Fathom of the Opera

By Sean O’Brien

“Read more, learn more, change the globe.” — Nas

“Humor is mankind’s greatest blessing.” — Mark Twain

While incarcerated in county jail, I enrolled in a Reading World Literature program. The co-founder, Kaitlyn, had seen a human-interest story on the news where graduate students from a local university developed a program where they selected high school and college-level literature and taught it to inmates. Although I felt ambiguous about the potential students this program might attract, it was clear that what Kaitlyn and her co-founder, Nina, were doing was an august act. I desperately needed some academic and intellectual stimulation. Each day incarcerated, I did what I could to stay sharp and feed my atrophying brain. I enrolled in nearly every program the jail had to offer. It was Travis County, Austin, Texas, a progressive town, so there were many of them. I did my county time by staying involved and remaining productive. Being involved with so many programs exposed me to a lot of people. I found a dozen inmates with whom I had solid conversations. However, most inmates I had met there were not that bright and not educated.

My initial two-month stint was spent in a two-man cell on a maximum-security cell block with little movement and no program involvement. Due to my good behavior, I got moved to a minimum to medium security open bay cell block, where I spent the remaining 12 months of my county time fighting my robbery cases.

If I were a real estate agent, I’d list our accommodations as a bi-level, 16-bedroom, 8-bathroom brick mansion with stainless steel everything. State-of-the-art electronic doors, expansive bay windows, high ceilings, concrete floors, a video surveillance system, an enclosed yard in a double gated community with private security. In reality, the place was a dump. Two levels with eight 18x10 foot open-bay cells on each floor. Each cell contained four metal bunks and was separated by a four-foot-high pale yellow cinder block wall. Four showers, four toilets, two pissers, and four scratched plexiglasses metallic mirrors on each level. The upper level donned a charming black metal chain-linked fence to thwart suicide and homicide attempts. It housed 64 men. Institutional but cozy.

I got up early every day, not because I was awesome, although I am, but getting up early provided some quiet time. It also provided some humor. Certain inmates would scurry to the bathroom at daylight with shame on their faces. They’d hide as best they could in the toilet stalls and begin rubbing one out. I’m kind of into voyeurism, not necessarily with men, but I didn’t have any options there; jail isn’t co-ed. Watching the men’s feet twist, turn, and contort as they rubbed one out provided me an uncomfortable comfort. The grunting, inevitable sigh, and flattening of the feet when they came provided me much comic relief. I felt like I was in a movie and not in reality. It was an escape. Most never washed their hands after. I know that move, I thought. You either lick it off your hands, rub it in your hair, or wipe it on the wall. Some inmates went right to their food service jobs after their self-indulgence. Tasty.

Jail was an awful environment to exist in. When I wasn’t in programming, I spent most of my time playing chess or reading in my cell. Regardless of what I was doing to occupy my time and stay out of trouble, I overheard conversations from the table or cell next to me. It was nearly impossible not to. Jail is an overcrowded and loud environment. Unfortunately, most inmates loved to make a scene and share their bullshit. Like I cared. Ear hustling is what they called it. Ear harassment is what I called it. I did not want to hear any of it. Most conversations I overheard were depressing and alarming. My fellow inmates’ views on current events, politics, religion, education, and the judicial system were astonishing. The misinformation, ignorance, racism, and hatred never ceased to amaze me. The only saving grace was the humor I found in it all. Humor may be the sole reason I survived jail and prison and didn’t willingly take a swan dive from the top of the upper-tier steps.

I’ve never been a good speller and often misspell elementary words. I continuously find myself the victim of writing defiantly when I mean to write definitely. I defiantly agree; I’ll write. I still catch myself reciting ‘i before e, except after c,’ as I misspell receiving and deceitful. Spell check has only made matters worse. However, I’m aware of it. If anyone asks me to spell a word for them, I reply, “I’m a terrible speller. You should ask someone else or look it up.” Ask me to identify a relative clause, a past-participle, or a misplaced modifier, no problem. Just don’t ask me to spell them.

That wasn’t so for the two in the cell next to me.

“Yo, how you spell beautiful, holmes?”

I was lying down in my bunk when I overheard this. I rested my book on my chest, closed my eyes, and waited. A boisterous, opinionated, and never wrong voice replied in proper spelling bee format.

“Beautiful. B-e-a-t-i-f-u-l. Beautiful.”

