Bronx Noir

By 7:30 a.m., the facility count of inmates will be complete. As I lie on my bunk, I look toward the east and catch a glimpse of the rising sun. I think to myself that no matter what, the sun will always rise and the world is given a chance at a new beginning. What we do with it is up to us.

“Laundry crew!” a CO blares as inmates move toward the front gate. I’m yet to be assigned a work detail, but maybe I’ll get into that program, I think, and I won’t have to do some grimy jail job.

As soon as the dorm CO appears to have nothing to do, I’ll approach him and ask for a pass to the New Beginnings office. Getting the officer on duty to assist you in any way requires a skill all its own. Timing is everything. Miss that opportunity and you’ll be forced to sit in the house all day, wasting away. I’m not one to let that happen. Like I made things happen on the street, I’ll make things happen here.

I’m given an “OK” and a pass to the New Beginnings office, where I hope to be screened for admittance into the program. This is my chance to make good. Redemption, they say, only comes once in a lifetime.

I enter the office and the first thing I notice is how down-to-earth the counselors seem. They’re like everyday people, hardworking and dedicated to what they do, probably like my victims, I think. That’s one thing about jail, your conscience works overtime. The guilt and shame you’ve suppressed for so long come bubbling to the surface. As I wait for the screening process to begin, I’m overcome with these thoughts. What does this all mean?

Unlike the rest of the jail, with its dreary gray walls, the director’s office is painted a calming beige. Fresh flowers sit in a vase on her desk. The sign on the door tells me her name is Ms. Frey.

“Nice to meet you, Tron,” she says, extending her hand. The office is snowed under with books. Books on the wall, books on the floor, books to the right, and books to the left. Framed photos and artwork line the walls. A picture of a smiling little girl on a swing with Ms. Frey catches my attention. The warmth of the photo has a disarming affect on me, and anyone else who enters here, I think. The picture defines the bond between mother and child. No matter how “hard” you think you are, the image softens you.

She gestures for me to have a seat and instantly I’m attracted to her. If for no other reason, please let me be accepted into this program because the director is fuckin’ fine. I pray to whoever’s listening.

She looks at me with emerald-green eyes that make me think how easily I could fall for this woman. As she tells me about the program, I fixate on her face. Oddly, a fleeting thought tells me I’ve met her before.

The interview goes well and I’m told I’m accepted into the program. I never share my deep thoughts with anyone, but somehow she got me open. I’ve seen the inside of jails and rehabs from here to Los Angeles, and bullshit-talking counselors are a dime a dozen, but I may have found the one therapist who truly cares. My life is a mess and I desperately need the help of this program.

Days go by in this jungle, and as in any jungle made of concrete and steel or gnarled green vegetation, only the strong survive. By no means am I the super thug type; my IQ earns me respect and is regarded in much the same way as a seventeen-inch bicep. Behind these walls that’s all you’ve got, and both will earn you props.

I find solace in the New Beginnings office, exchanging feedback with others in the program and building on ideas with positive people. One-on-one sessions with Ms. Frey keep me afloat and I have found an oasis. She will rescue me from the sea of toxicity I’m floating in.

I tell her about the dark places my drug addiction brought me, about the hookers and the drugs, but I don’t tell her about the scams, spreads, and the dirty checks—I’m too embarrassed and don’t want to scare her off. Her office is where I dump my guilt and shame, and she willingly carts it away.

“You don’t have to live that way anymore,” she tells me.

What other way is there to live? I wonder. This is all I know.

About a month into the program, I’m sitting in her office talking about the future. She’s telling me about a job she thinks I’d be good at—working with a team of researchers studying patterns of drug use in the city.

“They’re looking for people who have firsthand knowledge of crystal meth,” she says. “You’d be doing ethnography—studying a subculture…” She pauses to take a phone call. “It might be my daughter’s school,” she says.

I sit there thinking about the job. From what it sounds like, I’ll be great at it. I laugh to myself and think, I study patterns of drug use every day anyway—who’s got what, where, and for how much.