The Grim Room
CHAPTER 1
Christopher Doyle stood in his cell for the last time, gripping one of the cold metal bars with one hand, and with the other, clenching his AA Big Book, saying the prayer his sponsor had taught him: 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.
His brother was waiting outside. Rebecca was out there somewhere.
The click-clack staccato of guard Don Hicky’s booted heels resounded among the tier. Echoes of voices pulsed down the cells; rugged hands reached through bars. Chris felt nervous, anxious. He looked behind him at the stainless steel toilet, the cot with the thin hard mat, that fluorescent buzzing bulb, the single, lonely, cobalt-colored chair in front of his desk, the concrete 6 X 8 cell he’d spent the past 26 months in.
Jesus, he thought, his sweaty hand clutching the steel bar tightly, I’m finally getting the hell out of this place. Time to live again. Time to start over from square one.
And that’s when the fear hit him like an invisible slap to the face: Was he ready for the real world?
Hicky arrived, his tan shirt tucked into olive-drab pants, the curling walkie-talkie cord around his shoulder. His bulging muscles presented a warning. He nodded and proclaimed, “Opening cell #28, to release inmate #17273!” Hicky fumbled for his keys, the giant key ring full.
He opened the cell, the creaking sound of steel.
The guard led the way. Chris faced straight ahead using his peripherals to watch the inmates behind bars. Paco, one of the Southern Hispanics, reached his gnarled, veiny hand through the bars and eyed Chris. “Hey, gringo. You better not come back.” His sweaty hand clutched the tattered, hardcover Big Book. Voices rang out but they sounded light and distant against Chris’s anxiety. That familiar smell emanated from the hallway, rank inmate body odor and the stench of the floors and griminess inside the cells.
Chris approached the uniformed woman behind the counter. Double pane glass protected her. It said “Receiving and Release” in gold letters above the glass.
The woman told him to wait and came back with a box containing his “dress-outs,” the clothing his brother had sent. She also brought a prison-issue duffel bag he’d prepared the night before, with his belongings. He opened the cardboard box and pulled out his old ripped-up blue jeans, his Venice Beach, California shirt, his biker boots with the metal buckles, and his coveted leather motorcycle jacket. He took the clothes into the bathroom.
What if Rebecca were here? What would she think? What would she say? A thumping throb began in the pit of his stomach, his apprehension beginning to rise, his low-level panic starting to increase.
Picking up the duffel he once again followed Hicky.
The guard unlocked the arch door of East Gate. Chris didn’t know why but he felt like returning to his cell, returning to the womb of Folsom. But no: he could only go forward.
As he stepped into the cold foggy morning, Hicky extended his palm. “You gonna be alright, kid?”
Chris dipped his head. “I’m cool. Thanks for everything.”
“Forget about it, kid. Don’t come back, ya hear?”
“I won’t,” Chris said. You know you won’t make it, bud. You’ll be back. It was Kid Maniac’s demented voice, assaulting him, the inmate from hell.
Hicky closed the heavy door and headed back into the castle-like dungeon that was Folsom State Prison.
Chris spotted his brother’s blue 1971 Chevelle, two white lines painted down the hood. Julian leaned against the car, smoking a Marlboro, his teeth biting down on the filter like he always did, James Dean with a beard.
Julian ripped the Marlboro out of his mouth and smiled. They stood a few feet from each other, staring. Julian looked him up and down. “You’ve outgrown those clothes.”
Chris took in a breath and released. “I know.”
Taking a harsh pull off the smoke, Julian said, “You carved some serious muscle.” Chris lifted his gaze, his eyes following the tall granite walls surrounding the prison, the guard towers—Tower 26 behind East Gate—and the fences with triple-rolled barbed wire curling above.
Letting the cig fall to the ground, Julian smashed it out with his Ferrini alligator boots. He grinned, rushing up to Chris. They embraced, arms slapping each other’s backs.
“Chris. You’re back.” Emotion throbbed in his voice. Chris, too, felt the deep emotion welling up, but he’d act like all was fine, normal.
They jumped into the leather bucket seats of the Chevelle. Chris smelled the skunky scent of “Bubba Kush,” coffee and stale cigarettes. A filthy, furry rabbit’s foot dangled from the keychain, and a beaded necklace hung from the rearview mirror, a little wooden cross held at the bottom, a tiny crucified Christ on it, arms pinned, head crowned and lowered.
Julian flipped the engine and waited for a moment while it rumbled to life, the hood shaking, the explosion like a Harley Davidson.
In the side mirror, Chris looked behind them at the F and S and P insignia, the letters engraved into the stone wall. It seemed like every step he took further away from Folsom, the more, inch by inch, the nervous insecurity started to gradually fade.
They hit the main road on East Natoma and headed towards what would lead them to I-80 West. A light drizzle began, drops zigzagging down the windshield.
“Congrats on being free, brother. Oh, and here’s some money.” He pulled out a thin stack of cash. Chris took the money. Six crisp hundreds. Julian lit another cigarette.
“What’s this for?” Chris said. He wanted to ask about the reek of weed. Shame snaked its way down his spine: what was he doing, taking money from his brother while he criticized him for the smell of pot? Stop being so judgmental, man.
“Least I can do. We’re family. All we’ve got.”
“Thanks, Jules.” He fell silent for a moment, that fear he’d been denying coming back: he’d have to get a “real job.” He’d been dealing cocaine since he was a teenager. That same ripe insecurity he’d been pushing around in his mind for the past month, since he found out he’d be getting released early, returned. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it, bro. Get on your feet, that’s the best pay back. I hope you like San Fran. Been living there about a year now. The big city.”