Thank God for the precious moments of silent confusion.

“Hold up, G, ain’t there two I’s in beautiful?”

“Nah, holmes, beautiful has one I, I’m positive. I came in second place in my third-grade spelling bee, B. Ya can’t fuck with me on that spelling shit.”

My ear-to-ear smile didn’t last long. I was overcome with sadness and compassion. Wow, I thought. But in jail, sadness and compassion don’t last long. They betta not.

The first Reading World Literature class I attended was an informational session. In that session, I saw some promise, but mainly disappointment. However, the disappointment didn’t blindside me. I anticipated it. Kaitlyn facilitated the initial session. She introduced which books we were to read and discuss. She also explained what the program’s expectations were. As an ice-breaker, she asked us to introduce ourselves and what we liked to read. Most inmates gave their jail names and rattled off genres.

“Yeah, I’m Waco, and I like to read sci-fi and westerns.”

“Sup y’all, I’m fo-fo, and I read history and fiction mostly.”

A few more brazen inmates dropped names to earn a potential class pet spot and paltry literary points.

“I’m Paulie. I’m from the Whizzy, but I stay on Rundberg. I’m a Langston Hughes and Fredrick Douglass fan.”

“I’m Chris. I’m from West Lake. I’ll read anything from Dante to Yeats. But I really enjoy Dunne and Plutarch.”

Give me a break, geez.

Diamonds in the rough. The wanna-be’s stuck out severely. The gems of humor shone.

“I’m O.G. from Rayburn. Sup, y’all? I like Dean Koontz, James Patterson, and Blake Griffin.

“Blake Griffin,” Kaitlyn repeated as she cocked her head to the left. “Isn’t he a basketball player?”

“He probably meant William Blake,” my soon-to-be buddy Dietrich chimed in and flashed a crooked and teeth-missing smile.

My type of guy.

After we finished our introductions, Kaitlyn fielded questions. And yes, there were dumb questions. Dumb as fuck.

“Which book did you write, teach? I’d like to take that one,” one inmate asked.

Kaitlyn explained. “Although I am a writer, I have not yet been published. I’m working on it, though. I didn’t write any of these books. I’m a student at the University of Texas Austin, where I’m pursuing my Ph.D.”

Another inmate blurted out, “What’s a Ph.D.? It’s not like an S.T.D., is it?”

Most laughed.

I didn’t.

Neither did Dietrich.

“No,” Kaitlyn replied undemonstratively, “It’s not like an S.T.D. However, let me share an interesting statistic on S.T.D.’s with y’all. The A.M.A.,” she paused for effect and slowly proceeded, “that stands for the American Medical Association, they report that one in five Americans have an S.T.D.”

She paused again, knowing how to work a room, surveying all with accusing eyes.

“There’s 30 of us in here, so you do the math. That’s if division isn’t too advanced for you.”

The room blanketed itself with a quilt of confusion, embarrassment, and odd admiration.

“A Ph.D. stands for Doctor of Philosophy. I have two undergraduate degrees, one master’s degree, and now I’m pursuing my Doctorate. My Ph.D.”

Another inmate, now concerned, slowly raised his hand for the day’s final question.

“So, am I going to get a medical charge if I take one of these classes, Doc?”

I sighed, again, the lowest form of a verbal cry.

The program offered seven courses: Frankenstein in Bagdad, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Cat’s Cradle, Signs Preceding the End of the World, Letterers to a Young Poet, We, and Oryx and Crake. As any drug addict worth their weight in salt, I enrolled in all of them. The difference is that as a person in active recovery, I finished them.

All of the instructors were wonderful and patient. Again, what they were doing was prodigious, and I am forever grateful. I’m sure they left each class with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. They were volunteers. They weren’t getting paid or earning class credits. They were simply paying it forward and giving back. However, I couldn’t help but think they must have been horrified at the inmates’ intelligence level. It must have gotten to some of them at some point. I imagined them leaving the jail with a fake smile. Once they got to their Camry’s and Honda’s, they’d break into tears, rethink their decision, and vow never to return.

As each week pressed on, most inmates stopped showing up altogether. This didn’t surprise me. It wasn’t their fault. They were under-educated if educated at all. They would have been better suited for Reading for Success, Lucy’s Literary List, and G.E.D. programs. However, that population also struggled with the concept of humility. The pseudo-intellectual fakes kept coming, though. They craved the attention.

