Free Fish: A Memoir of a Boy in Man's Prison by T. J. Parsell

sentencing. It was hollow inside, with five tiers of cells that went on for almost a mile. On each floor a set of catwalks overlooked the base while another separated the back of the cells from the exterior wall. Several windows were either open or broken, letting in the damp winter cold. Nevertheless, it was hot where we had entered at base, and the air felt static and old. I was struck by the sight of birds flying around in the vast open space, in between the tiers.
At base level, there was a large cluster of tables where the inmates had their meals. Cantilevered from the second tier above, was a control desk where a lone guard sat, observing the area from his station. A black telephone and stacks of paper were on his desk. There were two horizontal openings some 80 feet above where armed guards could maintain control by shooting at the inmates below.
Noise echoed from everywhere making it hard to hear anyone. Screaming, yelling, the rumble of rollers, the pulling of release breaks, and the sounds of a hundred sliding cell doors. The high-pitched squeal of squeaky wheels and the scrape of mop buckets being pushed by porters. Occasionally, a metal food tray crashed to the floor, or another was slammed into the dishwasher that was just beyond the chow line.
As we entered the chow area from the intake bubble, inmates from one of the floors above were already sitting down, while others waited in line. Everyone stopped to look. The heavy metal door closed behind me, heading off any impulse to run. Whistles and catcalls came from everywhere, and a round of applause broke out from the tables.

The guard motioned us to the serving line, even though we hadn't been taken to our cells yet. "You guys go ahead to chow," he yelled, "but stay together. I don't want to have to come looking for you later."
Fat chance of that, I thought.
I couldn't show it, but I was shaking inside of my state shoes.
Never, let them know what you're thinking.
Suddenly, I wasn't hungry.
As we walked between the tables, someone grabbed my ass. I spun around, but the inmates sitting nearby all looked away. The cons on the other side of the table looked up, but said nothing. They seemed to be measuring my reaction.
"That's a pretty motherfucker there," I heard one of them say.
"I'm gotta get some of that," another yelled.
They all laughed.
"We're gonna need to put this one on Two-Special," one of the guards said, looking at me. Two-Special was the group of cells just to the right of the guard's station. It was where they placed inmates that needed extra supervision.
"They put pretty young prisoners and sissies in those cells," Randy, the donut thief said. "So that nothing happens to them."
With over a hundred cells in each row, it was hard for the guards to see what went on after the first ten or fifteen, especially with the chain-link fence on the outside of each catwalk. The caging was installed to keep prisoners from either jumping, or being thrown from the upper tiers. The base floor was solid concrete.
I didn't know what to think about being placed on Two-Special. I was told it was where they put the fags, and I didn't want people to think I was one of them. At least up until that point, at best, I would have considered my sexual orientation undecided. And if anyone were to find out, I would be the one to decide what exactly I was. But it was beginning to feel like some of my choices were quickly being taken away.
"You've got to watch yourself, little bro," Randy whispered. "Your pretty blue eyes and long curly hair might be too much for these motherfuckers. They're going to want some of that fine white booty."

"Fuck that," I said. I grabbed my crotch like I had seen done back at the county jail. "They can have some of this fine white dick."
"Oh, now, now," he quipped. "That's just a little white handle to turn you over with." He and the guy next to him laughed.
They were both in their twenties and bigger than me, so they didn't have the same