I stepped to the counter to sign in on my first day at hospice. “Good morning, everyone!” Heads lifted and lowered. The clicking of the keys on the computers was rhythmical.
“You must be new?” one nurse asked with a smile.
“I am. Where am I needed?” The hospital unit was a huge two-story concrete building with shiny floors. The top floor was divided into Red, Black, and Blue wings.
“Hey! Hey! I’m next.” Three holding cells were packed with inmates who had been rushed in. We were all used to “hurry up and wait.”
“Stop all that yelling. Hell, I’m coming.” Understaffed, overworked, and under-appreciated nurses met the needs of 50 or more inmates a day.
“You’re needed on the Red hall. But where do you want to be?” Back in the day, I’d a been all over this, anywhere I could be alone. But today I had a different agenda.
“Stacie, leave that man alone and let him go to work,” one nurse blurted out with a smile.
I walked through the entrance of the Red hall and heard a hard cough. It became louder and harder. My steps quickened to the hurling sound. Bum-bum-bum followed each hacking and hurling cough. My mind raced as fast as the nurses ran. I followed them to a familiar voice coming out of Room 218. The patient was bent over, resting his hands on his knees. Richard’s hand moved swiftly up and down on the patient’s back. Richard Psycho Boyington, the founder of the Aryan Brotherhood Organization at Parchman. We once stood in opposition, but now we were brothers in Christ. Everything about Richard used to scream AB: from his walk to the swastika tattoos he had worn proudly. His walk was different now, and the swastikas were covered up. The room was a single bed and an oxygen machine hummed quietly in the corner. The light from the hallway illuminated the room. White spittle hung from the patient’s mouth.
“What happened?” one nurse cried.
“Kilo!” Richard barked at me. “Hand me those wipes.” He started to explain what happened. I slung my bag on the floor and turned in complete ignorance to the contents on the dresser. A thick, blue rectangular package, a tall white container, two huge syringes, and a machine with long, clear tubes rested on top of the dresser. “The blue one,” Richard stated. The patient let out a deeper and longer hurl. I picked up the wipes and turned to the sight of blood.
In my last fight, I had stabbed Knowledge 17 times. He stabbed me six. “Jenkins, pack up!” I just got here, I thought, and slammed my property into a sheet. In the holding tank, more men awaited the same fate. “Left leg!” the officer barked and put the shackles on tight and double locked. “It’s gonna be like this every 21 days,” the man next to me stated. “So buckle up and enjoy the ride.”
Blood pooled on the floor then and it pooled on the floor now in this hospital room. I handed Richard the wipes and watched him clean the patient’s face. I cleaned the blood off the floor and thought I’d come a long way.
The next day, I arrived at the door to begin my shift. The patient was asleep. The room was dark and had a nice smell to it. Richard gathered his things and instructed me on the dos and don’ts before praying over our patient. He exited the room. A nurse walked in. “Good morning.” She patiently worked with the patient during her rounds. The officer stopped by, play-jabbing, but I always wished the patient well. His family poured in faithfully. Smiles on their faces, love in their hearts for him. After visits, he rested comfortably. It went on like this for two weeks. Then it happened. His leg was uncovered and exposed an unforgettable tattoo. The Gucci symbol crawled up his leg. I looked over at Black, my co-worker. My voice was low but determined: “I know him.”
Back on the zone, images flashed in my head, but the connection was not made. The next day, I walked into the room. It was a good day. The patient was already up in bed. “Come on in here,” he stated. “I can breathe today. I don’t need the oxygen mask.” His laugh was contagious. I put my gloves on. His eyes were observant. I set two water bottles on the dresser and pulled the chair next to the bed.
“Man, what they call you?” I asked.
“Solo.”
“Solo. Solo.” It hit me like a ton of bricks: Solo from Green County.
“It’s me, Kilo from Green County.” I met Solo around 2016–17 at SMCI, South Mississippi Correctional Insitution, under different circumstances. He was over the Gangsters and I was over the Vice Lords. He had a strong hustle and was known for having all the women.
“Big Bruh, Ole Girl feelin me,” Crown stated. He sat down at the end of my bed. I looked him up and down. He stood back up. We went to the table to talk. “Big Bruh, she said she got one more drop for Ole Boy and she free.” The zone was quiet. Music played from the back. I said, “To prove her loyalty, tell her to bring it to you and everything I am behind you.” Three days later, I sat on my bed breaking down a pound of weed. “Where my grass at?” Solo demanded standing at the darked-out tower. He punched the cage with the palm of his hands over and over. Moments later: “Man, sell me a zip,” Solo pleaded. “This girl playin’ like she don’t know what’s goin’ on.” He paced back and forth. I passed him a zip fresh off the charge and said, “No charge, it’s on me.” Solo was about his money and his women. He stood ten toes down for his brothers. They loved him, and I respected that.
