They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Angel

Angel Hernandez’s skin was an elaborate puzzle of fire-breathing tattoos and Christ heads. Some of the body art was delicate, subtle like the flecks of bright red in the tar-black eyes of the dragon which stretched its scaly wings across Angel’s back. The ominous talons, raised at anyone who noticed the dragon-it was impossible not to notice-held a crucifix. The dying Christ seemed unfazed. The jagged tail ran the length of Angel’s spine, spiraling around a black dagger on his right buttock. The white face of Christ superimposed on a red cross covered his hairless chest. This was a skilled piece of work as well. The tattoos of blue chains around his neck and upper arms were sloppy, but had a certain flair.

There were others, amateurish gang markings that let the rest of the prison population know under whose protection Angel traveled. He had carved Madre into his right forearm over and over again until a blind man could read the raised scar tissue. He had carved another word, a name, into the skin of his upper left thigh near the crease between his leg and groin. The letters in the name were ragged and undetectable even to other men in the shower. Only the weaker prisoners Angel preyed upon and sodomized knew the name was there at all. He often beat his prey for asking about the name. After the first few years, only the uninitiated wondered aloud.

Christ and the painted dragon cried tears of Angel’s sweat as he strained to finish his third set of ten reps benching three hundred pounds. He was already souless and a murderer when he got to Attica, but rage and time had conspired with free weights to turn the rest of him into stone.

“Come on, Angel, two more,” the spotter yelled at Hernandez.

“Nueve,” Angel grunted, pushing the bar up and locking his elbows. “Did you get it out for me?”

“Come on, one more, we talk when you’re done.”

“Did you get the fucking thing out for me?” Angel screamed at his spotter, his arms beginning to shake from the strain.

“Yeah, man. Okay, okay. I got it out. I got it out.”

Angel let the bar drop slowly to his chest and he pushed it back up to complete his reps. He placed the bar in the Y-shaped rests on either side of the bench and sat up. He walked to where his shirt covered a pack of cigarettes. He flipped the pack to his spotter. Smiling broadly, the spotter shook the pack close by his ear.

“Don’t worry, pato” Angel assured him, “there’s enough Dilaudid in dat pack to keep you and your beetch happy for de month.”

At mess that night, three guards surrounded Angel when he went to clear his tray. They herded him into a storage room off the kitchen. He was handcuffed, his legs shackled, and a sock was stuffed in his mouth. Angel didn’t resist, there was too much at stake.

“We hear you’re leavin’ us next week for the halfway house. And me and some of the boys were kinda hurt you didn’t tell us. But we’re not the type a people to hold a grudge, no sir. So we thought we’d throw ya this little bye-bye party.”

Angel tensed his muscles, waiting for the first fist or baton blow to crack his ribs. No blows came. Instead the guards just laughed at Angel. The guard who had done the talking motioned his two partners away from the prisoner. He stepped back from Angel and pulled out a Taser. He let Angel get a good look at the electro-shock gun. Now Angel tried to run, but even before he could trip over his shackled ankles, the tethered hook caught his shirt. His bones burned in pain as his skin crawled with a million unseen ants. His body convulsed wildly and he could smell his own filth as his muscles lost all control. He didn’t remember passing out.

He woke up with a start, unchained and in his cell. He’d been cleaned up, but he was sick to his stomach, his head on the edge of explosion. Angel staggered out of his bunk, straining to see the calendar in the dark. The dates hadn’t changed, just seven days more. He felt the wall for his brother’s picture. He kissed the snapshot, crossed himself, climbed back into his bunk. He slide his right hand under the waistband of his pants and felt for the name carved into his thigh. Angrily whispering the inscribed name, Angel cried himself to sleep.