108 Minutes
It was just before 2 a.m. when I arrived at the James Byrd unit in Huntsville, Texas. Huntsville is home to seven prisons and houses more than 13,000 inmates. It is the busiest execution chamber in the United States. The Byrd, as it’s commonly called, is classified as a diagnostic unit but it’s an intake, a transfer, an overflow, and a housing unit rolled into one. It’s small in comparison to other prisons, but it’s the Grand Central Station of Texas prisons. There’s a lot going on there. However, I was only going to be there for 24 to 30 hours, maybe.
I exited the Bluebird in wrist and ankle shackles with 23 other inmates. We were herded into the unit like cattle heading to the slaughter. Once inside, the strip searches, posturing, and violence commenced. There were a few fights. Inmates took turns shitting in the toilet with no privacy. Others trafficked and traded drugs, weapons, and food. Some just stood there screaming. It was nothing unusual. It was prison. After an hour I received my housing assignment. I got in line and made my way to my cell where I dropped my chain bag and began making my bed.
“Chow in five! Get ready y’all. Chow in five!” The passing C.O. yelled.
Breakfast.
In prison, the most important meal of the day is served at 3 am. I figured their reasoning was financial. They gambled on the chance most inmates wouldn’t get up to eat at that hour. It was a way for them to save money and cut down on inmate traffic. It was harm reduction. Less inmate traffic equals fewer inmate problems.
Our cell doors rolled and we piled out of our cells and onto the run. We shuffled forward and gathered near the cell block exit. I wanted to look around to see if I knew anyone, but my eyesight was terrible and I wasn’t wearing my glasses. Just looking around could get me into some shit in prison. It had in the past and I learned quickly, so I fell in line. The cell block door opened and we paraded out single file style. We began making our way down the hallway, which was called ‘the bowling alley’, toward the chow hall. As we approached the crash gates we were ordered to stop so the returning inmates from chow could pass. It served as traffic control and violence minimization. Shit happens in prison, quickly. The best practice is to stay sharp. So, I did. My eyes and ears were peeled and I used my gut to guide my instinct. That morning was calm with a little inmate chatter. I could hear the fella behind me muttering obscenities describing his frustration and displeasure with the situation.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get it together y’all. It’s always some bitch ass new boot making $12.50 an hour trying to run some shit. We run ourselves,” he mumbled, then yelled, “We run ourselves!”
“Get off the noise,” the young C.O. scowled.
‘Get off the noise’ was a prison phrase I enjoyed. Although it was mostly ineffective, I found it poetic. I liked the way it danced around in my head. It courted and romanced me in a violent place.
I developed eyes in the back of my head and fostered a sixth sense. I honed my gut to anticipate when things were about to jump off. But the fella behind me seemed harmless, perhaps unstable, but harmless. I didn’t worry about his escalating agitation, that’s normal in prison. As we waited, he began seesawing back and forth, hopping from one foot to another. A self-soothing technique honed over years to manage anxiety.
A few other inmates joined in with grumblings of their own.
“Hurry up and wait,” one inmate shouted, “should be TDC’s official policy.”
A handful of inmates laughed.
“Get off that noise, or I’ll send y’all back,” the C.O. yelled again.
“Fuck you,” one guy screamed.
I smiled. Yeah, fuck you! I thought.
After a few more wisecracks the line quieted. I liked the quiet of my madness. You don’t get much quiet in prison, but you get plenty of madness.
I focused on my breathing while I waited, being grateful for it. In prison, you never knew when you could take your last breath. Life could be snatched away at any moment, for nothing. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen an eyeball squeezed out of a man’s eye socket, hanging there like a sausage link. I’ve seen a man thrown from the third story run, his head bounced off of the concrete floor and exploded like a pumpkin. I’ve seen men gang-raped and beaten bloody. I’ve seen death up close and impersonal. Breathing was important to me. My breath was all I had.
