The Gates of Grace
By Sean O’Brien
“Down on Burgundy, men pass me by. Is it fear, is it murder in their eyes?” — The Zydepunks
Hayward was an amateur magician and a half-assed mathematician. He knew all the tricks and all the angles. His life had been a series of disappearing acts and arithmetic problems. As others moved forward in life, he moved backward. He did things in reverse. He read magazines from back to front. He scanned his surroundings from right to left. When he played chess, he started with a checkmate and worked backward. He knew every palindrome in the English language. He claimed to know them evened him out. He moon-walked better than Michael Jackson, regardless of his get-away sticks failing him. When asked his age, he responded, “18 years left to live, Papi.” His spirit and energy were that of an 18-year-old, but his body, response time, and memory were not.
Hayward’s discombobulated gate jerked violently back and forth when he walked. It looked like a strangulation victim’s legs might as death neared. He could have benefited from a wheelchair, but his pride didn’t allow that. He struggled to make it five yards without his wubby, which he preferred to call his pimp stick. It was an old man’s walking cane. He needed it, but the laws at Del Valley County Jail denied that need.
“You have a prescription for your cane?” The law asked.
“A prescription?” Hayward fired back, “Who has a prescription for a cane?”
“People who use a cane, sir. If you don’t have a prescription, you can’t have a cane.”
“Y’all be tripping.”
Those are the rules, sir. See the fella over there with one leg? He came in with two legs. One was his and the other was a prosthetic. But, like you, he had no prescription. No prescription, no leg. No prescription, no cane.”
“Y’all are insane and inhumane.”
“You’re a career criminal Hayward and a piece of shit. Now shut the fuck up and get undressed.”
“Fuck y’all,” Hayward mumbled as the door shut.
County jail usually wasn’t this difficult, but it was Texas, and Hayward was headed to a maximum security cell block. Everyone in there was either a murderer, a robber, a rapist, or in for aggravated assault. The prescription thing was the law’s way of minimizing potential violence through the use of weapons. Most people see a cane and a prosthetic leg as just that. But criminals and laws see weapons. We think differently then civilians.
I had been in cell block D for three weeks before Hayward arrived. And although it wasn’t overly violent, shit happened, and it happened quickly. On my first day there I went to the yard as soon as it opened to face the inevitable. My thinking was ‘get it over with.’ In jail, especially a maximum security cell block, you cannot show fear or present as weak. Stepping outside onto the yard sent a message.
On the yard the Mexicans played handball, the African-Americans played basketball, and the Caucasians did push-ups. I immediately wanted to join the pick-up basketball game, but I knew better and headed toward the side wall where the sun was shining. I needed sun. I took my shirt off and realized immediately that was a mistake. I was severely underweight, with no muscle and no definition. I had a drug addict’s physique. I couldn’t put my shirt back on, which would be perceived as weak, so I stuck with my decision. I stood there and soaked up the sun as I continued to scan the yard for threats. In jail, everyone watches everyone and everything. It was a yard filled with predators, psychos, and punks. Most belonged to a gang, a set, or a crew. I did not.
I made the decision upon my transfer from central booking to county jail I would not get involved with a gang, no matter what. I would roll solo. But rolling solo can be expensive, and you have to pay in one way or another. I had to fight more to stay out of a gang than I did if I had joined. But what were my options? The peckerwoods, the Aryan brotherhood? No. I was Irish, and a New York Hardcore kid, that was it. Maybe if the Westies or DMS were in Texas I would have joined, but they weren’t.
One of the woods who finished his push-ups looked over, eye-balled me, and waved me his way. I didn’t acknowledge him. He waved again, gave a ‘what-the-fuck’ gesture to the wood pile, and started walking my way.
“Sup, wood?”
“I’m no wood, man.”
“You a nigga lover?
“Am I a nigger lover?” I repeated, “A lover, no, but I’ve banged my share of black broads.”
He laughed, which did not dissolve any tension.
“Yeah, me too, wood.”
“Well, I didn’t have to pay for mine. And I ain’t a wood. I ain’t gonna tell you again.”
“Oh, you got jokes?”
“No, I got game. Game and a nice cock.”
“You a punk!”
