GLADIATOR- (A California Pelican Bay Prison Story)

GLADIATOR- A California Pelican Bay Prison Story

            CHAPTER  1

            I had to put pen to paper and write my beautiful wife. It wasn't easy to write and not think about her at the same time. Questions riddled my brain like a tornado with, is she OK? Does she still live at the same address? Is she still going to church? WHY HAVEN'T I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM HER?

 I got a letter from her a month ago saying she was being evicted, she couldn't afford the rent without me. We were paying 1,400 a month for a studio apartment in Laguna Beach, California and both working, her at Macy's in dresses and me as a waiter at a Bistro, we were both going to church and everything was great, until I got violated for parole for not reporting a change of address fast enough. I started writing.

            My beautiful wife: I pray this reaches you in God's Hands. It sucks here without you, but it would suck anywhere without you! Please write me and let me know you're OK, if you get this...I love you more than words can express and treasure you and our memories and look forward to those yet to come. 90 more days, hang on! Your always faithful loving husband...

            CHAPTER  2

            My cell mate Damon was watching me agonize over the letter and knew I'd be done quick, unable to allow my heart to feel like a sponge getting squeezed dry. We had to be calloused. Emotions couldn't play a part in this part of our life, there wasn't room for it. Much like a Marine on duty in hostile enemy territory, surviving life in a California level 4 prison wasn't the place for missing a loved one where calculated killers roamed the cell block and gun tower guards with rifles staged gladiator wars and fired unholy justice. The pressure was relentless.

            "She's alright. You have a gorgeous, strong willed wife who is loyal and loves you like no other. How could she not, you're a freak of nature. Don't let your mind tell you otherwise."

            I studied Damon standing 2 feet away from my bottom bunk. At 6'3 and 230 lbs of shredded muscle from 20 years worth of California prison race war training, tattoos covered his body. His stomach had his nickname in block letters, ROTT, his chest was covered with a banner of prison ink displaying a gambling scene with an Ace of Spades flying off a table, and there was some more ink spilling over his shoulders. The most endearing thing about him visually as a friend from the beach in Orange County, California and these California prisons we kept meeting in, was the way his big, bald, shaped like a bullet head, sat on the rest of his long lanky frame. Underneath his bullet head his forehead creased into wrinkles and pale blue eyes were lasers of scrutiny. The whole package always made me laugh.

            "I know she'll always be down for me, but my mind isn't right, I've always felt like a needy insecure orphan. I just hope she's alright and isn't getting lost without me."

            Damon tilted his bullet head back and half closed his eyes in a look that told me I was out of my mind and then gave me his classic laugh that sounded like, "Up up up up."

            I knew my time was up to think about the outside world, my 5 minutes of leaving the cell in a letter was over. It was time to study the cell block again where we always have issues that kill 24 hours a day, 7 days a week all year every year.

            Damon accelerated me back into our gladiator world, "We’re still on lockdown, the Mexicans are going to kill one of theirs soon and we have a White crip on the way we have to deal with any day now."