Chickenhawk: Back in the World

The visiting room was actually two large rooms that made an L-shaped building next to the administration building. The open sides of the L were walled off, making the visiting area a separate compound from the rest of the camp.

Wives and families lined up and waited outside until the place opened at eight. Then they brought in picnic baskets and books and kids and toys and gathered together chairs and tables inside the rooms and out in the yard, establishing small enclaves where they could visit with their men. Most people stayed until closing at three. In the yard outside, inmates dressed in their blue prison uniforms sat around circular concrete picnic tables talking to their gaily dressed wives. Children played tag.

Guards watched to see that the rules against physical contact were enforced. You were allowed to kiss upon meeting and upon departure. Holding hands, as long as they were in view, was permissible. When a hack told me that having a hole in your pocket was against the rules, I had to ask. “We got guys who’ll let their wives play with them through their pockets,” said the hack. His disgust reminded me of a schoolteacher who told us to ignore whatever it was the monkeys were doing during a trip to the zoo.

Some inmates and their wives strolled together around a short walkway that meandered through the yard. Against the farthest wall from the visiting rooms was a sandy play area filled with kids who played on seesaws and spring-mounted rocking horses. With all the blue uniforms mixed with bright civilian clothing, it looked like a weekend picnic for a bunch of gas-station attendants.

Patience and Alice had set up a table inside where it was cool. Patience brought some coffee and doughnuts and yogurt. We hugged and kissed under the watchful eyes of the hacks and sat down.

“I love you,” Patience said.

I winced.

“What? You don’t think I should love you now?”

“No.”

“Just because you’re a convict?”

“That’s a pretty good reason, don’t you think?”

“Maybe if you’d killed somebody, or robbed a bank at gunpoint. Maybe then I’d have trouble.”

“We have at least two more years of this, Patience. It’s going to get old fast.”

Patience looked at me carefully. “I love you,” she said.

Before I finished my coffee, I heard my name called. I went to the hacks at their desk near the entrance.

“I’m Mason,” I said.

“They want you at control,” said a hack known as Rocky. Rocky was a three-tour Marine Vietnam vet who, I later learned from him, thought guard duty at Eglin was about the pussiest job he could imagine. He was surly to inmates, with the amiable fierceness of a drill sergeant.

“What’s the deal?”

“Deal?” Rocky said. “The deal is you get your ass up to control. That’s the deal.” Rocky made me miss the Army.

I went outside and walked to control. I went up to the window on the side of the glass booth and told them I was here. The hack nodded, motioned to come around the other side to the door. I walked around and went inside.

“What are you doing in here, inmate?” the hack said.

“You just told me to come in here.”

“Wiseass, eh? What’s your name?”

“Mason.”

“What’s your number?”

“Eight-one-three-four-nine-dash-oh-seven-one-ay.”

The hack nodded and said, “Wait right there.”

I stood against the wall in the hallway. Hacks passed me like I was wallpaper. In a minute I saw the photographer from People magazine walking toward me with Superintendent Honsted.

“Hey, Lynn, how you been?” I said. I remembered his name because while he’d been photographing me at home, we had talked about photography: the kind of film he used, the cameras he liked best, and so on.

“Fine, Bob. They treating you okay?”

I looked at Honsted. “Here? It’s like staying at a resort, Lynn. Great place.”

Lynn smiled and asked Honsted if there were any restrictions for the photography session.

“No. Not as long as I’m with you. I suggest we go outside. You can start out there.”

I posed next to the big sign out front. I had to cross the white line to get to it, but I had Honsted’s permission. Next we walked to Dorm Three. The other A&O guys were mopping floors and scrubbing the latrine. Jeff looked up from his mopping, shook his head, and smiled. The inmates watched me, their faces filled with curiosity. An inmate, the warden, and a photographer are walking around here? Who’s that guy?

Lynn photographed me standing by my bunk and then we went out on the porch. He had me sit on one of the benches and mug for the camera while he ran off a roll. I stood up and leaned against the porch railing for another roll. While he took pictures, I watched the other inmates staring. In that few minutes, half the camp finally knew exactly who the asshole, big-deal writer was.