Page 45 of The River Is Waiting

“Yeah, him. So McGreavy was on supper patrol and there’s no love lost between those two. McGreavy tells Gunnar which table to sit at and the dude ignores him and parks himself at the table where his neo-Nazi pals are at. But McGreavy’s not going to let it go, okay? Not when the guy’s just openly defied him in front of everyone. He goes over there and gets in his face. Gives him a direct order to move to the other table, but Gunnar just keeps eating and ignoring him. The showdown starts getting everyone’s attention. Then the other guard working chow goes over there to give McGreavy an assist. He’s one of those gung-ho newer hires. Blond crew cut, ripped, cocky attitude.”

“Piccardy?”

“Yeah, him. He goes over there and says, ‘Offender, you’ve just been given a direct order, so you’d better comply unless you want to—’

“Doesn’t even finish what he’s saying when Gunnar stands up, grabs his tray, and says, ‘I have no problem complying when a white officer gives me a command, but I’m not taking orders from some spook wearing a sewn-on badge.’

“McGreavy goes up to Gunnar and pulls out his stick, probably just to scare him. Only Gunnar isn’t acting scared. Everyone’s standing up now because it looks like something’s about to go down. Then Gunnar drops his tray on the floor, grabs McGreavy by his shoulders, and fuckin’ headbutts him! McGreavy loses his balance and starts falling backward, but what’s-his-name, Piccardy, catches him before he hits the floor in front of everyone. Except now it’s on! Everyone starts egging them on, cheering, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ A few of Gunnar’s buddies stand up, ready to rumble, but so do three of McGreavy’s homies—those Black cons he’s chummy with. Then before any punches get thrown, Piccardy gets fuckin’ trigger-happy and pepper-sprays Gunnar and his boys!

“He must have radioed for help, too, because pretty soon here come the storm troopers, wearing their helmets, face shields, and riot shit. You can tell they’re just itching to use some of their riot training, but the big showdown has already fizzled because of the pepper spray. The White Power assholes get shackled, belly-chained, and dragged out of there, but the whole room stays, like,energized. Right?

“McGreavy must have felt he had to save face and remind everyone who’s still in charge, so he announces that chow time’s over and orders us back to our units. We all started bitchin’ because we’ve only been there for like ten minutes and some guys haven’t even gotten through the line yet. But Piccardy backs him up so that’s that. They’re the bosses and we aren’t, so we all got up and headed for the door. And it was Jamaican meat pie night, too, those cocksuckers. I was stuffing mine down so fast, I started choking.”

I shake my head. Tell him I’m glad I missed the show but sorry I missed the meat pies, which is one of the best meals they serve over in chow.

“I got you, dawg,” Manny says. “A lot of guys left them on their trays, so I grabbed a few on my way out.” I watch as he pulls a meat pie out of his sweatshirt like a fucking magician. I put my hand out and he tosses it to me. I take a bite and watch him pull another one out of his pants.

“Hey, thanks,” I tell him.

He gives me a garbled “no problem,” his mouth full of meat, gravy, and crust.

So yeah, Manny’s helicopter-parenting me can be annoying sometimes, but at other times it feels kind of good to be taken care of. Other than my poker buddies, he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a friend in here. And like I said, he’s a whole hell of a lot better than Pug.

CHAPTER TWENTY

November 2017

Days 94–95 of 1,095

I’m surprised when I glance at the wall clock behind the circulation desk and see that my two-hour library furlough is almost up. I’ve only got twenty more pages ofDevil in a Blue Dressleft to read, but I better get back to our block. Standing and looking around, I realize that most everyone who was here when I checked in has left. Now it’s just me and Lester. Should I go over and say hi or leave him alone? When he looks up at me, I walk toward him, smiling.

“Hey there. Nice to see you again.”

“Uh-huh.” No smile back.

I hold up the Walter Mosley book he recommended. “Hey, look what I’m reading. It’s a real page-turner. Thanks for the tip.”

“Yup.” He returns to his book.

Instead of taking the hint, I just stand there. “Well, I’ve got to get going. But hey, next time we’re both here, I’d love to pick your brain a little.”

“Oh yeah? You a cannibal or something?”

“Ha ha. No, but the last time we talked, you said you were a walking history of this place. I’d like to hear more about that.”

He says nothing.

“And uh, I’m an artist, okay? That was how I used to make my living. So I was wondering if, when you tell me more about the way things usedto be, I could sketch you while I’m listening.” Frowning, he asks why I’d want to do that. “Well, because you’ve got an interesting face.”

“Do I? What’s interesting about it?”

“Well, it’s the face of someone who’s learned a thing or two about life. A face of wisdom, I guess you could say. So while you’re telling me about some of your experiences, I’d like to try and capture that quality. Do a couple of quick sketches if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, Iwouldmind,” he says. “A kindly old black man with a face of wisdom? You want me to sing ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’ while you’re making your pictures?”

“Uh… what do you mean?”

“I mean you ain’t turning me into your Uncle Remus or your magical Negro ‘cause I ain’t neither one of them. So, no. You can’t ‘pick my brain’ and you can’t ‘capture’ me either.”

---