to communicate verbally? I mean...just use hand gestures and whatnot."

“You know what the gesture for go fuck yourself is, Stanley? Imagine me doing that; I can’t be bothered.”

“Ray--”

“Nah, go on. I got too much to do.”

**

Ask anybody: I’m the type to thrive under pressure. I’ve worked a grill and stovetop since before I had chin whiskers, always too many mouths to feed and barely enough to meet the demand. But all through breakfast and into lunch, the missing knife digs at me. Every corner I take, I feel its phantom blade jabbing me in the flank, or slicing open my throat.

“Word is Baby T has something in store for ya,” my cellmate warns as he’s taking his tray. “But don’t worry, I got your six.”

“Yeah, you don’t fuck with kitchen staff," says a guy from Chen's block. "Everybody knows that.”

Chen and I may not speak the same language, but it’s clear he’s familiar with back-of-house flow. During our first two shifts, I pick up on him saying “hòu miàn” when he’s behind me, and “méi yǒu le” when we’re out of something. Then as we’re cleaning and resetting ahead of the Christmas Eve feast, he trundles into the kitchen with a special box packed with fresh ingredients. A surprise from the warden, as well as some of the inmates who donated items from commissary. It’s almost enough to get me choked up; Chen just plops it down on the counter like it’s nothing. By way of thank you, I give him a solemn nod.

I begin by frying the turkey patties in canola oil until they turn golden brown, allowing them to caramelize slightly, then brush them in cranberry sauce mixed with orange juice, orange zest, and black pepper. Cut them in half, stack them, drizzle in a cranberry coulis, garnish with fresh thyme.

For sides, I'm thinking glazed vegetables and bread pudding as stuffing. But some of the steps are complicated. The bread’s gone stale, so I cube it up and toss them in sauteed onions, garlic, and rosemary from the box. I do my best to describe to Chen the simple custard we need to pour over them--milk, eggs, and a pinch of salt--but he thinks I mean scrambled eggs, and I end up having to do everything myself. So I put him on the veggies. Green beans and carrots glazed in a mix of butter, honey, and orange zest. He handles it like a pro, and before long the hot well is full up with wholesome goodness.

But every beat in between is punctuated by thoughts of the box cutter. How--in a state prison with a proud record of zero successful escape attempts--did the knife just up and vanish? As though the cinderblocks themselves have squirreled it away somewhere in an invisible crevice, and any second now they’re going to send forth a shadow assassin to disembowel me. And for what? Making the mashed potatoes too dry? What’s my crime?

What…IS your crime?

“Nǐ wèishéme bù dòng?” Chen barks at me. He nudges my elbow; I’ve frozen in the middle of beating egg whites. I struggle to remember where I’m at in the recipe. Or even what dish we’re on. Scan the counter for clues: powdered milk, water, dozens of open half-and-half singles. The serving tray full of cranberry reduction. Boxes of graham crackers.

“Crumble these, put them in a bowl,” I tell him. Chen appears relieved I’m no longer in a state of petrification and sets to it. But the truth is…I’m still on uneven ground. Like I fell into a black hole and got spit back out again, less than I was. That damn box cutter with the yellow handle. It has a screw set into the slide so you can’t fully extend the blade. Why would he want to hurt you? What did you do? “Pâtisserie Prison Cranberry Parfait,” I say, snapping my fingers, and ride the sensory wave of vanilla extract and cinnamon back to safer shores amid the food carts.

At 5PM, the mess hall fills with aromas it’s likely never before held, and a peculiar silence settles over the inmates. The warden has allowed us to swap out the cafeteria trays with some festive paper plates, decorated with candy canes and reindeer; Chen and I pay special attention to plating, and arrange the meals to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible.

“Y’all wanna say Grace?” asks Stanley. He joins the men who identify as Christian in prayer. Then everyone digs in. Instead of the usual chowing down at breakneck speed, they take thoughtful, contemplative bites. The turkey’s juices brought to life by the complexity of the caramelization, and the bright notes of the coulis. The pairing of the nutty, grounding flavors of the bread pudding with the sweet-and-sour element of the veggies. No words uttered other than the occasional soft-spoken goddamn s’good. Chen’s cellie even gets a little teary-eyed, saying it’s better than a homecooked meal from his mother.

Watching them, I forget all about the box cutter. At least until they’re finished, and all that remains of our efforts is in the trash cans and the wadded-up napkins left behind on the tables. As Chen and I set about cleaning up, some of the tape holding the tinsel gives way and the whole strand comes off one wall. I shake my head at it. “If you want something done right…” I hunt around for the piece of tape to reattach it, but in doing so, I begin to wonder why it matters. Why do I care so much that things get done the “correct” way? Isn't it all just window dressing, another momentary glimmer to be swept away by the enormous passage of meaningless time in this place? Another day, another meal, another blue bar on the hamster wheel.