“I can’t phantom why Elshiva wouldn’t move to Australia to live with her daughters,” one inmate interjected during a Frankenstein in Baghdad discussion.

Abashed with confusion, Radwa, the cohort’s co-facilitator, asked in her sexy mix of Queens English and Middle East accent. “Pardon me, what do you mean, phantom?”

“You know, phantom, like to understand,” he replied.

“Oh, fathom, you must mean fathom,” she replied.

Disconcerted and mildly humiliated, he deflected the correction and continued digging.

“Irregardless, my point still stands.”

Kaitlyn cringed as if she had been kicked in the pussy.

“Irregardless is not a word. The word is regardless.”

I watched the inmate go from humiliated and frustrated to angry. He raised his voice, retorted with an exalted level of emotions, and yelled, “I could care less if it’s a word or not!”

He slinked back into his graffitied chair, arms crossed, deflated, and put on a mean mug.

The phrase is I couldn’t care less, folks. Please think it through.

One poor schmuck thought a Thesaurus was a Dinosaur. I shit you not. But, hey, it’s a doggy dog world, the inmate there for jaywalking informed us in another discussion.

Exhausting.

Near the end of the eight-week semester, we were left with a core group of ten of us. There was Mike, who took a plea agreement for his third D.W.I., a felony in Texas. He served 18 months in total between the county and state jail. After his release, he moved back to Florida and studied law at the University of Miami. He went on to pass the state bar exam. He persuaded the committee to wave his Texas felony that would have prevented him from practicing law. Pretty amazing. Mike now practices criminal law as a defense attorney for D.W.I. and D.U.I. charges. He hasn’t had a drop of booze since his arrest.

Dietrich, the wise-ass I mentioned earlier, was intelligent and well-read. The too smart for his own type of guy. He served a short three-year prison sentence for civil obstruction and retaliation. He is now a leading community activist in Austin. He’s crunchy, granola, and smokes copious amounts of weed. He lives in a tent in an underground community somewhere in the woods. He’s nuts, but he’s pretty awesome, too. I see him from time to time on news clips from local protests and weed advocacy projects.

Pedro moved back to California after his release for a Delivery and Manufacturing charge. It took some sitting in prison and finagling with Texas and California parole, but they got it done. Unfortunately, Pedro continued gang-banging. He caught a new gun charge and served time in Pelican Bay, where a rival gang member murdered him.

Eric, a.k.a. Dr. Love, was sent to a diversionary drug rehabilitation program. He and a couple of the other convicts were caught having an orgy with their counselor in her office. They were supposed to have been in a 12-step meeting. As a result, Eric was kicked out of the program and had to serve five years on a rough Institutional Division (I.D.) unit, Allred. He now owns a few gyms throughout Austin. He claims to still bang various broads, but now one at a time and in his office. Boring. No more gang-banging for him.

Elijah. Poor simple Elijah. He was my first cellmate in county. After being offered a plea bargain of 25 years, non-aggravated, which the DA and his lawyer begged him to take, he decided to take his case to trial. I learned a valuable lesson with him at his and his family’s expense. If you’re guilty in any way, do not take it to trial. He was only 40 years old with a wife and three young boys. If he had taken the deal, he probably would have done anywhere between eight and twelve years and then gotten out. But he didn’t. He took it to trial, lost, and was sentenced to 99 years, aggravated. He’ll be eligible for parole at age 85.

After spending close to three years in county, Caesar was convicted of Capital murder after a lengthy investigation and trial. He is serving his time on death row and has a scheduled execution date of November 22, 2033. He’ll appeal it, and that process take decades. I assisted Caesar in filing his “Death Row Plan” before he left county for prison. A precautionary measure, he claimed. Far too late for that, I thought. Talk about creepy.

Shaun did three years on a six-year sentence. He parlayed his hair stylist skills into a cushy barber job in prison, where he met a pro-football player. Those two teamed up, and now Shaun is the traveling barber for the New Orleans Saints. He is fabulous as ever and now a Saint. Go figure.

Arthur, that fucking guy. After sitting in county jail for nearly two years, he was shipped to the Austin State Psychiatric hospital to be evaluated for mental competency. It wasn’t surprising he was found legally insane and incompetent to stand trial. His charge was stalking, which was later dropped by the D.A. after he completed an 18-month rehabilitation stint in a psychiatric unit.