“Man, you want to go for a walk?” I asked one day.
He said weakly, “I’m through walking.”
“Whatchu mean by that?” I asked.
Get him to accept me.
“I’m tired, man,” Solo stated, another weak cough escaping his mouth. He lay in bed, nearly invisible. “Don’t forget that paperwork next week,” he whispered. Another weak cough.
“I’m not, bruh. I got you.”
He smiled and closed his eyes. I stared at him to make sure he was breathing. Get him to accept me. I looked over at Solo and thought, I will when he wakes up. The room was cold. His favorite show, Land Man, was on. He liked Billy Bobb Thorton’s wife. Get him to accept me. Again. I looked over at him. He was still asleep. I’ll do it when he wakes up.
The door opened. Light from the hallway broke into the room and rested on his face. “Shhh,” I stated to Sky. “It’s been a rough day. He’s been down all day.”
“Let’s pray,” Sky stated.
The following weekend, I got up early and prayed. Showered. Read the Word. Ate breakfast. I checked my bag and made sure I had everything for Solo. Paperwork: check. Notes for his wife: check. A couple of bags of chips: check. I laughed at the oncoming war of getting him to eat: This me! I would pound my chest twice, hard, to emphasize who we are, where we come from, and how we met, to show him he needed to eat for me.
The sun yawned and stretched its way into the sky, and birds danced at my feet, expecting bread. The sunlight turned morning dew into diamonds. I walked through the doors to an empty administration building. The silence was strange. Once busy as a beehive, the front office was now dead. Self-run. A ghost town. An officer’s voice was low but polite. “What’s your MDOC number?”
“84402.” The clicking of the keyboards sang. The scanner came to life. It hummed softly and sent me through the x-ray device. I gathered my bag and walked out the door.
Once cleared: “Come on, man,” the driver said. Clouds traveled slowly across the sky. They resembled different animals and other shapes. “Today we need you to sit with Ricki.” I turned my head. “He content. He not that bad.”
“Hold up, man, where’s Solo?” My chest tightened. Hair stood up on my arms. My voice trembled. “Why I’m not sitting with Solo?”
“Man, Solo dead. He died Thursday night.”
My heart dropped. “But I got–”
“Man, he dead,” the driver interrupted. Emotionless. No concern, care, or compassion in his voice. Silence robbed the conversation to work. God’s beauty draining like rain on the window during a storm.
I walked up the zone and looked backwards, talking. Sunlight fillled the zone through the windows, weed smoke was thick in the air, and laughter rose on both sides of the zone. It was a good day. I was 41 or 42 years young. My brothers fought over who would take my property to my bed. I had money, power, respect and the connects. My hello to the women was I paid for hair, nails, toes done, with a pair of Jordans. I bought every Vice Lord in need new shoes, clothes. Everybody was always icy white. I laughed at Dope Fiend. He called me. BOOM, I collided with someone. The man I hit had been doing what I was doing: walking while looking backwards, even though we both knew better. We stepped back on impact. We did a once-over glance, our eyes searching for the slightest sign of intent. Had there been any intent, I’d have knocked him under the table, and I’m sure he felt the same way. Silence smothered the zone like a blanket on a cold night. I was the leader of the Vice Lords, NIKE department (Niggers Insane Killing Everything). And he was over the Gangster Disciples. This could have led to a state-wide banging. Bloodshed. Drugs caught up, friends turned into enemies, and lives lost. Men stood to their feet. Laughter was out like last year, but you better believe it, the weed smoke was still in the air. It’s that easy to go from life to death in prison. A bump. A look. Smiles turning into frowns. Hands turn into closed fists or reach under the shirt for tools. But on this day the wassup nod prompted a hand-dap that signalled no harm or foul on the play. “Ten on time.” Loud smack: domino. “Crackhouse. That’s double.” “I Got a Pocket Full of Stones” by UGK played from the background.
This was the day I met Donnie, aka Solo. Jack of all trades, but master of none. That bump could have been the death of either of us. It could have triggered death across the state. But something in us saw each other in different lenses. When men prepared for war, he and I looked at each other as if we could see 8 or 9 years into the future, when we’d be sitting in the hospital unit, wondering about life, never knowing when it would end.
