Arrival
Climbing out of the back of Deputy Still's cruiser, the bright sunshine momentarily blinded Slow Eddie. Stills and another Washington County Deputy grasped each of Eddie's arms and propelled him towards the front entrance of the penitentiary. Powhattan Correctional Center, pronounced POW-ell-town, sat in the middle of five hundred acres of flat Virginia farmland. PCC was also square in the middle of “State Farm Virginia” surrounded by James River Correctional Center, Deep Meadow Correctional Center, Beaumont for Juveniles, and down the road just a bit sat Goochland Women’s Correctional Center.
Powhattan became the official state penitentiary since the dungeon known as “The Wall” at 500 Spring Street in Richmond was closed down by the Federal courts. No one knew the number of bodies that were unearthed during the demolition of the monolithic structure, and needless to say, they never told their tales. From the weakest to the baddest, convict or cop, every man who ever laid eyes on Powhattan for the first time felt that slight chill of fear in his heart, taking in the forty foot high wall with guards patrolling the catwalks armed with AK-15's or 12-gauge riot guns at the ready.
The metal scraping sound of the front gate sliding open snapped Eddie out of his reverie.
Stills, wordless the entire four hour trip, triumphantly crowed, “Hope you like your new home, Holcum. When you come back to Washington County you and I have some unfinished business.”
“It's a date, sweetheart,” muttered Slow Eddie.
Still's grip tightened on Slow Eddie's arm ever so slightly as he spoke to the guard who came to meet them. “Here's one from Washington County. Oh yeah, and he likes to hit cops.” Stills grinned in the fashion of a wolf as he watched the Powhattan guard's eyes shrink in scrutiny of Slow Eddie. Eddie returned the stare. With that out of the way the two brown clad deputies and Eddie proceeded with the navy uniformed guard into the penitentiary proper. Two gates, three doors, and a couple hundred feet of hallway later they came to a receiving room. Eddie's waistchains, leg shackles, and handcuffs were all removed.
With a hideous grin Deputy Stills whispered, “Don't forget our date, punk.”
Eddie ignored him and waited for him and the other deputy to leave. Facing the PCC guard he took in the twenty by sixty foot receiving room. Boxes and boxes of state clothing and hygiene items lined the walls.
The guard slapped down a thin yellow booklet and said, “I'm not gonna waste my time with a standard line of bullshit like you see in the movies. It's real simple. Here's your rule book.” He pointed to the pointed at the booklet. “Here's your clothes.” He pointed at four neat stacks of three each of blue button down shirts, blue jeans with elastic waistbands, white boxer shorts,white cotton tube socks and one pair of brown work boots. “And here's your toiletries bag.” The small bag on the end included hotel sized soap shampoo, toothpaste, and a toothbrush.
“Now,” continued the guard, “see that shower there?”
Eddie nodded.
“Get in there. Shower and use the soap in there. Before you say anything. I know you just had one before you came here. It's just the rules. You come out of here with a dry head and I catch a bunch of shit. And one thing you learn real quick around here is shit rolls downhill.”
So Eddie stripped to the buff and got in the shower. He lathered yup the vinegary soap until he heard the guard hollered out, “Hey! You want these clothes shipped home? You can't take them in.”
“Who says?” hollered Eddie above the din of the shower.
The guard laughed. “Who do you think, wise guy?”
“Burn 'em,” Eddie grunted after he stepped out of the shower.
He toweled off and stepped into the stiff prison blues then asked, “What's next?”
“Bedding and cell assignment,” the guard replied.
“Beautiful,” Eddie muttered taking hold of the mattress so thin the roll fit under one arm with a blanket two sheets, a pillow and case all inside.
“Time to go, sport,” the guard said then led Eddie down a long brown hallway. Two sets of stairs later they arrived at the entrance of C-3, the Receiving Unit.
“Here's your stop,” stated the guard amiably to Eddie. Into the intercom speaker he yelled, “Hey Charlie! Got a new one out here!”
The big steel door swung open to reveal the interior of C-3. Charlie, a huge white guard with a crew cut stood in a navy DOC uniform waiting for Eddie to enter. “210853,” he called out Eddie's Department of Corrections Prisoner Number, “your new home is third tier cell 316. You may proceed.”
