Free A Bad Idea I'm About to Do by Chris Gethard Page B

of them lifted him up and another prisoner tore his sneakers from his feet. He flung the shoes into the auditorium’s seats. We watched the sneakers disappear into total darkness and listened to them land with a clatter among the chairs.
    Well this is it , I thought to myself. You’re finally gonna see someone get killed.
    They put the kid back down on the ground and he collapsed, a crying mess.
    Then the scariest prisoners made their way to the back of the stage and sat down. A shy-looking skinny kid stepped forward. His voice was soft and gentle. “I’m nineteen years old,” he began. “I’m only a few years older than you guys.” After an afternoon of shock-and-awe-style intimidation, this emotional attack was the knockout punch.
    â€œI want you to think about what you’re doing,” he said. “I wish I could be where you’re at. You guys are gonna go to college next year. I’ll never get to. You’re gonna go to parties, with girls. I’ll never go to a college party.”
    A sick, twisting pain burned in my gut as I met eyes with the kid. His baby face was evident despite the prison uniform and heavy boots. He looked like a kid dressed up as one of the other prisoners for Halloween.
    â€œSo stop fucking up,” he said. “Because I would take back everything I did to be where you guys are at right now.” And then he cried. We sat for the longest minute of our lives, staring at the ground. Throughout the entire afternoon, we’d been barraged with threats and screaming. It was only during this sickening silence that we had the opportunity to finally start thinking again.

    This , I thought to myself, is fucking depressing .
    My schoolmates were shell-shocked. Frank was so pale that he looked 100 percent Caucasian. Kenward’s lumbering frame was slumped over in defeat. With the tension having hit its peak, we began to shift on our heels. We were ready to leave.
    â€œYou motherfuckers stay right the fuck where you are,” one of the prisoners snapped. “Crazy Chris ain’t got here yet. He’ll be here any second now.”
    Once again the room fell silent, and this time the prisoners themselves looked uncomfortable. Whoever Crazy Chris was, he bothered even the other murderers.
    The door bounced open with a well-placed kick. In walked Crazy Chris, a white man in his early sixties. A grizzled beard was the only masculine thing about him, as his other accoutrements included lipstick and women’s clothes. That , I told myself, is a very bad man . Once again my classmates and I shared uncertain glances, all of us wondering the same thing: Who survives in a place like this dressed like that? Earlier, I felt like I was going to get murdered for having red hair. This dude wore lipstick and everyone else was scared of him . To even get your hands on women’s clothes in a men’s prison you had to be a shady motherfucker. To survive in them, you had to be a badass. To not only survive but to incite fear in other inmates, you must be the craziest of the crazy. This guy may very well have been the baddest man in New Jersey.
    He took center stage and grinned a toothless grin at us.
    â€œMy name is Crazy Chris.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And sometimes, my dick gets hard like Christmas candy.” No one moved, no one swayed, no one even breathed. I shut my eyes and prayed that when I opened them he would be gone. He wasn’t. Instead, he kneeled inches away from the face of a classmate.
“What happens to Christmas candy?” he asked the boy. The kid didn’t answer. Fire grew in Crazy Chris’s eyes. “I SAID, WHAT HAPPENS TO CHRISTMAS CANDY?”
    The kid realized he wasn’t getting off the hook.
    â€œIt . . . ”—he shut his eyes with the realization of what level of shame he was about to reach—“it gets sucked.” His voice broke as he said it.
    â€œThat’s