In through my nose, hold, out through my mouth, and hold again. My breath drifted into the muted prison air. I was calm and contented with my boxed breathing until I sensed hippity-hop behind me as he leaned in. Was he going to choke me from behind, slit my throat, or bite my face? Staying calm in a moment that would terrify most became an art form.
“This place is a real shit show, huh?”
I didn’t answer. I took a deeper breath, held it longer, and blinked my eyes. If it was coming, it was coming. There was little I could do about it. I exhaled slowly, held emptiness, and countered my escalating central nervous system. It was early, or late, and I was exhausted. I wasn’t interested in making friends or having small talk. I hoped he would take the social cue of silence and drop it altogether, but hope can be a dangerous thing. It can rob you of the reality of your present situation.
He didn’t drop it. He personalized his second attempt with ‘dude.’ Dude is a colloquialism I’m not fond of.
“This place is a real shit show, huh, dude?”
The line began moving.
I had been in these situations before. I knew his type. He wasn’t going to stop until he elicited a satisfactory response. He didn’t seem like a bad guy, but geez, just leave me the fuck alone.
I had a few choices here: I could pretend I was deaf explaining with arm and hand movements, “I’m sorry, I’m deaf,” but then I ran the risk of getting caught hearing at a later date.
I could punch him in the jaw and get it over with. That’s a perfectly acceptable response in prison: violence and hate. But that doesn’t look particularly good for parole, especially when you’re already in prison for what they classify as violent crimes.
My last option was to give in, appease him and respond. I weighed my options, did some consequential thinking, and employed the valuable tool of circumspection. I delivered him a hybrid concoction: one-quarter option one, and three-quarters option three.
“I’m sorry, whaddja say? My hearing is terrible. My eyesight’s even worse.”
I had used this approach before and had seen favorable results. It essentially set me up for future snubs with little if any repercussions.
“This place,” he motioned with his hand like he was a game show host, “is a real shit show, huh, dude?”
“My name is O’Brien, not dude, and, yeah, this place is a total shit show,” I replied in agreement which pleased him.
“Name’s Robert Duseller,” he responded and outstretched his skeletal hand, which I shook. I seldom turned down a handshake as it can tell you a lot about a person. He had a decent one. It held the proper strength, time, eye contact, and release.
“That’s one helluva accent ya got there, O’Brien. Where ya from?”
“New York.”
“New Yawk City?” he responded in an overly dramatic southern drawl. Then followed it with a quote paying homage to a terribly racist and insensitive salsa commercial from the 80’s, “Get a rope!” He doubled over laughing like I hadn’t heard that 10,000 times already. I glared at him unimpressed, testing him.
“I’m just fucking witcha,” he said. “Don’t mind me, O’Brien, I’m just an ole outlaw biker from God’s country. Good ole Texas.”
We entered the chow hall and each grabbed a tray which we inspected for cleanliness. Standard operating procedure.
“What bought ya down here, O’Brien?” He asked.
“I’ve been coming to Texas since the ’90s, touring in bands, but I moved to Austin in 2011 to bang your women, drink your whiskey and remind youse who won the war.”
“Whoa-whoa,” he responded with opposition, “we got ourselves a real cowboy here, y’all.” He wasn’t pleased and started to flush.
“Yes, we do, Duseller. I’m just fucking with ya.”
He leaned in again, as he seemed partial to that move, “Well, in case you didn’t know, O’Brien, you’re the Yank, and we’re the Cowboys, bub.”
“That’s not accurate, my friend. I know Texans have adapted the term Cowboy as their own, but Cowboy was originally an English term the Tory loyalists used during the American Revolution, and they coined it in my backyard, Westchester, New York. Sure, the term Yanks, or Yankee, is a derogatory term toward Northerners, but when used in the same sentence as Cowboy, it’s inaccurate. Yanks was a Civil War term, not an American Revolution term. You know the difference, right?”
“Yeah, I do, O’Brien,” he replied with a contemptuous air. “What are you? A Physics professor or something?
“That’s not Physics Robert, that’s History.”
“History schmistory,” he replied as we sat down at a table. He looked around and continued, “I betcha these guys call you New York most of the time, huh, O’Brien?”