I did about four years in prison. After my release, Arthur somehow found my address and showed up at my front door one day looking for me. I wasn’t home, but my girl Ash was.

“May I help you?” She asked.

“Well, I hope so,” he whiffed. “Pardon me for showing up unannounced. My name is Arthur. I was friendly with Sean while he was in Del Valle County jail about five years ago. I was a volunteer there,” he lied, “I’m departing for Boston tomorrow as I have accepted an adjunct teaching position at Amherst College. I hoped I could speak and catch up with Sean before I left. Is he available?”

“No, Arthur, he is not, but I can certainly let him know you came by.”

“Ah, what a shame, oh well,” he sulked, straightened back up, and continued, “Here’s my direct number at the college. Please see to it that he receives it.”

“Will do,” Ash replied, “Thanks for stalking by,” and shut the door.

That was the last I’ve heard of Arthur. However, I did phone Amherst a few weeks later. They never heard of him or had any records of his employment there.

That leaves Robert, who I nicknamed Robert 4000. Robert was not only a classmate; he was also my cellmate for six months. Most people who’ve done time refer to their cellmate as their celly. I can’t bring myself to do that. I’m not a 14-year-old girl. It sounds stupid. I heard Robert passed away a few years later due to syphilis complications. That’s got to be a brutal death. Robert wasn’t in jail very long as his charges were eventually dropped. However, wasting six months of your life sitting in county jail to finally have your charges dropped still fucks you up. But Robert was fucked up to begin with, and I’m not sure how much more room for fuckery he had available. He was charged with sexual harassment, which he steadfastly denied.

“I grew up with my mother and five sisters. I always have and always will respect women,” was his story.

The rest went like this. Robert claimed on the night of his arrest that he was kicked out of his girlfriend’s apartment wearing a pair of sweatpants, a tank top, and flip-flops. It was an unseasonably cold night in Austin, with the temperature at 41 degrees. He pleaded with her to give him his coat, but she refused based on righteous indignation and that it wasn’t his. She purchased it. Employing her same logic, upon Robert’s departure from her apartment she threw a gigantic dildo he had bought her from the second-story window.

“Don’t leave without this, Rob! Now you can go fuck yourself.”

After freezing his balls off for over an hour, Robert frantically burst into a small convivence store on the corner nearing closing time, startling the only employee, a female who was at the counter counting cash. She claimed Robert barged into the store “like a wildman with his hands down his pants doing God knows what and screaming ‘I just wanna jack it!’”

“At first, I thought I was getting robbed,” she told police, “But I soon realized he was nothing but a pathetic pervert.”

Robert admitted to having his hands down his pants but only for practical reasons: warmth and coverage from the wind. He also claimed that his cries were misunderstood, that what he screamed was, “I just want a jacket.”

Who knows? Jail isn’t the palace of truth.

From what I ascertained, our core group were alright guys. They were intelligent, funny, insightful, and respectful. And for the most part, we got along well. However, Arthur and Elijah were high maintenance. They were both over the top, full of shit, and massive pain in the asses.

For instance, take Arthur. Arthur was obsessed with Alexander Hamilton. He’d force a Hamilton anecdote into every discussion, no matter how unrelated or uncomfortable it presented. It was verbal rape. But according to the State of Texas, he was insane, so I understood his madness. One discussion we had revolved around the protagonist of the Reluctant Fundamentalist, Changez. Changez was from Lahore, Pakistan. He moved to the States, studied finance at Princeton, and later worked on Wall Street. Arthur paralleled Changez’s outlook on economics to that of Hamilton’s. Arthur’s signature response was that Hamilton was known as the ‘godfather of the stock market.’ He peppered that phrase in everywhere. His response and assertion would stop there. No supporting evidence. Nothing. He’d then slowly recline into his chair and clasp his shaky hands over his crossed-legged knees. With a look of satisfaction on his half deraigned-half smug face, he’d place the cheery on top. “It’s all so fascinating.”

It wasn’t so much that Arthur and Elijah would argue every point, play devil’s advocate, and hold us hostage as they’d dive down rabbit holes. It was due to the constant verbal display of previous accomplishments and credentials.