That confused me. Where I’m from, yes, I’m a punk. But a punk in the Texas criminal justice system meant homosexual.
“No, I ain’t a punk, a nigga lover, a wood, or a mark. I’m a crazy Irish Catholic kid from New York facing 20–396 years.”
“Damn, fuck you do?”
“We don’t ask those questions, wood.”
“Nah, I guess we don’t. What bought ya to Texas, Yankee? He asked as his agitation grew. It was coming. I could feel it.
“I came down to Texas to drink your whisky, bang your broads, and remind you who won the fucking war ya white-powered bitch.”
Bing-bing-bing. Bing-bing.
We exchanged punches. I hit him with a body shot that didn’t drop him but caught his attention and slowed him down. We finished up and separated.
I returned to the wall where the sun was shining and stood my ground. I wasn’t provoking the woodpile or anyone else, but I wasn’t backing down either. Better not. I knew day one would suck and be fun (concurrently?) at the same time. I did what I had to do. I showed everyone I would fight. I stood still and raised my face toward the sun. I licked the blood on my lip and checked my fists. I felt carnal, and I liked it. I began pacing as my adrenaline was still pumping. Another guy about my age and height but not my skin tone walked up.
“Sup, white boy. What dey call ya? You ain’t no wood. I saw ya handle that.”
“They don’t call me anything, kid. Names O’Brien.”
He cocked his head. “Kid? Where ya from, son?”
“New York.”
“New York New York, the city so nice dey named it twice. Well, I be from New York, too, and we can’t have two New York's up in here,” he said as he extended his hand. “Plus, I know what dey call you. Dey calls ya da Roman Candle Robber. You a crazy fucking white boy.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about, New York. And I ain’t a white boy, if anything I’m Irish.”
“Ok, Irish, what part ya from?”
“All over. Bronx, Yonkers, L.E.S., Queens…”
“I get my Queens from Queens and my crew from Brooklyn,” he began.
I joined him. “Make money in Manhattan, and it’s never been tookin.”
“Ah, shit.” He said and smiled. “We gots a B-Boy here.”
“Strictly Business, kid.”
“EPMD.”
“Eric and Parrish Making Dollars.”
“Bronx river rolling thick with cool DJ Red Alert and Chuck Chill Out on the mix.”
“KRS-ONE. Knowledge Reigns Supremely Over Nearly Everyone.”
We both chuckled and smiled. And that’s all it took. We bonded over a few hip-hop lyrics and knowledge. We were of different skin tones, which in jail and prison doesn’t fly, but we were of the same culture. Hip-hop culture. We were New Yorkers. New York over Texas, sound over sight, and music over skin color.
“Aight, son. Holla if ya need sumtin’. Don’t fuck with the wet-backs, wigga’s or nigga’s. Fuck wit me. Ya heard?”
“I hear ya, New York.”
A young heavy-set Mexican walked out on the yard and caught New York’s attention.
“That motherfucker right there,” New York said and pointed. “I gotta handle sumthin’. One love.”
“Bet.”
New York walked away and moved toward the Mexican like a fish inspects bait on a hook.
“Fuck you want New York?”
“Dat hooch was garbage. Shit didn’t even pop. How ya gonna make it right?”
“I ain’t. Dat hooch was good. You tripping.”
As quick as a tick in a New York minute New York hit Big Tex Mex with a left and a right cross. It stunned him, but it didn’t drop him. Big Tex Mex charged New York. New York stepped left as he neared and delivered a jawbreaker. The Mexican dropped and bounced off of the concrete. The hit on the concrete was thunderous. Big Tex Mex was done. New York walked away. And that was it. The law watched everything, laughing.
New York and I became fast friends after that. We connected. It was deeper than sharing a hometown and a culture. Our relationship was easy. No pretense, no pressure, no bullshit. We exchanged stories, ideas, sexual conquests, food trays, and dreams but never our crimes. In county jail, you’re still being prosecuted and it’s best to keep your mouth shut. Everyone’s ear hustling. Hardcore gang-bangers facing 99 years turn snitch with a quickness if it would benefit them. Keeping my mouth shut wasn’t a problem. I was old neighborhood rules. I was raised that way. Not everyone in there was. The fronted they were, but they caved sooner or later. New York was old neighborhood rules, too, and so was Hayward.