“Yea, they do,” I answered.
He leaned in again and lowered his volume a bit, “They’re quite clever around these parts, ain’t they?”
“Yea,” I laughed. “I reckon they are,” I said and smiled at him.
An olive branch moment. He smiled back which I wish he hadn’t. He was in need of a dental visit and probably some psych meds.
You have to be extra careful of people in prison. Some guys are just looking to pacify and placate themselves at your expense. They’ll hi-jack your time. They’re chameleons. They’re needy. They’re manipulators. They’re predators. Add that up and essentially they’re mathematicians; each of them working an angle. But this Duseller fella, he seemed okay. Okay enough to sit with during chow. Okay enough not to stab me in the neck with a pencil.
We finished up chow in silence as you have to at these units. At an Institutional Division unit (an ID unit), you can take your time, you don’t have to shovel it in. But here at these units, they give you five minutes to eat, tops. You have to inhale your food. Then you’re ordered back to your cell until the next chow. The whole process, from cell to chow and back to cell, takes 15 minutes.
“Where ya housed, O’Brien,” Duseller asked as we entered our cell block.
“1 row, 17 top.”
“Badass,” he replied, “I’m right upstairs, 2 row, 6 bottom. Well, get some rest. I’ll see you next chow,” he said as he took the steps two at a time. Spritely old chum.
I arrived at my cell, peeked in, and experienced a peace only a prisoner. Yes! I thought. Excellent, no cellmate. I could take a nice dump, rub one out, do push-ups, say my prayers, and get some decent sleep.
Here comes the night.
Here come the demons.
God help me.
I woke up six hours later to a C.O. who I could barely understand screaming “Get ready for chow, get ready for chow.”
It sounded more like “Et rowe da ka, et rowe da ka.” So, I et rowe da ka. The cell door rolled. I stepped out cautiously and turned. The cattle were headed to the troughs. It was feed time.
It wasn’t hard to spot Duseller as he bobbed back and forth on his tippy-toes like a water buoy. When he spotted me, he began waving, sort of unsure of himself like we were in a romantic comedy. I gave him a ‘what’s up’ head nod as I approached.
“O’Brien, ya sleep well?”
“Yes Ma, you?”
“Wise ass,” he replied, shaking his head. “No, I did not.” He wasn’t pleased.
“That sucks, sorry to hear that, but par for the course in this dump.”
“I’m surprised anyone could sleep through that racket last night,” he gruffed.
“Did ya brush your teeth?” I asked with a grimace.
“Yea,” he insisted as he breathed a breath into his cupped hands and sniffed.
“I’m just fucking wit ya.”
“Very mature, O’Brien.”
“Yea, well.”
The cell block door rolled and we filed out: single file style, hands behind our backs as we started down the bowling alley toward the chow hall.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I told him, “I was out like a hooker on the ho stroll.”
“Yea, well, some jackass a few cells down decided to let everyone know that he ‘wants to rock, rock right now, and rock and roll all night’. He wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”
“Shit, I wanna rock, too. I miss rocking.”
“Yea,” he replied, unamused. “Every 20 or 30 minutes he screamed one of ’em. All night long. No sleep.”
“Till Brooklyn?”
“What,” he asked, confused.
“Nothing,” I replied, “forget it. Sounds like he was doing a lyrical ‘I wanna rock’ medley.”
We filed into the chow hall and followed standard operating procedures. Duseller shook his head disapprovingly.
“What does that even fucking mean? Talk English, O’Brien.”
“Okay, I’ll break it down for ya. You have the Twisted Sisters lyrics in there. You know the song that starts out with the dad asking his kid ‘What do you wanna do with your life? And the kid replies ‘I wanna rock!’.” Duseller stared at me blankly.
“Yea, I guess.”
“Then there’s the Kiss song,” which I sang. “‘I, I wanna rock n roll all night, and party everyday.’ Finally, Rob Bases’ rap dance classic ‘I wanna rock right now’.”