This time it wasn’t nervousness but a slow burning warmth. Julian had always been a force of love, a guiding force of direction for Chris. “I like starting over.”
Julian chucked his smoke out onto the slick, wet freeway. Rain pelted the windshield, the wipers working back and forth. “You going to steer clear?”
“I told you I’m sober.”
Julian looked over, his eyes remaining a bit too long. “I know. I’m proud of you for that. You were out of control. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Chris squinted. “Want to help me out here?”
“Her.”
A bolt of electric energy pulsed through his body. Like walking through the door at East Gate, he wanted to crawl back into the womb, but this time it was his desire for Rebecca, not for Folsom.
“C’mon, Chris, don’t play dumb. You had a lot of months in there to think about it. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”
His world contracted into a needlepoint. Julian was right. All his hopes of survival on the outside had been pinned to the idea of seeing her. If he could just hold her, make her understand he’d changed. “Silver knows…” Julian caught himself. Silver was an old “friend” from Venice Beach, where they’d grown up. A drug addict and silver jewelry thief, Chris had rolled over on him because the DA had promised Chris a lesser sentence.
“Silver knows what?”
Red-faced, Julian looked out his window. “Nothing.”
“Not nothing. Silver knows what?”
Shaking his head, Julian said, “Silver knows a chick at this dive bar who knows Rebecca. But don’t chase that lead, man. Be smart.”
“I thought Silver was still in Venice?”
“He moved up here a few months after I did. Palo Alto, south of the city.”
“I’d like to see her. Is that so bad?”
Julian glanced at the hanging cross. “Bad? Her mom’s the reason you did time, you realize that, right?”
Chris stared at the grubby rabbit’s foot dangling from the keychain. Resentment shot through him like a shot of cocaine. “No, she’s not. I’m in here because I had a problem and I couldn’t stop. I was trying to cope with—”
“Mom and dad. I’ve heard this story before.” Julian looked away, running his hand through his slicked-back greaser hair. “Stay away from Rebecca, Chris. You’re on early parole. That means it’s conditional.”
Chris’s face crumpled. “I know what the fuck it means. I was the one who did the time. Alright? You don’t need to—”
Julian spun his head around, fast. “It means if you get anywhere near Rachel Akerman’s daughter she’s going to protect her the only way she knows how: she’ll prosecute your ass and before you know it you’ll be back in the pen.” He paused. “Is that what you want?”
Rain came in sheets now, angry water from the heavens. This wasn’t how he wanted his first interaction with his brother to go. This wasn’t how he wanted to feel, guilty because his heart longed for…her.
I don’t want to fight with you, brother, Chris thought. Can’t we just get along? Can’t this go easily? Can’t I have some serenity, some peace of mind, some relaxation? Why does everything have to be a challenge?
“Look,” Chris said. “I want to look her in the eyes and let her know I’m not mad at her; I don’t blame her for what happened. It wasn’t her fault.”
Julian leaned back in his seat. “You’re being a fool, Chris, if you think your prison fantasy of seeing her and it all being perfect is real. Be smart. Let her go. Move on. Start your life over fresh, like you said.”
Chris looked out the window. Just like that, they fell silent. Julian turned on the stereo—NPR’s “Fresh Air” with Terry Gross—and there was no more room for talk.
The apartment was tiny. A San Francisco Victorian near the ocean in the Asian populated Sunset District also known as Ocean Beach. Julian’s apartment sat on 45th Avenue, a row of colorful Victorian houses shouldering up against each other.
Chris strolled around the modest kitchen, surveying the area. Stainless steel pans hung from the ceiling. He thought of the stainless steel toilet in his shitty cell. Little on the walls, save for a San Francisco Giants poster, Madison Bumgarner cocking his arm back, about to lob the ball at 97 miles an hour, the bleachers hazy and packed with fans in the background.
He remembered he needed to contact his parole officer within 24 hours.
Inside the bathroom Chris stripped out of his old clothes. Julian, anticipating a change, had laid a pair of fresh black Levis, boxers, socks and a collared silk blue shirt folded on the counter. “Thoughtful,” Chris whispered. As soon as he said it he whipped his head around, ready for a potential fight. Oh. He wasn’t in the Folsom Tier 1AB bathroom, having to worry about Kid Maniac. Snap out of it, kid, he heard Kid’s voice say. You’s a sensitive jailbird, eh. Chris rubbed the back of his neck—his nape—where the letters K M were permanently carved into his flesh. That had been a bad night. He shuddered at the memory.
He opened the medicine cabinet, seeing small shelves. The first held tooth paste, nail clippers, band aids. The one beneath was full of all kinds of crap: Aspirin, bandages, floss, combs, extra Irish Spring soap. Scanning, making sure he was alone, he felt around in the drawer at the bottom, deep, his hand tunneling. Like he had suspected intuitively, there was a false bottom. He lifted the stuff out and found the little groove. Pulling up, he removed the wooden cover.
His eyes ballooned. Inside were a dozen tiny baggies, filled with white powder.
Chris brought a baggie to his face, opened it, and dipped his little finger. He brought the finger to his tongue and tasted it. Cocaine. Holy crap. After everything that’d happened, his brother was dealing. Silver must have been an influence.
The hot water rushed his face and body. Just being alone in a bathroom was surreal. In there you always had to look over your shoulder. He closed his eyes and felt the hot water flow over him. It was some kind of hot water baptism, wasn’t it? Him being alive and out and here, with his brother? Julian still loved him, still believed in him, even if he was selling drugs. His parents would too, if they—
No, he didn’t want to think about that. Or about Kid. Or about that…place. He wanted to start over, find a therapist, find work, find his own place. Rebecca. His heart still had that ache when he thought of her. What if she had gotten over him? What if she were with someone else?