Hayward was cut from our fabric. He had an internal compass that he honed over the years. He knew how to carry himself and had done plenty of time.
Hayward prided himself on how well he did time, his ability to be a closed-mouth confident, and his punctuality. He made no conscious effort to be punctual, it was just the way it was. He had an uncanny ability to never be early or late for anything. He lived life as the seconds’ ticker on your watch or clock. It was impressive.
Hayward slid through the gates of grace with nothing to spare and nothing owed. His entrance garnered everyone’s attention as Hayward was a multiple-decade returning inmate in county jail. He made his rounds, which amassed false accolades and half-assed hype from the maze of hopeless inmates. Some appeared star-struck. It was precisely these types of egotistical misleading’s that contributed to Haywards exalted sense of self. An aggravated luxury dubiously earned.
Salt peppered into his wounds, creating painful stabbing interruptions in his slowed movements. Soul food seeped from each creator-sized pore on his Cajun-creased forehead. He wore an old, wrinkled face that carried on as long as a boyhood’s bane. A distrustful tarot card atmosphere hung about Hayward like an ancient voodoo stew simmering at suppertime. His screechy voice traveled a touch quicker than the speed of sound and crashed like a crackhead does after a week’s run and no sleep. Hayward was a genuine narcissist. He was Narcissus. However, he played ignorant of that fact. “I’m as innocent as a politician” was one of his signature phrases.
Haywards only official career training was on-the-job training he received on the streets of New Orleans. He was nothing more and nothing less than a starved street dreamer, a nickel-and-dime store hustler. He had seen better days, weeks, months, and years. He was now an old worn-out deck of cards that hustlers use on tourists. If Hayward had any game left in him, it was time to make a run. It was late in the third quarter of life, and he was losing in a blowout.
The cell block in which we were housed stood a pale-yellow concrete island. Five feet tall, thirty feet long, and three feet wide. On it hung six black and blue pay phones, which were placed approximately two feet from each other. Five phones hung at chin level, and the sixth phone hung lower, at waist level. Haywards initial thought regarding the lowered phone was logical and correct. The jail was ADA-compliant. His second thought, however, was not. Hayward had never been introduced to or educated in logic, reason, and fallacies. Hayward was a sitting duck in his thought life. ‘Not a midget, no way, betta not,’ was Hayward’s second thought. That thought had the legs to run him around for miles. And he knew it, so he turned his thoughts to the phones. The phones reminded him of carcasses hanging from hooks in a sub-zero-degree meat locker. That, in turn, led his thoughts to focus on his mortality. Hayward had no fear of death, so that thought was an improvement and a much-needed distraction. He was amazed he made it this far, six-plus decades.
‘The pain machines,’ as Hayward called the phones, existed in a tormented cycle of loss, disappointment, dishonesty, and death. All of which had become recent comfort zones for him. They served as addictive self-harm tools for weak-minded men. The pain machines were a sucker’s game. They were a drug, and Hayward didn’t do drugs. However, they remained a constant temptation.
Hayward’s experience and convictions regarding the phones proved to be as powerless as an alcoholics’ relationship to liquor. As much as he didn’t want to, and as much as he knew better, he couldn’t stop himself from using them. He, like all humans, craved connection. He sought love. Hayward’s acknowledgment of his powerlessness over the pain machines spring boarded him into a harm-reduction and moderation management approach. Each evening at precisely 9 P.M., Hayward would excuse himself from the domino table and make his way to the phones. “Gots to call unc, and check in wit Boom-Boom befoe we’s rack up,” he announced nightly.
“Hey, unc, who are you talking to when you announce that?” One inmate laughed.
“Whoeva be listening, kid. Whoeva be listening.”
I had been in that cell block with Hayward for five weeks, and Boom-Boom hadn’t picked up once. But I never attempted to rob him of that hope. In jail, you must find something to live for, even if it’s a delusion.