“Ugh,” he responded in disgust. “I wanna punch you in your face right now, O’Brien.”
“Most do,” I replied.
The servers slopped food onto our trays and we proceeded to sit at a table the C.O. instructed. Duseller leaned in towards me, pointed his chin, and asked, “See that slob right there?”
I pretended to scratch my shoulder and took a look.
“Yeah, I see ’em. Why, what’s up?”
“He’s a real piece of work, that guy,” he said, taking a bite of his cornbread. “He tried to sell me three houses last night, ‘three for a dollar he told me, real cheap’.”
‘Houses’ are a street term medication in prison. They’re basically uppers. Crush them up, snort it and you got yourself some speed.
“Do I look like a druggy to you?” He asked as he shoveled food into his mouth.
I thought to myself, ‘Well yeah, you do look like a druggy.’ He looked 90 years old and weighed 110 pounds. He had missing teeth and his jaw was in constant motion. He was bald and his beard was scraggly and unkempt. He looked like he was into wizard porn or something. With cloaks, and cauldrons and magic spells and fuckenings and shit. I nodded my head no in deceit.
He winced and dropped his green plastic spoon in disgust. “This is fucking terrible.”
Lunch was beef tamale and tasted pretty good to me.
“I shoulda gotten meat-free,” he bitched.
We finished up, me eating and him bitching. The C.O. ordered us to return to our cells. We exited and walked down the bowling alley.
“Welp, if I figure out who was yelling all night long, I’ma check em, and if he bucks, I’ma fuck him up,” he said as he smashed his right fist into his left hand.
“I wanna rock,” I replied undemonstratively.
“Yea, cute, O’Brien. I wanna rock, too. Rock him with a left, a right, and an uppercut. See how he likes that.”
His posturing sickened me so I changed the subject.
“Duseller? Is that German? You from the Fatherland?”
“God no, I’m Dutch.”
“Alrighty then Dutch boy. I’ll see ya later tonight at dinner?”
“Yep, unless I hang myself, which is a possibility.”
“Yea, it is,” I agreed. “Till then, kid.”
Five hours passed one second at a time. I did push-ups, sit-ups, squats, prayed, reviewed chess tactics, read and wrote stories to occupy myself. God knows what Duseller did. I could only imagine. He probably paced and stewed in his salty disposition.
Same routine: C.O. called for chow in an inaudible and unidentifiable language, our doors roll, and we exited. When I spotted Duseller, he was already shaking his head, fuming.
“What’s the problem now,” I asked.
“See that guy up front?”
“The guy wearing the Kufi,” I asked.
“Yea.” he replied. “He’s full of shit.”
“How so,” I asked, amused by this assertion.
“I saw him in the chow hall yesterday and he was stuffing his fat pious face with pork noodle casserole. Muslims aren’t supposed to eat pork, ya know.”
“Yea, everyone knows that, Duseller.”
“Apparently he doesn’t.”
He had a point, but I wasn’t there to police anyone’s religious commitments. What did he want me to do?
“So, what,” I said, already exhausted from his negativity and constant judgment. “I’m sure I’ve eaten meat on a Friday during Lent at some point. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Jesus was,” he added.
“Yes, I guess he was,” I agreed. “I stand corrected.”
“It’s just typical,” he started, “it’s just a fashion show for them. He’s a fake, a phony. I don’t like fakes or phonies, O’Brien.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
The line began to move and we headed towards the chow hall.
“Isn’t what the same?”
“Fakes and phonies. Aren’t they the same?”
“Oh, for fucks sake, O’Brien, I don’t know. That’s not the point,” he said with growing agitation. “Just watch him,” Duseller instructed. “Watch him as he malik a salami’s his brethren.” He added the air quotes around brethren with his long wizard-like fingers. He continued to give me the play-by-play every time the guy interacted with anybody.
“See,” he said, pleased with himself, “what a phony!”
As we entered the chow hall, he began to defend himself.
“O’Brien, I ain’t picking on the Muslims, I ain’t racist.”
