Page 51 of Babalon

Reaching out, I grab Dalton by the front of his tactical vest, yanking him close, glaring down into his deep brown eyes.

“If you don’t, I will come back. Again, and again. Next time I’ll bring something more painful to persuade you with, Officer Dalton.”

This guy has to be a cowboy; he pales at my threat. Though I’ve never been violent up until this point, I now see the appeal. It gets shit done, and if this is the way I need to be moving going forward, then count me in.

“The Warden,” I growl.

“F— fine. Let me go and I’ll radio.”

With a shove, I do just that. The falter in his steps make him stumble backwards and scramble for his balance.

Definitely a rookie.

Again, he reaches for his radio and calls off the dogs like he said he would, steadily watching me with a critical eye.

Good boy.

“Officer Dalton to base,” he starts on his radio again.

“I need a request sheet for an inmate to meet with the Warden.”

I stand in silence, listening to the one-way conversation. Now he knows damn well I’m not going to settle for a request. I am seeing the warden now or there are going to have another problem. It’s the stupid thing to do—telling the warden what Nadia has done—that would put another target on me as a snitch, but fact of the matter is, she needs to be brought down not just one, but several pegs, and I’m going to give that to her.

Once Dalton finishes up his conversation, we stand a safe distance apart and wait for the secretary to bring out thedocumentation. I know this is beyond my character, but some things need to be done the hard way.

Prison changes you; sometimes for the better, but mostly for the worse and that’s not my problem anymore. I’m here for life, until I take my last breath, then someone will shove me in some random hole out back. I might as well start being a different man.

“Inmate Patton, what a pleasure.”

“Secretary Rose. Good to see you, I’d like to see the Warden if you don’t mind.”

What fortune I have, Rose, the gatekeeper of all gatekeepers is on shift today. In her mid-40’s with curly and wild grey hair, wearing a flowy skirt, and a blouse like some sort of pre-school teacher. If I didn’t already know her, she would fit the part. However, this woman has a bite to her and when she is here, no one gets past her. Sure enough, there’s paperwork in her hand— the request for visitation.

“Little bird told me you need paperwork.”

“Yes ma’am. If you wouldn’t—.”

“You know the drill, paperwork first. Maybe a meeting later.”

“Please ma’am. This isn’t something that can wait. I believe I know who’s bringing drugs into the prison.”

On my way back to my cell, a little bit of the fury has rubbed off now that I have talked to the warden. I stop at commissary to grab a bowl of noodles because I’d be damned if I’m eating any of the slop from the cafeteria today. I’m not in the mood for anyone’s shit or being around others, aside from Ronald, I’d rather be alone. I miss those days, before people started wanting more of my attention.

The AB? Yeah, I’m not going there. Fuck them. Nadia? Fuck her too. Though Ronald and Matias haven’t done anything stupid lately, that doesn’t mean that they won’t. To avoid those tense situations, it’s just best that I take my ass to my cell and lock the hell up.

Forced to wait in line, I do so impatiently. Queued for my turn at the cage window, only two other prisoners ahead of me. I can hear them talking about their ladies and kids. One kid attending practice for sports, another in the drama club. Wives working full-time jobs, spending money on shit like coffee and blankets.

How fucking boring.

Yet, the more I listen to them, the more I ache for something I’ll never have. I may not have wanted someone to call my own, several years back, but not having someone to write home to hurts. Seeing photos, handwritten letters, and mementos from loved ones is not a part of prison I’ve been privileged enough to experience. I’m alone here, that’s what I want right?

I don’t know anymore. There is a part of me that wishes there was someone else that’d come to visitations or who would fight for my rights in here. I love my mom, but she doesn’t need to do all of that. I’ve caused enough shit in her life that asking for her to open some sort of case of abuse seems minuscule.

“You’re up next, inmate.”

Not realizing the line has emptied, I take the few steps needed to approach the cage and rattled off my request for noodles and a package of Reeds cinnamon candies—my favorite. This whole transaction typically takes about two minutes, but something feels wrong. Inmates behind me beginning to whisper amongst themselves. Something about the transport bus, the one that brings new prisoners from county and city jails all over the state.

Oh great, a bunch of new fuckers to deal with.

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