Hayward was partial to the pain machine on the far left. His phone choice was intentional on two levels. First, it offered more elbow room and fetched more freedom for his animated phone antics. Putting on a show was a necessity for Hayward. It was also the furthest phone from the midget phone. Hayward suffered unresolved childhood trauma stemming from dwarves in a circus act and an abusive and neglectful aunt. However, Hayward had been facing fears his entire life, he had to, it was a survival tactic. Hayward had plenty of tactics but never a strategy.
Five weeks into Hayward’s jail foray, he was forced to confront his fear of midgets. A new inmate, Chance, joined us in cell block D. When those solid metal jail doors open, it’s loud, and everyone turns to clock the new guy, except, Hayward. Hayward couldn’t be bothered. Hayward wouldn’t expend the energy it took to stretch his neck. Hayward continued focusing on his domino game.
“Is he a dwarf?”
“Nah, it’s a fucking midget.”
“No, that’s a dwarf, dude, he’s all disproportionate and shit.”
“Dwarf or midget, who cares? Dudes creepy.”
Hayward shot to his feet like one would if they sat on a cactus. His blood drained and he became woozy. He dropped down into his seat and slouched. ‘Fuck, a midget,’ he said to himself. ‘Fuck me.’
Chance was technically a dwarf. He was being retained on a parole violation and stayed less than two months. Not enough time to get accustomed to a proper jail routine, but plenty of time to fuck off one’s entire life outside of jail. Most inmates who return to society after this amount of time return jobless and without housing. They’re released hungry, dead broke, and only with the clothes they were arrested in. Sometimes the arresting officers manage to misplace people’s identification and cell phones. Winning.
Chance was four foot and eight inches. He was stout and portly. His girthy and disproportionate body flopped left to right in a see-saw saunter. His oblong, chubby, cherub-like face, a sanguine ruby red grapefruit. Roundish, unblemished, taut, gleaming, and impish. His arms, like little missiles, hung with reckless abandon. His hands were mitts, and his fingers were like pigs in a blanket. His legs were like fire hydrants. He had no torso. He had a neck, but only from the back could it be seen. A triple chin took over his front neck area. This sight bled Hayward’s eyes. Hayward possessed a real fear of him. A Voodoo fear. To me, it was an unreasonable fear, but Hayward and I came from different places and have had different experiences that have shaped and fucked us up. To Hayward, Chance was a Catholics upside-down cross. A carnival culture that penetrated him like the madness that invaded Voltaire’s soul.
Chance must have sensed an uneasiness in Hayward. I’m sure he had honed that intuition throughout decades of ocular abuse. Chance’s disability secured him the only one-man handicapped cell on the block, which was spacious. After getting settled into his cell he made his way to the phones. Hayward took notice and circumvented the entire scene. He, too, had honed his intuition over decades. Hayward was a pro at avoiding those he needed to. Hayward stood off to the side as he assessed the situation. After he felt more at ease, he walked the long way around the cell block and secured the phone most opposite Chance. Then he just stood there. It took Hayward nearly five minutes to pick the phone up from the receiver. He was busy peeking at Chance. To Hayward, the possibility of Chance disappearing and reappearing perched atop the concrete island, crouched and naked in a gargoyle stance, ready to pounce, was real. Purgatory is not a spacious accommodation, and Hayward felt the oxygen leave his lungs.
Hayward’s modus operandi went the same each night. He first would make a fake phone call where he spoke loosely and loudly to Unc. He’d ramble on for ten minutes to Uncle No One and then call Boom-Boom. This time, however, was different. Decades of chain smoking, asthma, and fear of Chance consumed him. On his fake phone call to Unc, he struggled to speak each syllable. It was like he was speaking a primitive language. Between each pause lay a harsh gasp for air. He slurred his words and stammered his sentences as he stalked his next idea in a volatile civil war of verbal asperities. His lexicon, usually an asset, now formed a noose from which he would soon swing. And he knew it. In the kingdom of slang, Hayward was King. But tonight, he was the village drunk on his way to the gallows.