I wanted to inform him that passing judgment on a Muslim isn’t racism, but I let it go. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.
“The Christians, too,” he added, “proudly displaying their crosses around their necks, then jerking off on female guards as they pass, getting ’em pen style,” he mocked, “or raping men in the shower, fucking ’em in the ass. I don’t play that homo shit, O’Brien.”
We got our trays and our food and sat down. I looked to redirect the subject matter, again.
“You going to breakfast tonight, Duseller?”
“Prolly,” he replied, “I’m sure I won’t get any sleep tonight with Ethel Merman a few cells down from me.”
“Yea, me too. Tonight’s breakfast looks good,” I said as I chin motioned to the chow hall’s menu displayed on the wall.
Duseller turned to look, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he bellowed and threw his hands up in the air in defeat.
Instead of ‘pancakes with syrup,’ the menu read ‘mancocks with syrup.’
He turned back towards me, furious. “I told you, I don’t play that homo shit!”
I could barely contain myself and started laughing. “Don’t get pissy with me, I didn’t write it.”
“These idiots!” he shouted. “Everyone’s a fucking comedian. It never ends. Never ends!”
We settled in to eat, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I was in stitches. Duseller was pissed, and he didn’t eat anything either. We motioned to the C.O. and requested to leave, to which we were denied. We sat in antithetic emotions and dispositions for a few minutes. Duseller finally asked, “How are you so happy and light all the time, O’Brien?”
“Well, when I wake up, the first thing I do is laugh and smile. Then I just work backward.”
Duseller huffed at me and looked away. Again, not pleased.
We were finally instructed by the C.O. to leave and began heading back to our cell blocks.
“This place is full of fags, phonies, and chomo’s (child molesters), the creme-de-la-creme, O’Brien, the creme-de-la-fucking-creme.”
I continued walking in silence, hands behind my back, trying not to laugh. Once again, I wasn’t successful.
“I should see you tonight at breakfast, O’Brien, but I’m chaining out right after, so who knows? If I don’t see ya, take care of yourself, ya hear?”
“You too, Robert,” I replied as we shook hands and headed toward our respective cells.
I didn’t mention I would probably be chaining out as well. Relationships need a little mystery.
Hours passed. I napped, crapped, slapped it, and packed it. A C.O. arrived at my cell door giving the directive to grab my property, drop it off downstairs in the chain room, and head to chow. I did as I was instructed. As I came out of my cell, I peeked down the run didn’t Duseller. Perhaps he chained out already. Or maybe he went to chow early. Or more hopefully, he decided to hang himself and just get it over with. An extremely viable option in prison. Who knows? Who cares? I thought. Lying to myself, again. I cared.
As I approached the cell block doors I heard, “There he is, hold up, O’Brien.”
I looked up and there was Duseller coming out of his cell.
“I’m running late, had a hard time getting up.”
“Good, you slept?”
“Somewhat,” he replied, “the I wanna rock asshole was quiet but we had another guy who screamed ‘hhheeeellllpppp!!!!’ at the top of his lungs every hour or so.”
“Yea, I heard that guy,” I laughed.
“This place ain’t no prison, O’Brien, it’s a God-damn psychiatric unit is what it is. These people are nuts. I’ve had it.”
I continued laughing. He had another good point.
“Hell yea it is,” I agreed as the cell block door opened and we started down the bowling alley.
“So, O’Brien, we never got to finish our discussion on why you’re here.”
I cut him off, “We don’t ask those types of questions, Duseller, you know that.”
“No,” he responded, “not why you’re here in prison, why you’re in Texas? And no wise-ass answers about banging our women and drinking our liquor, okay?”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
“Betcha I’ll get it in one,” he replied.
“Gentlemen’s bet?”
“Gentlemen’s bet,” he agreed and we shook on it.
“Well, it’s either a woman or money,” he said looking me over. “Judging from the electrical tape holding your glasses together, you look broke, so I’m going with a woman.”
“Final answer?”
“Final answer.”