**

“Tyrell and Pete,” you’re the only two down here. So you’re each getting a special plate.”

“Man, FUCK your plate!” hollers Pete, voice so muffled you can really only hear the f-bomb. I put his plate in the transfer bin, but he refuses to open it. Tyrell is more appreciative, takes his to the bed and sits down to eat it with his fingers.

“Can’t have any utensils in solitary, apparently,” he mutters between bites. “Not even a spork. Holy shit, though. This is…really good, OG.” I watch him eat, perhaps a bit too closely. “You gonna stare at me the whole time, though?”

“Ain’t you used to that? Big time celebrity and all?” I notice a neat latticework of scars on his forearm. Not new.

“Fame ain’t like what it used to be. People are openly disrespectful when they see me in the street. Always tryna test me. It’s a hostile world out there.” He catches me eyeballing his scars and rotates his forearm to conceal them, chiseling his jaw like tough guys do in movies. “I didn’t take your knife, man. I told you.”

“Okay, Youngblood.”

“Ray, you done? I know it’s Christmas Eve and all, but I can’t let you stand there yappin’.”

I won’t leave until the kid is finished. Once he is, he puts his plate back in the bin, and our eyes meet through the slit. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” Something about his face strums a deep chord. Makes my throat ball up like there’s something in it. “That’s okay, Boss. I ‘ppreciate you.”

As the C/O escorts me back to the main hall, the kid’s face hangs in my mind like an apparition. The familiar shape of the nose, small and sturdy. Chin so square you could cut a deck on it. Heavy eyebrows. He can’t be much older than the number of years I’ve been locked up, so…

Who?

Who does he remind you of?

What IS your crime?

“By the way, Ray. Chen found that box cutter that went missing. Guess you left it on top of the fridge.”

**

The day after Christmas, they let Tyrell out and he finds me in the yard. A hard crust of snow on the ground, little ridges of ice sickles on the benches. The white sky comforting in its fullness. “What’s good, OG?”

“Rumor was you had something in store for me.” The kid looks abashed, hands in his pockets. “Maybe the way you see it, you wouldn’ta been thrown in the hole if it wasn’t for me. Just…whatever you fixin’ to do, get it over with quick, okay? I’m tired.”

“You got me wrong, man. I’m not out to get you.”

“What is it then?”

For a while he just stands there breathing, until I start to wonder if he’s gone doughy in the head. Then he throws me off guard completely by launching into an acapella rhyme:

twent-two years in the pen like an OG

spent his life in the cut until ‘03

when a cop found a rock in his coat sleeve

stop-and-search round-the-clock ‘til they go “freeze!”

yeah, I got a grudge, and I can’t forget it

the way that fuckin’ judge had a plan, and the way he said it:

twenty five to life, won’t see the sun again

for a rookie ass cop with a vendetta

before my mama passed away, yeah, she sent a letter

tried to pay his ass back, but he wouldn’t let her

locked his mouth up tight, kept it shut forever

so we could raise up right, and hope we do better

‘cuz it was her that begged him for the bombita

while we was jumpin’ on the couch, playin’ John Cena

he was on that stovetop trying hard to feed us

that’s my Granddaddy Ray, father of Tawnita

I’m glad I finally got the chance to meet a strong leader

before the public spotlight gobbles up my freedom

it’s been a dream, but it’s not right that he’s been cheated--

Old Man Ray should get a pardon, ‘cuz the world need him.

He cuts off, and I realize he’s finished. Chews his lip, eyes all over me like I'm holding his heart in my bare hands. I'm too cold to hold anything. "That's good, Youngblood. You wrote that for me?" He nods, and I chuckle softly, unsure what to say next. I'm not his grandfather. I never had any children of my own.

Tawnita.

What IS your crime?

"I had my lawyer take a look at your case, OG. The judge who sentenced you was recently impeached and removed from his position due to corruption. He thinks you stand a good chance of winning an appeal."

"Well, shit...that's really something." I give him a dap on the shoulder. Maybe I misjudged the kid. He seems alright.

"Merry Christmas, Ray," he whispers, voice gone suddenly gruff.

I'm about to head back in and get dinner started when I look up at the north tower and see a nice, fat grouse perched there. If I could catch her, I could finally try my hand at the Sioux Chef's recipe that calls for cranberry and sage. If only I had that yellow box cutter. "Merry Christmas, kid. I'ma head indoors. Maybe I'll see you in there. Eventually. I know your ass moves slower than decades-old molasses."

Tyrell just laughs.