After a year of co-habitating inside a pathetic excuse for a toilet,
with (almost) no fights, arguments, punch-ups or falling outs,
things between me and my cellie are still sweet..
Not everything,
infact, hardly anyone gets on with their bunkie as
well as me an boogs kick it..
It's unsuprising to learn that getting thrown in the deep end,
sharing a cell with a heavily seasoned felon, i'm somewhat
de-sensitised to a lot of shit, it's hard for me to get offended,
embaressed or shocked by shit that goes down anymore..
Waking up to the sight of a naked 240 pound black man
washing his shitty ass in the sink?
It's a minor..
Things have got to the point where if i'm busy
doing something in the cell an he runs up in the joint,
pulls his draws down an without a moments notice starts
shooting pebbledash down the toilet, i rarely bother leaving the room..
I'll just sit there sketching..
He'll squat there shitting..
Like it's the most natural thing in the world..
During the times we get locked in the cell,
if i get the hankering to drop a couple chocolate logs
down the shitter, even with Boogs in the cell,
i'm going to shit.
Comfortably..
Whenever i feel a brown assasin trying to claw its way
out of my asshole an the door is NOT locked, as a standard,
i put up the shit sign..
My cellie does not..
This leads to me breezing around the unit
telling random people,
"Yo my cellie wants to talk to you, he's in the cell"
Never ceases to amaze me how many man fall for
that shit, an end up getting the image of some next
hench dude straining out a shit burned into their retinas..
Earlier this week, my man tried to get me back..
Picture this if you will..
I'm pirched, tip-toed, shaking out a luke-warm scatty lion bar,
an i hear heads talking on the other side of the door..
There's about ten guys all sitting around a big table
sippin' juice playing poker..
My boy Mac turns up looking to place a game of chess..
"Yo where's the Chess pieces Boogs?"
"They're in the cell my n****r, go in an get 'em"
Mac is apprehencious,
he's had many foul tricks played on him in
the last year, including someone sending a
correctional officer to his cell knowing that he's
inside jerking off..
He smells that somethin' ain't kosher..
"Where's Timdog?"
Everyone at the poker table KNOWS i'm
in there, either taking a shit, or shooting
a load of kids down the toilet..
"Silly n****r's on a legal visit, go in an get the pieces"
Dicks..
I know he's about to come in..
I'm sitting on a metal throne of shit clouded in fecal matter,
naked, clutching a copy of London Handstyles staring at the door..
I know he's about to open the door..
Yet for some reason i don't even bother saying anything..
He turns the handle a few times,
this is the standard procedure to check if someone is taking
a shit or jerking off, kind of like a warning before you open
the door..
I still say nothing..
So Mac busts the door open,
an is greeted with the sight of me sitting there,
smiling, shitting, naked..
Cool as a cucumber..
"What's up Mac?"
Before he slams the door,
i lick off a trumbone style baritone
fart, which is amplifyied by the steel
of the toilet..
"YOU'S A FOUL N****R SON! BOTH OF YOU STUPID N****R'S! YOU KNEW HE WAS IN THERE!"
It was cold when i woke up today..
The air conditioning doesn't turn on til the early hours,
most days when i wake up it's fuckin cold in the cell..
My toes felt like icicles..
It makes sense to sleep facing the door.
Go figure..
Most the man dem are on
the tier this morning though..
I'm safe..
I pull my crusty quilt across a very tired, swollen
pair of shoulders, turn over and
gaze out the window..
It's grey..
Wet..
Miserable..
Reminds me of London!
(in a good way)
I'm half asleep..
Thoughts are drifting in and out
of my head with relative ease..
What to do today..
Work out?
Roof?
Sketch?
Jerk?
..I recognise one of the civillians below..
Strutting next to her attorney,
she crosses the street below, pulls out a cigarette,
then quickly scuttles out of sight..
It's been almost a year since i've seen her..
I'm pretty high up..
You can't get a particularly good look
at someone's face from up here..
Yet from the way she shook her lighter,
to the swing of her arms as she walked,
i knew it was her from a mile away..
Peering out of my cell at the shiny wet street beneath me,
watching this person casually stroll past the building her
husband is temporarily imprisoned in, without a care in the world,
was a well needed reality check for Timmyboy..
This was not the girl i happily married at City Hall,
nor was it the wife who promised to stand by me
throughout this ordeal..
"Timdog, my n****r, it ain't a matter of right or wrong,
it's about decisions people gotta live with.."
I hear that..