I shook my head reassuringly and replied, “Bingo, you nailed it, Duseller. Good intuition and deductive reasoning. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you for the kind words, professor. It wasn’t really difficult; women will get you every time. Y’all still together?”
“On paper, yes, in reality, no. She kinda led on while I was in county that she’d at least stay in touch when I got to prison, but once I hit prison, she ghosted me. Which is fine, but she could have said that. She did the ole set-up and burn. The problem is we have a seven-year-old son, Killian. I haven’t spoken to or heard from him in over two years. Killian and I had a great relationship, we spent all of our time together. She’ll say differently, but ask anyone in our neighborhood and they’ll tell ya the truth. I write him every two weeks, though. And on the bright side, I now get to use the term ‘my estranged wife’ in conversation.”
“That’s terrible, man, I’m sorry.”
“Yea, it is. I don’t vilify or demonize her as she’s done me. I have a part in this obviously, but to keep my son from me is just cruel. I’m sure she’s created a narrative to sell others and support her actions, but it’s not accurate, she’s simply out for revenge and wants to hurt me. End of story. Again, I do write him a lot, but I get no response, and I doubt she gives my letters to him. I’ve made copies of the letters though, as proof.”
“Good, you miss it?”
I gave him the Are you kidding me look and Why are you referring to my son as ‘it’ and responded, “Of course I miss him, it’s killing me…”
“No, you idiot,” he interrupted, “I know that, I can see it in your eyes. I meant New York jackass; do you miss New York?”
“Meh, not really. It wasn’t the New York I grew up in anymore, ya know? It changed, and that’s okay, change is good, but I didn’t fit in anymore. So, I took a chance on love and moved to Texas. But I do miss my friends. I miss the winters and the snow.”
“Oh, Lord no,” Duseller responded, “fuck the snow.”
“Yea, well, the snow can be a lot of fun.”
“Ain’t nothing fun about freezing my nuts off buddy boy.”
“No, of course, there isn’t, but you dress properly for that, and just like anything else in this life we deem unpleasant at first, you eventually get used to it. Plus, leaving the snow forced me to give up my greatest pick-up line.”
“Pick-up line, I don’t follow.”
“Well, if I was out driving in the snow and happened to spot a cute snow bunny clearing off her car or shoveling her driveway, I’d pull up, roll down my window, throw on the ole-Irish charm, smile and ask, ‘Hey toots, can I plow your driveway?’”
Duseller laughed out loud, “And that works?”
“More times than you know. I mean look at me Duseller, am I not the most handsome and charming Irishman you’ve ever met?”
“I told you I don’t go in for that homo shit,” he barked.
“Alright,” I yelled back, “settle down Beavis, geez.”
A C.O. stopped us before we entered the chow hall.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Duseller huffed, “what’s the holdup boss, we’re hungry.”
“Gots nowheres to seats y’all’s at the moments.” The C.O. pluralized everything which I found fascinating. “Y’all’s justs gots to bees patient.”
Duseller began peeking into the chow hall. His agitation grew.
“It doesn’t take math to figure out if six from this table get up and leave, then six from the other table do the same, that’s twelve people leaving. You can let twelve people in.”
“Well, technically, that’s exactly what it takes,” I told him. “That’s what math is, that’s what it does and that’s what it’s for.”
“Alrighty, that’s enough outta you Bill Nye,” Duseller shot back.
“Again, wrong discipline, Bill Nye was the Science guy.”
“Fuck Bill Nye.”
“Agreed.”
We got waved in and proceeded to pick up our trays and spoons.
Duseller took a big prison relationship step.
“Hey, O’Brien, what’d they send ya to the big house for, being too smart?”
“I already told ya we don’t ask those types of questions, Duseller.”
“Yea, I know that, but I figured we’d gotten pretty tight by now. Me? I’m here for felony possession of a firearm. They gave me 25 years for that shit.”
“Golly, they hammered you,” I replied.
“Yea, well, it’s my third time down. I like guns. They don’t like that I like guns.”
