Joe Vanderford
Issue No. 21 • Spring 2020
My first year in a real prison was fine, because my mom was still alive. It was when she died that her words haunted me regularly. I don't know if she really meant it, but she said, “People don't have any common sense until they're 40 and some people, not even then." Scientific research shows that the brain isn't fully developed until a person is 25 years of age. Of course, if we had to take youth into account for culpability for criminal activity, then it would doom enlistment, smoking, drinking, pregnancy etc. Still there was no getting around the fact that I was a pea brain left to my own devices in a new world (prison), which would require my being brave.
I placed an ad in the newspaper. This is what women used to do. Nowadays, I presume it is posting their ad on a website. The idea is always the same. To be taken care of, hopefully find love. With me and most women, this is how it goes, if you are good looking with a lot of charisma, so that there's natural attraction, money isn't as important, but the more unattractive you are the better your bank account needs to look.
Conversely, a guy that works all the time and no longer compliments his girlfriend just loses all the way around. Women are suckers for attention. Men lose their women to other women while they are incarcerated. At the very least women become bi-sexual or Try- sexual or what is called gay for the stay.
Many men answered my ad, from different walks of life. I was impressed: commodities broker, electrician, taxidermist, and railroad worker to name a few. Ultimately, I went for attraction. Fast forward, wedding, conjugal honeymoon- I am Daddy's little whore and he has a perpetual hard on. What have I done? There would be a false venereal disease scare, a real paternity situation, then ultimately, I was left alone again, older- and no longer any rose colored-glasses about what I wanted. I wanted to survive prison and hopefully to be loved. I didn't want to be reminded of my sexual abuse. I was open to a relationship with a woman.
I was in a California prison with a best friend that they called New York that called me Cat so much, it became my nickname. One day, this little cutie says "Hey, Pappy, you look like you run this.” I wasn't sure if she meant the whole prison or her, but I did know she was flirting, and I was vulnerable. So, the shorty's name was Mousy and we became an item. Gato (Cat) and Mousy. She was Cuban and she knew how to take care of me. The clothes stiff like they could stand on their own. The cell clean, respectful in public and gave head like a hoover in private. I was loving this chicka. Mousy was a feisty little thing, definitely had that Scarface accent and attitude “You talking to me?” But I would reap the benefits of her passion, she would give me a body massage and if she wanted something, she could have two of them by the time she was finished. Trouble started to brew when money got tight. I don't know that I ever questioned why it got tight. The
state washes your laundry, but no respectable convict sends their clothes to the laundry, unless they have a personal hook-up to wash them. Then there are the kitchen workers to pay for the good food that is redistributed and Mousy would doctor it and make it into a real meal. I did tattoo work, made hooch and collected for dealers. I didn't drink, or use myself, so I guess it didn't occur to me that Mousy was doing anything. She told me that smoking a Cuban Cigar is like smoking the best weed in the world. If I knew then what I know now; she should have come with a complimentary box of them. Mousy made me lay down my tattoo gun, she didn't want me in other women's cells, on their skin. I told her she could stop visiting tricks, since we are putting out ultimatums.
Still, we needed money, so she told me to go to visiting and be nice to a guy she had lined up. Going to a visit looking like a dude, to visit a dude, felt ridiculous. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be the most foolish I felt. I walked into my cell and instead of Mousy waiting for me, she was screwing around with my cellmate. As it turns out she and my cell mate had been using heroin together all along. Ergo, the bills. I beat my cell mate up, which requested a move and was out of there the same day. I went to slap Mousy, but she flinched so tough, I couldn't hit her. I realized that she had been abused so much that it was pointless. Actually, in retrospect I wonder if she needed the drama, saw it as love, I couldn't wrap my brain around it all. I was so angry but loved Mousy so much. We stayed together. Eventually it seemed like things were back to normal: business, sex, food, but her parole was nearing, and I knew it was time to say goodbye.
Mousy and I had been together for about 2 years but in prison it is like dog years. A pressurized version of the good, the bad and the ugly – was at its end, or so I thought.
A couple days after Mousy paroled, after canteen, a collector came to me for their $300. I probably looked like a fish out of its bowl, mouth moving silently. I couldn't believe it. Mousy had been using on a line of credit. I owed the money which would double in a week, if I didn't get it. The ironic part is that I am a collector. I have had to beat people up. There is always the opposite of good, better, best and I wasn't the worst on the compound.
Prison is an awful place to owe money. Actually, you don't even have to owe money and it can be treacherous. There was a gang that would set off the fire alarm and like organized vultures they would rob cells. Gangs have gotten an inmate's information and called her parents to say she broke a T.V. and if there isn't money put on books, the inmate would be hurt. Just enough money to make it worth the risk, but not so much to have people inform the administration. Brand new inmates, that are not affiliated, can easily be threatened into giving up canteen
My skin was on the line, if the collector didn't face off with another collector, their reputation was at risk and clearly, this collector took the debt feeling she could beat me. Frankly, her arms seemed as long as my legs and I knew I'd have to be close to her to fight. | was scared enough to entertain other options. At first, I didn't want to believe this was happening, that Mousy would do
this to me. But in my heart, I knew Mousy had done this to me, not out of spite but like that old story, it was just a part of her nature. I knew I had to pay it.
So, it began, the race against time. I did things I have never done before. I never liked to tattoo names, but I took as many jobs as humanly possible and it was come at your own risk with supplies, etc. I collected electronics and sold them. I thought the foulest thing was that I took payment in dope and cut it before I re-sold it. But then, I took a job to transport tobacco to Administrative Segregation, the jail part of prison.
I took a can of Menthol tobacco, moistened the contents and wrapped it tightly in saran wrap then put it inside me. I wrapped up 2 lighters and keistered those. No one really gives you lessons or advice in these things. I gassed (threw liquid on a cop) to get to Administrative Segregation quickly to make this delivery. I sat in a cage, and I had a tingling feeling in my vagina. By the time I reached my cell in Administrative Segregation, I desperately needed to get the package out. All the squatting, coughing, pushing, digging didn't seem to budge the thing. Eventually I snagged some plastic and got it out.
I got the $300. Sad that is what life is worth in prison -it wasn't pretty: sardines, rice, beans, bars of soap, and stamps, stamps, stamps. I get to the collector packing the goods, I stammer a bit because I have to tell her, it isn't what was on the list. I don't think I finished my sentence., she looked into the bag and punched me in the eye and walked away. How embarrassing, I walked around with a black eye for what seems like an eternity over a debt for a woman that cheated on me. What a chump. Nevertheless, paid is paid. What a relief. However, if I never get called Pappy, hear the name Mousy, or hear about anything Cuba- it will be too soon.
My friends call me Joe. I just graduated from a college tech class to become more familiarized with computers. I’m a 51-year-old transgender, fighting to get my testosterone and parole. I’ve served 32 years in prison. When I grow up I hope to have a penis, wife, fur kids, produce plays and have a PhD in gratitude for freedom.