Parsell - Fish: a Memoir of a Boy in a Mans Prison

For Tom Wasik,

the greatest psychotherapist in the world,

who holds me tight and keeps me safe at night.

Fish \`fish\ n, a: Prison slang for a new inmate,

b : A memoir .

Fish is an accurate memoir of events in my life that took place more than twenty-five years ago. I have changed the names and identifying details of others who were involved in those events. The names and identifying characteristics here are not accurate as to any living individuals known to me. I have used the real names of members of my family and some prison officials.

State Prison of Southern Michigan

Jackson, Michigan

April 15, 1978

The office was in a converted prison cell . The bars had been removed and replaced with gray painted cinderblocks . The door had a large window that was covered from the inside with old rusty blinds that hadnt been cleaned in some time . At eye level, the word P SYCHOLOGIST was stenciled on the glass .

When I entered the office, he pointed to a wood chair in the corner and told me to take a seat . He looked like the guidance counselor at my high school . He was in his thirties, with dark brown hair . A corduroy jacket hung from the back of his chair . He pulled a file from the stack on his shelf . 1-5-3-0-5-2, Parsell . Is that you?

Yes, sir, I said, my voice slightly cracking .

He didnt look up as he flipped through the file, scanning the pages of what was to become my prison record . The size of the folder was impressive, considering I had been there only a few days . He read the presentence report . You have a control hold, he announced, still not lifting his head.

Whats that?

It says here that you still have an armed robbery pending.

Yeah, I dont go back for sentencing on that until June.

Well, its only April, he said, closing the file . He read something on the cover and opened it again . It means youre going inside.

Inside? It didnt make sense . Inside meant inside the walls of maximum security . My lawyer said I would go to a camp, I said .

He didnt respond; he just continued reading the file .

Ever been fucked? he asked abruptly.

Excuse me?

Fucked, he repeated . It was the first time he looked up from his desk.

I blinked, not sure I was hearing what he said . I looked over at the closed door and then back again, too stunned to respond.

He swiveled his chair around so that he faced me and tossed the file onto his desk. You have a control hold, he said, because you have a capital offense case pending. He placed his hands behind his head and studied me as I sat there staring back at him.

What do you mean, capital offense case? I asked, grateful he changed the subject.

Any crime that carries up to life is considered a capital offense case . Because you have an armed robbery pending, and because armed robbery carries up to a maximum of life, we have to send you inside until youre sentenced.

He eyed my tall but skinny, 148-pound frame .

Armed robbery, he said slowly . Youre a pretty dangerous guy.

Not really, I said, ignoring his sarcasm .

What did you rob?

A Fotomat, I answered, almost sheepishly .

He was silent.

It started out as a joke . I hadnt actually intended to rob the place.

It was with a toy gun, I added.

He still didnt say anything .

He just sat there looking at me .

My lawyer said it didnt matter that the gun wasnt real. As long as the girl inside the photo booth thought it was real, it was considered armed robbery . I was hoping itd make a difference here, so that I wouldnt be sent inside.

So, he said, leaning back in his chair . Ever suck a dick?

Fuck, no, I said.

Well, you will.

No, I wont.

He was silent again, for a long moment . The hum of the electric clock seemed to overpower the noise from the crowded cellblock just beyond the door . Seven Block was quarantined, where they assigned the fish new inmates . We were kept locked down until we were classified and shipped to whatever prison in which we were to serve our time. The psychologist was the last step before we met with the classification committee.

Youre going to M-R until your case is adjudicated, he announced .

I had heard about M-R, the Michigan Reformatory, while I was in the county jail . Its where they sent young inmates who were serving a lot of time . Someone once told me, Whatever you do, dont let them send you to M-R. Inmates called it gladiator school . Where motherfuckers fight each other off with broomstick handles and garbage can lids.

A pretty boy like you, the psychologist added, youll need to get a man.

Fuck that ! I said, my eyes darted to the floor . I could feel my face burning.

If you dont get a man, youll be open game.

Theyll have to kill me first, I said, sitting up in my chair.

That can be arranged, he said, calmly.

He was enjoying the volley .

I didnt know what to say next, or how hed respond to it . I studied the books that were sloppily arranged on the shelf above his desk . I was afraid to let my eyes look at him, fearing what they might reveal .

Your life means nothing to one of these cons whos serving a life sentence . Youll suck dick, or youll get your throat slit . And then theyll fuck you.

Now I was getting scared, and angry . This prick was having too much fun with me, and I didnt know what to do, but mostly I was scared . I couldnt believe theyd send me to M-R . I was definitely not a dangerous guy . Up until a few weeks ago, I was still living with my parents and reading comic books.

Fuck you, I screamed. Theyll just have to kill me, you motherfucker!

OK, he said calmly. He got up and walked to the door . You can have a seat in the bullpen. He tossed my file into a metal basket and opened the door .

Williams, he called out, reading from the clipboard on the wall. 1-5-3-2-9-7.

A black inmate got up from the floor of the crowded bullpen and crossed the hall . The psychologist shut the door to begin his next evaluation, and I sat in the space that Williams had just cleared, struggling not to let anything show in my face . Id learn later that he wrote in my file that I was violent and dangerous and recommended I be sent to M-R.

Yo! White boy, a black inmate with cornrows said . Whatd he say?

He said Im going to M-R, I shrugged, pretending it didnt bother me.

Damn, homey! Youre too motherfuckin pretty to be going to no
M-R.

Broomstick handles and garbage can lids, another blurted. Youre goin to gladiator school.

Nah, Cornrows said . How old are you, blood?

Seventeen, I replied.

Nah. He said, shaking his head confidently . Theyll send you to Riverside . Theres no way theyll send some pretty white boy like you to M-R . No way.

Color of Eyes: Blue

Color of Hair: Red now, is Blond (8 weeks)

Complexion: Peaches and Cream

Remarks: A darling baby boy who smiles and talks to his mommy like crazy. A sweet little bundle of joy. Timmy, at 8 weeks, you are Mommys precious doll. I hope you will always make me as happy and lovable as you due [sic] right now.

First said Daddy: 10 Mos. Da Da First said Momma: 11 Mos.

Other First Words: See, Hurt First put together words: I dont want to

SOURCE: Moms entries in my Baby Book.