“Isn’t that a federal offense? Why didn’t the feds pick it up?”
“Who knows why they do or don’t do what they do. I have no idea, but they didn’t. So, the State pursued it. I didn’t want to take it to trial due to the enhancements they added to my indictment, so I took a plea.”
“Good move. You probably would have gotten 75 years if you had taken it to trial.”
“Probably.”
I gave Duseller the once over, just to make him uncomfortable, and figured why not? Let’s get intimate.
“I’m down for robbery, three counts. Six years each to run concurrently.”
He looked a little surprised, shook his head slightly, and went into character with a deepened voice.
“Woe to you o earth and sea, for the devil sends the beast with wrath because he knows the time is short. Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast. For it is a human number. Its number is six hundred and sixty — six.”
He quoted Iron Maiden as he flashed me the heavy metal horns with his hands.
“Yep, 666, the number of my sentence, very metal indeed.”
“You don’t strike me as a robber, or violent. Whadja rob? Banks?”
Now he was asking for too much information.
“Trains,” I replied.
“Oh, so you’re Billy the Kid, now, huh?”
“Nope, but I betcha didn’t know Billy the Kid was from New York.”
“Oh, here we go again, school’s back in session everyone,” he yelled.
“I’m serious, his real name was Henry McCarthy. He was a nice Irish Catholic boy, like me,” I said as I smiled and winked, “and he was from Brooklyn.”
“Well thank you for the History lesson, Mr. O’Brien.”
“You’re welcome.”
We sat down and began to eat. We finished up, dropped off our trays, and headed down to the transportation waiting cell.
We crammed ourselves into a bench seat along the wall. I dozed off.
There’s an indescribable comfortability that couples with uncertainty when you doze off in an environment so deeply rooted in violence and hate. It’s a strange paradox that you get used to. You even begin to look forward to it.
An hour or so later, my eyes popped open. I checked the clock on the wall, it read 4:44 a.m.
Angles.
The Bluebirds started arriving around 5 am to pick us up. The waiting cell was packed. I spotted Duseller in the corner pleading his case to some disinterested and disenfranchised fellow. Duseller’s head and hands flailed about enthusiastically. He spotted me, gave me a thumbs-up, and made a weird face. He gave me the gimme a minute hand gesture and finished up his monologue.
“There he is,” Duseller said, as he approached swimming through a sea of nervous men.
I didn’t respond.
He kicked my foot and asked, “You gonna make it, O’Brien?”
“Yea,” I said as I snapped out of it. “I’m just tired of this place, these people, the prison culture, and everyone’s bullshit. You know how it goes.”
Duseller crouched down in front of me as there was nowhere to sit. He took on a sincere posture and an austere tone.
“You might wanna think about giving people, and yourself, a break. You’re very critical of people, O’Brien. Be a little more compassionate.”
“Me?” I began. “You’re the one…”
“Ahhhh,” he vibrated and cut me off with a shake of his right hand and index finger. “I don’t wanna hear it, O’Brien. You got people out there that love you, and that boy of yours, Killian, he needs you. He needs his dad. Don’t worry about his mother’s bullshit and her agenda, the truth will eventually surface. And don’t get caught up in this prison bullshit, it’ll drag you down. Do your time and go home to him no matter what your old lady does. Do what it takes. You understand me?”
“I do,” I said as I shook my head in agreement. I appreciated his candid approach.
We stood up and I extended my hand. He slapped it away and dove in for a hug. That took me by surprise, but I reciprocated.
We hugged and backed away. We smiled and laughed. The transit C.O. yelled out his name, pronouncing it murderously. He turned from me, walked off, and got handcuffed to another man, who he immediately began a conversion with.
And that was that.
That was the last I saw of Robert Duseller. He had been a good friend to me in the 108 minutes we spent together. He cared about what was really important in life: relationships. The relationship you have with God, your family, friends, laughter, ball-breaking, others, and most importantly, self. I appreciated that.
I’ll see you soon, Killybean, I thought.
I nodded back off and waited…