Like a kid at the State Fair, Eddie gawked up at the ceiling rising more than fifty feet into the air. Picnic tables scattered about the main floor area which extended beyond one hundred and fifty feet. Three tiers rose on each side with thirty cells lining the side of each tier. No prisoners were about. The floor was painted dark brown, the walls a beige that was once upon a time white, but years of nicotine, pain , and fear tend to age paint quickly. At the far end, sitting lonesome was a TV with an old fashioned antennae sticking crookedly out of it.
Moving to the stairs pointed out by the impressively huge and now mute guard, Eddie began his ascent to the top tier. As he climbed stairs he wondered at the lack of noise. There seemed to be only a low polite murmur at three o'clock in the afternoon, not the screaming jeering crowd from the movies he'd been ready to face. Three is the angel hour he remembered his mother saying. Once he reached the top of the stairs and started passing cells he realized the reason: everyone was sleeping. Except for one gentleman about 19 or 20 furiously masturbating while sitting on his toilet.
Passing that cell quickly Eddie was startled by the shout of “Crack 316!” from the guard right behind him. He whipped around and the guard merely pointed at the opening cell door.
Get me once shame on you. Get me twice shame on me. Eddie stepped into the cell.
He took in his new surroundings and the guard stated in a monotone, “Chow at five. Rec at eight. If you want to use the phone, you better hustle.” The guard stepped back and yelled, “Lock 316!”
Setting his bedroll on the spring and steel bunk, slow Eddie contemplated the porcelain toilet circa 1939, same as the sink, one beatup steel waist high locker with obvious pry marks on its door, and one beatup plastic chair. Home not-so-sweet home. The floor was the same brown as the hall and walls the same sooty beige. The only real surprise was the window. Stepping to it, Eddie could see down into the prison's main concrete and pavement recreation yard. Beyond that through a couple fences lay a track, softball diamond, and he could hardly believe, a tennis court without a net. Further in the distance, like a large blue vein winding its way atop a stretch of grass he could make out the James River.
Deciding a nap was in order, Eddie rolled out his mattress and quickly and quietly made his bed. Climbing on top of his state blue blanket and kicking off his state brown boots, Eddie stretched out and recalled his brief visit with his mother the night before.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Rise and shine boy! You got five minutes!” bellowed Sheriff Lovelace before waddling off down the hallway outside Eddie's empty cell block in the county jail.
Rolling off his bunk with a smartass reply ready on his lips, it died when Slow Eddie saw his mom standing there staring at him on the other side of the bars. A lone tear traced its way down her weathered cheek. Gasping back a sob, Eddie rushed to the bars to grasp his mother's fragile birdboned hands. He felt a small folded paper square in her palm. He looked down to see a hundred dollar bill.
Phyllis Holcum smiled. “A little something for the road.”
“Thanks. You always know the quickest way to my heart,” joked Eddie as he pocketed the bill.
“Listen close now son. That old sack o' gas will be back any second and I want to tell you something,” the woman spoke earnestly. “When you get up there to the prison, I need you to walk away from words whenever you can, even when it hurts. But if any of them fools puts their hands on you I want you to beat the stuffing out of them. But son, try your best to avoid trouble so you can come home and weed beside me in the garden like when you was little.” His mother smiled bravely for him.
“Mom that's a promise I'll do my best to keep and I'm awful sorry about putting you through all this. I have no excuse but pure and simple greed,” said Slow Eddie dejectedly, fighting against the tightening in his chest that threatened to close this throat.
“Don't you worry your mind about me. What's done is done and you're paying for it now. At the very least this will give you time to think about what you want to do with the rest of your life when you get out. You'll still be young and your possibilities will be endless.”
Eddie let the memory reverberate slowly in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.
*
Arrival
2011
Neptune Beach, Nice, France
The mark lay on a deep royal blue lounge chair, sunning himself within the confines of the Neptune private beach when he spotted the Mediterranean nymph in a pale pastel beach dress that billowed out with the sea breeze. He was well and truly bored with this mini vacation forced by a meeting delayed just hours after he'd boarded the flight for France.
“Take a couple days and see the sights, for godsake! Get a little culture! Relax a little bit for once!” he'd been ordered.
So here he was working on a tan with dozens of other bored businessmen escorting their wives on the lounge chairs wishing he was down on the public part of the beach where his nymph had laid out a towel and unbound her long tightly curled black hair to whip around in the breeze. His mouth went dry as she slowly stretched and then pulled up her dress to reveal a black strappy swimsuit top. Three tiny black straps descended from either side of the black choker band around her neck and attached to the skimpy cups of the bra top which barely contained her perfectly shaped double D's. His mouth went dry wondering what was underneath the black wrap around her waist that covered her to her knees. She slowly folded the dress and placed it into her tote then turned toward the sea and sky for another stretch.