“While pursuing my master’s degree at Boston University,” Arthur would begin, or “While translating Chaucer from Middle English to Modern while I was doing my undergrad at Temple University,” Elijah would start. They loved it. They were precisely the types of individuals that would hold a small cup of sweltering organic coffee with both hands, dramatically savoring every smell and sip with a stupid look on their mugs while wearing a turtleneck in Texas, mind you, in September. The exact type of person you fantasize about punching in the mouth. They were both pathological liars. You couldn’t trust anything they claimed or touted. I asked Elijah one afternoon what he liked most about Temple. He couldn’t answer me. He didn’t even know what city it was in.

My cellmate, Palmer 4000, fell more into the delusional category than the dishonest one. His full name was Robert Charles Palmer. He was in his mid-50s and had an uncanny resemblance to Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin. He was educated, intelligent and experienced. He’d been around. He and I had great conversations about literature, sports, travel, and music. He was a good conversationalist, and I was grateful to have him as my cellmate. He was just a little out there, a little cosmic. Probably due to a long history of excessive drug use.

After class one afternoon, a few of us were chatting about how Mary Shelly contrived the idea for Frankenstein. The story goes that Mary, her future husband, Percy, Lord Byron, and John Polidori decided to hold a competition to see who could write the best horror story. One night after knocking boots with Percy and fueled by an acid-like substance trip, Mary dreamt the story. When she awoke, she recorded it — Sublime, genius, and romantic.

The topic of sex and dropping acid appealed to Palmer 4000. During our walk and talk discussion back to our cell block, Robert felt compelled to reveal the number of women with whom he’d slept.

“You probably won’t believe this, fellas, but I’ve slept with over 4000 women.”

I stopped short, glanced at him, and replied, “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

Later that evening, Robert and I were in our cell, just lying around, exhausted from our jammed-packed day of programming. The schedule jail keeps you on is designed to keep you tired and run down. At times I relied on caffeine for a boost. I often tried not to prepare coffee or food in front of others, as not all inmates made commissary. Most had minimal, if anything, and were slow to develop a hustle that could provide such luxuries. Furthermore, I wanted to enjoy my coffee or food, which can be challenging to do with another man, much less three men, sizing you up with envy, anger, jealousy, hunger, and thirst.

I’m positive decades of unwarranted Irish Catholic guilt played into this dynamic. I felt responsible for those who had nothing and no one on the outside willing to help them. It was sad and weighed on my heart. I was as generous as possible, keeping in mind that what I had wasn’t mine. My sister put her money into my commissary account. That wasn’t my money, that was hers. You had to be careful in jail. Most inmates are opportunists and will look to take advantage of you if you let them. They look for marks. I’m no mark. But I am compassionate, caring, empathetic, and generous. I’m also from New York, though, and I’m not easily hustled. Bottom line: there is usually a reason no one on the outside is willing to help them out. They’ve used everybody up. Jails and prisons are a predator’s paradise. But they’re also a perfect place to practice compassion, empathy, and altruism. It’s about perspective and choosing how you want to grow, or not.

Even with my back turned in an attempt to camouflage what I was doing, I could feel Palmer 4000’s X-ray eyes searing through me.

“Ay, Irish. Can I bother you for a shot of coffee?” He asked.

“I’m sorry, Robert, I usually do, but I’m just about out, and commissary is still three days away.”

His face drooped. Catholic guilt set in and overpowered my thoughts and realities of my sister, Allison, pregnant with twins, working overtime just to put $25 on my books. Going without for what? So, I can help this creep out?

“You know what, Robert? Here you go,” I said as the prayer of St. Francis came to mind, ‘It is in giving that we receive.’

“Here’s a shot, but that’s all I can part with until commissary.”

He thanked me profusely, and I know he meant every word. I wish I were in a position to do more for him, for everyone, but I wasn’t. I was in jail.

As I emptied one rounded plastic tablespoon of coffee into his cup, I told him, “I’ve been thinking about your situation, Robert.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, I may have come up with a solution for your commissary situation. Sit down,” I instructed.

We both sat as he mixed his coffee with hot water that was already in his cup as if he knew I’d fold and give him some.

Anticipation steeped.

“Robert, I only have my sister putting money on my books, and I have to make it last. That’s just one woman. You have a mother, five sisters, and claim to have slept with over 4000 women. Far more than I have. Are you telling me you can’t convince one of them to put some money on your books?”

“Well, to be honest, Irish, it was probably more like 5000.”

Palmer 5000? It certainly rolls off the tongue more eloquently.