California Dreamin' Pt. 1 : Arrival

K-5-3-7-8-7.
K-5-3-7-8-7.
“K-5-3-7-8-7. Let’s go. Let’s GO ”

You’d think I’d be used to it by now: The number.
It’s been a year and a half since I’ve had to refer to myself as one.
“Cruz, Alejandro, K -5-3-7-8-7.
Don’t make me call you again. Get out here now ”

I finally rolled myself out of bed enough to reply.
The cell door was wide open.
I looked around and my bunky was still asleep during all this.
It had been a long ride from Corcoran, and sleeping on a bus with plastic
seats didn’t exactly make for a comfortable ride. Neither had the shackles.

As I made my way out the door,  my bunky let out a last rumble of breath
before a slit of his blood-shot eyes peered my way.
“They called you, dawg?”
I nodded.
“Orale. Well, I guess I’ll see you out in the yarda” he said as he turned  around and went back to sleep.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I looked at him again; orange uniform two sizes too small
barely covering half the belly that sprawled to his sides.
How I wished at least one of my prison fantasies had come true
and I’d been stuck in the hole with some hot fucker.
So far I was 0 - 3.

“K-53787" I said. The cell door closing behind me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Starting over – God, I hated it. This was my 5th yard in less than two years and
something told me it wouldn’t be my last. At least Avenal was closer to home and my friends and family. I hadn’t heard from any of my friends, but family was definitely closer.

The inside of these places all looked the same.
Some had a different layout, but the grey walls, the watch towers, the ‘No Warning Shots Fired’ signs,
and the cheerful scowls on the C.O’s faces,  all relayed the same message:
You’re fucked.

Outside the cell there were others forming a line that went half way around the cell block.
Some that had come with me from Corcoran, and others that hadn’t.
We all made our way, single file, outside into the sunlight.

We were being escorted to a building at the end of the small yard, the numbers 01
painted high above the door. There were no other buildings on this yard, but you could see other facilities and inmates walking a track on the other side of the fence and wire. You could hear what sounded like a sport being played in the distance; baseball, perhaps.
We all turned toward it, to some degree, and then quickly removed it from our thoughts.

Arriving at the building, I heard the wheels before I heard the door unlock. Out from the tunnel leading into building
01 came two porters pushing laundry carts. They were both dressed in prison blues, their shirts and pants pressed so razor sharp you could hear them slicing air as they walked.
I think most of us in line already knew the routine, but a few newbies chattered in awe over what the porters were wearing.
“My cousin Flaco says they have good jales here, and that the guys in laundry make about .80 cents an hour. Plus they get hooked up firme with food, clothes, and all kinds of shit, dawg”

That little bit of information came to us from the sawed off fucker three guys down from me.
I’d spotted him as soon as I’d stepped out of the cell. He had that kind of hot I’m-stupid-enough-to-get-a-gang-name-tattooed-on-my-face thing going for him. If you’re into that sort of thing.
When in Rome and all.

“Listen up.”
OK, here we go. They were going to issue us our uniforms and assign us our bunks. Our property was probably in one of the two laundry carts.
I couldn’t wait to get out of this orange transfer uniform, take a shower and get into my
own clothes. The little things.

________________________________________________________________

Having access to our own clothes is something most of us preferred over new prison blues.
There’s freedom in it.

While the CO’s handed out bed cards and property, the porter’s gave us our linens and uniforms.

2 bed sheets
1 grey wool blanket,
2 towels,
2 pairs of boxers,
2 pairs of socks.
Soap
1 travel size tooth brush.
The mattress and pillow we got inside. Padding came with luck.

Half an hour into it and I still didn’t have my property. Apparently a few of us had the
misfortune of having our items misplaced. One of those happened to be shorty with the
tattoo on his face.

“Hey, dawg. Were you in the 3 yard at Corcoran?”
I looked over at him before replying, checking him out in his over-sized uniform.
So damn cute. Yeah, I gotta stop that.
I nodded “Simon.” I’d learned that less was always more when you’re trying to lay low.

“Orale, I think you were with my homie Casper”, he said, coming closer.
Yep. Adorable. Stocky little football player builds always got me.
Stop that!

“SGV Casper?” I asked, the tattoo above his eyebrow only now becoming visible. SGV.
That’s one of the things about being in here that’s just as true as when you’re free.
It’s a small world.
Chances are you’re going to do time with more than one of some
other fucker’s homie. Which is why it’s always best to say the least bit possible about
anything. It always has a way of coming back and biting you in the ass. The hole teaches
you a few things.

We bullshitted a bit, turns out his name was Ghost, and Casper was his brother-in-law.
Not making that shit up. These white boys aren’t terribly clever with their nicknames.

Just then the boys in blue came back with a new laundry cart, creases still slicing the wind.
I hadn’t really payed much attention to these boys other than the initial assessment of their
pressing skills, but I was soon reminded why it’s always good to play nice to the C.O’s pets.

“J-453826" Ghost was up first.

As he strolled up there he went straight up to blue boy #1 and shook his hand. For a second it
seemed like a reunion of sorts.

“I got the hook up, dawg!” he raved as he came back in line with the rest of us.
Four pairs of brand new boxers, socks, sheets and brand new blanket. The little things.

“You got some love there” I said, looking back at the blue boy #1 as he looked our way.
“Yeah, dawg, that’s my stepmom’s little cousin, Smiley. He’s gonna hook it up with a
jale at the laundry, too. I just gotta send him a request.”
It’s all about family in the SGV.

They hadn’t even finished calling my number when I started walking to the carts.
“You’re a little anxious there, aren’t ya?” The C.O asked.
I looked at him and then checked my three bags of property to make sure everything was there.
Then I moved on to Smiley for my linens.

The entire time I’d been talking to Ghost and now that I’d been up with the C.O, I’d felt
Smiley watching me --  and not in a good way.

“You from SGV as well, homie?” Smiley asked, dryly.
Taking the bag in hand I replied, “No, homes. I’m from Los” then stretched out my hand
and introduced myself.

“Oh, all right. Well, mucho gusto.” he said, half smiling and keeping his eyes on me as if trying to place me.
“You know, there’s a big L.A car in the 3 yard. They also have the chicken farm there and those fools make more feria than us at the laundry. When you go to classification, maybe you should tell the C.O’s you’d like to go there. It’s pretty firme.”

Note to self: stay away from the 3 yard.

“Right, right.” I said, looking to cut the chat short. I already didn’t like where this was going.
I’m not a big fan of answering questions for these fuckers or having to share everything
I have just because I happen to live in the same city.
I’d tried that.
I have mentioned the hole, haven’t I?

As I made my way back to the line I could still feel him watching me.
The line started moving inside and Smiley and blue boy #2 started leading the carts away.
“Hey, Smiley, gracias again, dawg” Ghost yelled out as he lifted his linen bag.
Smiley just looked back, nodded and pumped his fist by his chest. A sign of solidarity.

He looked at me again before leaving, raising his head in acknowledgment. There was definitely something
in that stare, and it wasn't a smile.