The Grim Room

CHAPTER 5

His brother was waiting when he returned. Arms crossed over his chest, Julian’s face was all scrunched up like wanted to chuck a hatchet at Chris’s head. His hair was combed straight back and the beard seemed somber. He wore a black San Francisco Giants shirt, with WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS in white lettering, and the interlocking orange S and F letters, which reminded Chris of the F and S and P interlocked for Folsom.

Chris walked past him, dropping the keys in the ashtray. Julian grabbed the keys and shoved them into his pocket.

“What are you gonna do, huh? Run around all day looking for her?” Julian said.

Chris leaned against the wall, lit a smoke, exhaled and flicked a random hair off of his chin. He ran his fingers through his mop. “I can’t believe you’re dealing coke, bro. And selling to Silver? Didn’t you learn anything while I was away?”

Julian ignored the comment. “Look. You can’t steal my car. Ok? You can ask to borrow it. But you can’t steal it.”

Chris puffed again. Fighting his brother, he realized, was not on his agenda. The fighting between them was new. They’d fought as teens, after their parents’ car crash, but soon Chris had been in his own world, selling and swimming in a bottle. And he loved Julian, dearly. They were on the same team. Action needed to be taken: an AA meeting was #1.

“I need my Glock,” Chris sputtered.

Julian bit his lip. “It’s on the table next to your prison duffel bag. I left it there this morning.”

“Thanks for stashing it all these years, bro.”

“You’re family, Chris. What was I supposed to do, sell it?”

Chris felt another rush of resentment. Heat crept into his flushed cheeks. “Goddamn, Jules. I get out of State for slanging and you pick up the craft?”

“I—”

“Do you have any idea how hard I’ve had to think about what I did, about the life I’d been living, about changing my ways?” Chris said. “Huh? Maybe you need to come to a meeting with me, brother.”

“I’m not an addict, Chris, I’ve got it under control. I’m not like you.”

“Right. Sure. Just keep the shit away from me,” Chris said.

Julian jangled the keys in his pocket. He walked cautiously past Chris. “I’m going out to do some…errands.” Chris didn’t respond. “You need to calm down, brother. Get over this shit and figure yourself out. I love you, Christopher. I always have. But this is my apartment. It’s my car, my choices, my life. Frankly, if I want to sell drugs, I will. I know where you’ve been the last two years. And I know where I ain’t going. Don’t worry about me.”

“God, brother. You sound just like me. How do you think your selling makes me feel? This is supposed to be a safe environment for me.”

Julian poked his tongue around at his cheek. “That’s my problem, is it?”

“You’re my brother; we’re blood. Don’t you want to see me grow and stay sober? Don’t you give a shit?”

“Don’t be dramatic, bud. Of course I do. I love you, man. We’re all we’ve got. But I can’t change my life to make sure you feel ‘safe.’ My advice is to start looking for a job; hit the pavement. It’ll be tough with a record but you’ll find something. Check with your P.O. After that: get an apartment; then you won’t have to deal with me.”

Chris looked away, out the window above the kitchen sink.

Julian chucked the keys into the air and caught them.

 “What?” Chris said, an annoyed tone.

“Let me make us some spaghetti tonight, huh? It’ll be nice. You and me. You can tell me more about…your time. I want to know. I mean, if you want to talk about it.”

Chris let his arms unhook and fall to his sides. This was really what he’d been wanting to hear, since Julian picked him up at East Gate. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted a peaceful reunion, some semblance of familial normalcy, and to find work and true sobriety. Happiness. Wasn’t that the point? Something had to be done, though, about this constant buzzing in his head, his thoughts out of control. “Yeah. That’d be nice. Let’s do that.”

“Good,” Julian said. “And Chris?” Chris jerked his head. “Don’t worry about me. I sell small and I know the right people.”

Like Silver? Chris wanted to say. But he held his tongue. “I’ll see you tonight, Jules.”

“Tonight.” Chris heard Julian’s feverish boot-clomps down the concrete stairs which led to the garage. A minute later, the blue beast’s engine blasted the quiet.

Chris thought about searching for the blow. He could flush it. But then he’d have to move out immediately. And, even though it was insane beyond belief that Julian was dealing, he also knew that if he wanted a less rocky experience, he’d learn to let things go. Jim B., his inside sponsor, taught him a lot about expectations and learning to let people be who they are, especially those you cared about.

