A RING TO REMEMBER in Adventures From Prison

I look into my Styrofoam container and shudder, wishing for the fifth or sixth time for a slice of the pizza I’d made that my friends were now enjoying without me. In my container is a small scoop of fatty beef mixed with cheese and green peppers (our version of Philly Cheese steak), two slices of wheat bread and a bunch of wilted lettuce.
I’m nervous, not hungry, but know this is the last food I’ll see until tomorrow afternoon when the procedure is complete. I poke at the meat. It’s cold. I take the one packet of “Miracle Whip” they included and squish it on my bread and then add the meat. Even pressing it down with a fork I’m unable to cover the bottom slice of bread. I take a bite; it’s terrible…so it’s actually improved since the last time they made it.
I look down at the salad, without dressing there was no chance of getting it down my throat.
“You want my salad?” I asked my cellmate.
He scoffs, “You do realize I didn’t get this big by eating salad.”
“Not a veggie fan, huh?” I laughed.
“If they’re fried they are okay.”
I go back to eating.
“I’m Big C,” he said.
I turn to face him. I’m Gus.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” he said and chuckles. His whole body jiggles when he laughs. It’s an annoying sound, like an angry goose. For a man who weighs nearly a quarter ton he has a surprisingly high-pitched voice, each vowel oozing from his nose reminding me of the character Steve Urkel.
“Most people do,” I admit. Being the library front man is a highly visible position so I constantly have guys start talking to me, using my first name, who I’ve never spoken to before.
“So you are going in for a hernia operation too?” Big C asked.
“Nah, just getting this mole hacked out,” I tap the blue nevi beneath my eye. “They think it might be going cancerous.”
“Scary.”
“Not really. If you had to get cancer this is the type you would want. They just cut it out or zap it with a laser and you’re cured.” I explained.
“That’s good,” he said.
I finish my sandwich and look up at the top bunk. I have no idea how I’m going to get up there without a ladder. I decide not to worry about it until I have to. Big C looks at me.
“I just want you to know I’m okay with guys like you,” he said.
“Guys like me?” I asked. There are a lot of possibilities going through my mind. White guys? Computer Criminals? Educated men? So when he smiles, reaches out his hand and let’s his wrist go limp, I just look at it in shock. Seriously?
“I’m not gay,” I tell him.
“Mm-hmm,” he said with undisguised skepticism.
“No really, I’m not. What gave you that idea?”
He mimics the way I’m sitting: One leg bent, my right arm resting on it, hand hanging limply. I suppose it might be a tad feminine. I was raised almost exclusively by women, so the mannerisms I picked up are admittedly a bit unmasculine at times but certainly not enough to appear to be flaming. “Come on,” he said “It’s okay. People just need to be themselves.”
“Seriously, I am not gay. Not even a little.” I assured him.
He laughs, then holds up is right hand and points to his ring finger, “Whatever you say.”
I sigh. Since my divorce last October, I’ve been wearing my wedding band on my right ring finger. To me it’s become a reminder of not only my ex-wife, who I’ll always love and call my friend, but also of the damage careless acts can cause. The world I live in now is hard; literally, every surface is metal or stone or hardwood. Being right-handed and having my ring on that hand often brings it in contact with those hard surfaces making a loud bang or clang.
It only happens when I’m not paying attention, so each time I hear that sound, I pause and remember how my last careless act took away my career, wife and freedom. I then center myself and go on with my day. Reminders are important in this world because it is far too easy to begin blaming others for your incarceration and lose sight of the things you need to change. I explain this all to Big C.
“Oh,” he said, almost sounding disappointed. “I just thought it was to let people know you were gay.”
“Nope,” I said, all of the while wondering if my obliviousness toward popular culture has led me to commit another faux pas. Suddenly a terrible, horrible idea strikes me. Was Big C hoping to get a little something-something from me? I’ve heard plenty of stories about State prisons where black men rape white guys as a status symbol and now I was alone in a locked room, with nothing to do, with a man who outweighed ME by 200 pounds. Amazingly, that difficult climb into the top bunk was suddenly looking very easy!
Turns out, I didn’t have to worry. Big C and I started talking about dogs, movies and the craziness of our compound. It turned out he was friends with some of my comic book crowd and one of my fellow librarians.
About 10:30 the lights went out and I awkwardly hauled myself up into bed. Let me tell you, sleeping on the top bunk above a restless 450 pound man is an adventure unto itself. More than once I felt like I was riding out a windstorm on the top branches of a tree. Everything shook and swayed so badly that I wedged my leg into the small space between the bed and the wall just to be safe.
Sleep came in fits and starts but eventually the tiny frosted glass window brightened with morning light.