Chickenhawk: Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

After count, a lot of the inmates returned to the TV room. We had cable, and they wanted to see The Hitchhiker, a popular program on HBO.

Now the thing I dreaded the most happened. Someone whose voice had become a nightly torment got on the phone in the phone booth that was conveniently located ten feet from my bed. I covered my head with my pillow, but I could hear every word.

The guy on the phone had a problem. He’d said his wife could date while he was inside. I heard him explaining this to his buddy one day in the chow line. He said, “She gets lonely, and I trust my friends.” His friend looked at him incredulously and the guy quickly added, “Well, hell, it doesn’t wear out, you know,” and laughed to show his friend he was kidding.

Tonight, as usual, he talked loudly, as though he were home instead of in a prison bedroom where twenty-five men were trying to sleep. I heard: “Yeah, Sam’s okay. Sam’s a good guy. Where’d you go?”

“The Tin Lizzy? What’d you do?”

Pause. I could only imagine what his wife was saying. I was hoping she’d talk long enough for me to get to sleep.

“Yeah? You never wanted to dance with me.”

Pause. I pressed my hands against my ears.

“Me? I dance. I love to dance.”

I was groaning under my pillow. I couldn’t stand it. I’d been plotting to take the phone apart and throw the little microphone in the mouthpiece into the swamps where the cats lived. A phone repair inmate told me they had a problem with that: guys were throwing them away for the same reason I wanted to—peace. The idiot talked. And talked.

“Sure. When I get home, I’ll take you dancing.”

Pause. I was so happy for him. Dancing? My, my.

“So what’d you do after Tin Lizzy?”

He took her home?

“Took you home? I know he took you home. What did you do when you got home? That’s what I want to know.”

He kissed her?

“What?” the idiot says real loud. I heard “Shutthefuck up!” from somewhere in the section.

The idiot ignored the request. He said, “Yeah. Then what?”

More than a good night kiss?

“Yeah. Then what?” His voice was changing, higher in pitch. He listened for a long time, almost long enough for me to drop off.

“What?” the idiot yelled suddenly. I jerked back from the brink of sleep and heard, “You sucked his dick? You sucked Sam’s dick?”

A pause while idiot’s wife, Mrs. Idiot, explained.

“Sure, I said you could date my friends. When you had to. I know I said that. But I didn’t say you could suck their dicks! That’s personal!”

I heard a loud crash. Someone had thrown a work boot at the phone booth.

The idiot lowered his voice so only those of us lucky enough to be right next to the fucking phone could hear. “Did he come? In your mouth?” he said softly.

“Enough!” I groaned. I got out of bed and went to the phone booth. “Hey,” I said. “You mind? I’m trying to sleep.”

The idiot said, “Wait a minute, hon,” put his hand over the mouthpiece, and said to me, “This phone is for anybody to use.”

“Yeah, I know. But most people phone when most people are awake, you know? This is bullshit. Get off the phone.”

“You want to try to make me?” said the idiot loudly. He was stupid, but he was very large.

A voice behind me said, “I’ll fucking make you.” I turned around. It was my neighbor across the aisle. He was a former professional football player who’d got caught selling cocaine to his fellow players. He was a linebacker. Very big.

The idiot was intimidated. He nodded and said quietly into the phone, “Look, honey. I’ll call you back from another phone, okay?” He paused. “No, I don’t. I understand. You know I love you. I’ll—”

The linebacker, who looked as tall as the phone booth, stepped up close to the idiot. The guy looked up, nodded quickly, said “I’ll call you back in a minute,” and hung up the phone. We both watched him leave. The linebacker said, “Is that guy as stupid as he sounds?”

“Yes. Every bit as stupid as he sounds. Possibly he’s a vegetable.”

Luckily, I fell asleep before the next call.

CHAPTER 31

One of the guys who worked the clothing room line was called Professor because he read all the time and talked about philosophy. He was a black guy and a cripple. His ankles were fused, for some reason I forget, and he hobbled when he walked. I lent him The Holographic Paradigm, a book about the mind as an illusion that I could barely follow. He loved it and we became friends.

When it was lunchtime three of us from the clothing room, Professor and John and I, usually walked to the mess hall together. Since we were with Professor, John and I had to walk slowly so he could keep up. One day Tony Abruzzo came up behind us and said, “What the hell’s the holdup here?” I turned around and saw Tony grinning and shaking his head at Professor’s pitiful gait. Suddenly Tony reached out and shoved Professor off the sidewalk. “Get out of the way!” he yelled. Professor stumbled off the sidewalk, tottering, barely able to keep his balance. Tony turned to him as he passed us and said, “Professor. You know what your trouble is?”