The duffel bag. And his gun.

He walked over and snatched the bag. It was dirty and heavy. He sat it on the coffee table in front of the couch. A white tag was hanging: “Christopher Doyle’s belongings, CDCR Inmate #17273. 2011-2014. Property of Folsom State Prison, 300 Prison Road, Represa, Ca.”

Chris unzipped the bag. Books. Helter Skelter, by Vincent Bugliosi, the prosecutor who put Charles Manson away. Manson served time in Folsom. Mien Kampf: Kid forced him to read this. Hitler wrote the first portion of that book while in prison. The title meant “My Struggle.” Chris could relate. He didn’t buy into the ignorant Aryan Race bullshit—which made it harder to convince Kid he was “on their side”—but he did understand struggle. And prison.

And his blue Big Book, the title, “Alcoholics Anonymous,” barely visible on the spine. He flipped to a random page. “The Doctor’s Opinion.” A line was highlighted in pink: “We were not drinking to escape, we were drinking to overcome a craving beyond our mental control.” Chris closed the book with a snap.

His journals.

Chris picked up a journal and flipped through it. He saw a page and fear rippled through his body. Blood all over an angry message to God. He’d never forget that night. He let his own blood soak the page, using a single candle to light his way as he wrote his hellish letter to The Great Deceiver, he called God that night. The two permanent letters etched on his nape took weeks to heal.

Chris set the journals next to the books on the table.

Next were letters. Letters he never sent. Letters to his parents. To Rebecca. To his brother. He skimmed the notebook pages with looped “p’s” and “d’s” and “e’s” like he wrote.

December 24, 2011, Day 20 in FSP

I’ve been in this hell-hole for 20 days, man. Took less than a week to be threatened by Hector G. (working for Rachel)—saying that if I fought and went to trial Rachel would pursue “outside” actions—get arraigned, plead guilty, and land here. They call this place all kinds of things: The Dirty Chamber, The Big House, The Pen, The Joint, FSP, State, The Grim Room. Saw Kid in the yard today. Crazy bastard. He always trolls for fresh meat, like I was when he approached me. But I’m in deep now; I’m an FSP white supremacist. It’s what I have to do.

Chris stopped reading, feeling his heart beating hard. Sensing Kid nearby, he felt disoriented, blinking several times in rapid succession. He forced Kid out of his consciousness. His right hand was shaking.

He walked to the kitchen counter. On it, next to where the bag had been, he spotted the Glock-17. The “G” logo; “Austria” etched along the dark metal barrel, along with “9 x 19 mm.” A single magazine sat beside it. He checked the magazine. Empty. Jules must have hidden or trashed the bullets. He probably carried his own gun for protection. What if Jules were caught and had to serve time. Then what would Chris do?

His mind was racing. Silver. Officer John C. Darnin. The cocaine. He recognized an itch that wanted, pleaded to be scratched. He wanted a drink. He hadn’t had a drink since going in. And now, after all those AA and NA meetings inside, he was worried. That sinking sensation of resentment (the number one offender for alcoholics, he was told in the meetings), spread like a spider’s web inside of his soul.

God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out the card he’d been carrying since his release. “Jim Burroughs, Handyman Electrician. Sacramento, Calif. For a free estimate, call (916) 228-7845.” Using the flip-phone that Julian provided him with—with only Julian’s number in it—Chris dialed. It rang and rang, going to voicemail.

“Jim, uh, it’s me, Chris Doyle, from Folsom State. I’m out, officially! Just wanted to touch base, figured I could use a voice of clarity. Having a bit of a rough time but trying to summon your wise words. Call me when you get a chance. I don’t know my own number, actually, but it should come up on your cell? If not I’ll try you again later.”

Rebecca floated into his awareness. Somehow, he would find her. Nothing could stop him. Not Julian, not Rebecca’s mother, not her wind-up-toy, Darnin. Silver would spill the beans. And she’d love him still. She’d want him back. He would have to figure out a way around that cop. But he better be careful.

The last thing he needed was to go back to The Grim Room. He’d had enough Kid to last a lifetime.