The blue Mediterranean Ocean opened out before her and met the cloudless blue sky at the horizon, seemingly so close she could grasp it in her outstretched hand. The world was her oyster, and he was a little clam stuck behind a white fence with a shoal of clams chittering over the buffet line.
Finally, to his mind, she unknotted the wrap and revealed her bathing suit bottom. A tiny strip of black cloth was held up by three black strings on either hip which left very little to the imagination. She turned and displayed a pert ass barely covered at all by the bikini bottom and strode down the hard stone galet beach like she was born to it and disappeared into the sea for a lengthy swim.
Lulled by the sounds of the sea, the gentle salt breeze, and scent of coconut oil he very nearly dozed off but forced himself awake so he'd be sure to catch her re-emergence from the sea. Glorious it was. Her wet black hair streamed water over her luscious body clothed only in black straps. She breathed heavily from her swim and strode slowly up the stone beach where she oh so nonchalantly removed her top and set it down on the warm rocks to dry. Then she turned and sat with her back to all the staring men on the private side of the beach who lounged behind the white picket fence in comfort, for a fee. She then proceeded to slather oil on her entire body and finally laid back for a sort of reverse hot stone massage from the Nice stone galets.
The mark coughed and rose to put his walking bermudas on over his red speedo before he embarrassed himself along with a clashing tropical shirt and pretended his sunbathing was over by moving to a table under a trademark Neptune deep royal blue umbrella. Afraid some other lonely bored traveling businessman might beat him to the punch, he took a deep breath and headed out to the public beach.
“Hello, mind if I sit here?” he began, sitting himself down on the hot stone a few feet from his nymph.
She raised an arm to shade her eyes and gave him the once over. Catching the sparkle of his blue highly detailed watch, Tag Hauer Carrera Caliber, over three grand Euros, she replied, “You can sit anywhere on the public beach,” with a welcoming smile in the English she'd learned in school and used off and on since.
“I'm Mark,” he held out a hand like an American.
“I am Raphaella.” She took his hand and let him squeeze hers. Like the courtesans of old and the trendsetters of today, her time and attention were very very expensive and her smile made sure he got full value. Raphaella desired the finer things in life. She was not going to live like a poor street urchin, or a kept woman. She was worth a million bucks, in any currency. Her time was precious to her and she needed to be paid to share it. Like modern day superstars and influencers, Raphaella was worth no less. Self esteem, pride, arrogance? To Raphaella, it was simply practical. She was a commodity that people, mostly men, were willing to invest in. Concentrating so much on the glittering diamonds she tended to miss the souls that were good as gold. That was okay, she didn't want the human warmth they had to offer, the fellowship, community and good vibes. She wanted financial security for her life.
“It's boring back there,” his thumb indicated the private beach with its restaurant and umbrellas. “Too noisy, so I thought I'd come down here.”
“You should lay down,” she said.
Mark laid out his towel and removed his shirt then laid on his back.
“I heard the food is good,” she said. Actually it smelled divine, seafood and fruit scents mingled in the salt air.
“Maybe you can try it,” he replied.
“I don’t know, I need to go shopping for a new bikini later.”
“A new one? That one's stunning!”
“Oh this old thing?” She'd cut the tags off this morning. “It's just plain black. I need something blue, that matches my eyes.” She smiled at him and her eyes drew his gaze for a long moment.
“You really are a Mediterranean nymph,” he breathed in awe. The color of her eyes already matched the sea and sky … and his watch.
“I'm a what?” she laughed girlishly, delighted.
“A Greek goddess of the sea,” he said expansively, returning her smile.
“Then you must be a god,” she returned his joke. “But of what?”
He considered for a moment. “I'm not a god of shopping,” he said with a mock frown. “Tell you what, if you help me pick out souvenirs for my people back home, how about I buy you that new bikini?”
“Hmmm,” she appeared to consider. “We better get started if we must do so much shopping before dinner.”
They grinned and put their tops on.
“The bikini I want is expensive,” she warned.
“You can get two!” he promised.
“Oo, I might have to stay with you after dinner,” she flirted. His gold wedding band bothered her not at all. As long as there was no crucifix one man was just as good as any other.