Hayward Albert Ignatius Lacroix was his government name. However, Hayward preferred to be called by his street name, No School. Hayward explained the story to New York and me one day. It went like this. When Hayward was eleven years old, he started cutting classes and soon dropped out of school. He turned to the streets of his local New Orleans neighborhood. After an initial hazing period, the older boys welcomed him. They showed him how to hustle and commit petty crimes he’d go on to commit for the rest of his life. It was from those lessons that he earned his street name, New Orleans School, which was shortened to No School. That was the story he told and stuck to, but it was a decoy story. The truth is No School stood for just that, no school. He dropped out of school at age eleven, but that’s where the story starts and ends. Hayward was undereducated, but he wasn’t dumb. He was persuasive and emotionally manipulative. He was good at math. He was sharp, quick, and clever. He was also spiritual. His mother practiced Macumba, a sister religion to voodoo. It was in daily practice in the house where he grew up. Hayward took to it and began his own practice. But Hayward didn’t believe in magic, he believed he was magic.
Hayward raised the phone to his ear, took a labored shallow breath, and muttered to himself, “She gonna answer today, Yeah Boom-Boom, be answering today. I run this shit. Bitch betta know.”
Boom-Boom was Hayward’s now estranged girlfriend. His long and withered fingers feverishly shook as he first sniffed them, then proceeded to check his long fingernails, and finally dialed Boom-Boom’s phone number. He raised his free hand to his open ear and covered it to achieve the silence needed for jail phone calls. After months of unanswered calls, Hayward was surprised when Boom-Boom answered on the first ring.
“Whatcha want, Hayward?” Boom-Boom said flatly. Hayward smirked involuntarily as if to acknowledge his voodoo intuition that Boom -Boom be answering today. It was a congratulatory smirk.
“Praise da Lord!” Hayward bellowed as he gasped for air and quickly followed with a hit off his asthma pump.
“What do you want, Hayward?” She asked again; this time, her words, pronunciation, spacing, and inflection were intentional, precise, and vigilant.
“Boom-Boom, baby, it’s me, Hayward. I been being calling you. I gots locked up.”
“I know who da fuck it is, Hayward; keep up, please. And I knows where you at. I ain’t gots no bail or commissary money for ya. So, I asks a third time, whatcha want?”
“Boom-Boom, baby girl,” his hips swayed as if he was dancing the meringue, “I just needed ta hear da voice of an angel. See, I be reading da Bible.”
“Listen, Hayward,” she interjected, “ya can’t makes me love ya. It don’t work dat way. I tired, Hayward.”
“Me too, Boom-Boom. I be sick and tired. But it say in Isiah…”
“Hayward, I’m tired of you and ya shit. It’s ova. We done. It’s been being ova for a minute.”
Hayward’s stance shifted again; this time, it was more of a two-step dance move. He wasn’t listening.
“Boom-Boom, my baby girl, my angel, ya see, you not even listening.” He replied as he exaggerated every syllable, consonant, vowel, and space.
“What I be saying is, I changed. I given myself to da Lord. I’m rehabilatate… Hello? Boom-Boom? Hello?”
New York and I saw and heard the whole thing. It was sad but hilarious. Hayward slowly hung up the phone and hung his head. As he sulked back to the domino table he passed us.
“Man, fuck you New York, and fuck you, too, Irish.”
“Fuck us?” New York replied. “Hell naw, dat shit was fucked up. Now sit yo Hayward Nelson looking ass down and let’s talk it out.”
Surprisingly Hayward obliged.
“Damn, Boom-Boom and Unc be alls I got.”
“Yea, she’s fucked up, all women is, kid. At least ya still got Unc.”
“Unc be my anchor fo sure, but Boom-Boom, dat girl, dat girl be my love, my angel, my babygirl. She don’t be listening tho. And I needs dat Boom-Boom love.”
“Can I tell you a story, No School?” New York asked.
Hayward nodded a sullen yes.
“Ya know, kid, when I’m alone in my room sometimes I stare at da wall and in back of my mind I hear my conscious call.”
I lost it.
Hayward did, too.
“Fuck y’all niggas,” he screamed and stormed off without a struggle in his stride.
“Ain’t no one gonna breaka my stride,” I started, New York joined in, “ain’t no one gonna slow me down, woe-oh, I got ta keep on moving.”
“Fuck. Y’all. Niggas!” Hayward yelled as he entered his cell and slammed the door behind him.
“Rack up! Lights out in ten minutes,” the law yelled.
Here comes the night.
