Upping the AnteBy A WITNESSThe call came down from the yards, "he's in the shower with a razor and he won't come out, there's blood". I'd just seen him not half an hour before and he'd been fine. What the bloody hell now! I'm not a nurse or a doctor, I'm not a custodial officer, but somehow it was my duty to go and talk the boy out of the shower. Talk the razor out of his hand. I say boy, he was a man in years but a boy both in stature and maturity. Round faced, juvenile, wanting to hang out with the tough guys. Wanting to impress. I'd seen it before, a thousand times. One-up-man-ship. He'd been sent to segregation for throwing his steaming urine at a couple of officers. Half an hour ago I'd asked him: What'd you do that for? To come 'ere. Why? Bring some coffee for the boys (grins). Coffee, yeah right! Whatever it was, he was happy to tell me he'd smuggled something into segregation up his arse. Testing me to see if I'd lag. I didn't. I had no evidence he was telling the truth, no proof, and the officers were responsible for searching all anuses on entry and exit from segregation anyway. So here I was again talking with this boyish man. But this time he wasn't so gung ho. He stood in the shower bay behind the bars. He had his white undies on but he was still wet from the shower and his arms were streaked with blood. "What the fuck's this about? Show me your arms." The bleeding had stopped, but the blood still managed to look spectacular, shiny and streaky. Superficial cuts done with the razor he'd popped out of a bic disposable. The number of blades being popped out of those things! But I'd stopped being amazed that they were still dispensed to the inmates. I'd seen blokes smuggle blades into the prison infirmary when admitted on suicide watch. Smuggled in by hiding them inside the elastic in their jocks or rammed between two back teeth. These were the guys who would threaten to "bleed out" just to piss you off and win the game. Upping the ante. The stakes were that high. So shower boy stood in the shower bay showing me his shiny streaky red arms, brandishing the tiny blade between his thumb and forefinger. We negotiate: Can I have the blade please? Nuh. Fair enough. You'll be stuck in there in your undies until you hand it over. No I won't, they're gonna come in with the capsicum spray. Soon as you're gone, the cunts, they'll come in and spray the shit outa me eyes. Why? Cos of this (shows me his arms, the blade). So, hand the blade over to me, it'll all be over. I CAN'T. And there it was, he'd painted himself into a corner and he knew it. I took a seat on the step outside the shower and thought. There was a hefty guy with arms like tree trunks in the exercise cage. He swung from the wire mesh roof like a monkey pretending to do chin-ups, all the while watching and listening. I lowered my voice: We can sort this out you know. Just leave the blade there on the floor, I'll pick it up and you can pretend I tricked you. Call me whatever you like, I just want to get you out of here in one piece. I CAN'T On and on, around and around we went. He desperately wanted to come out of the shower with his dignity and eyesight intact. I just wanted to get the razor blade and go home. He became more agitated and paced the shower bay complaining of the stinging in his arms. Want a bandaid for that? Nuh, fuck off. Ok. I pulled out the big guns, a soothing and conspiratorial tone: Give me the blade and it'll all be over mate. Come on. And then the monkey in the exercise yard spoke: Go on mate, give up the fucken blade. This is getten borin. Stop bein a dickhead. I tried to hide my surprise that the other inmate would see reason and side with me. He could see the boy was stuck and would never make a decision that would look like backing down, not as long as he had an audience anyway. That was the trouble with the shower bay, it was a veritable fish bowl. All of segregation was like that. A moment's pause and then relieved that he wouldn't lose face, the blade was handed over. I took it to the sharps bin and disposed of it safely, then scrubbed at my hands with nuclear grade disinfectant. I picked up the phone, hand shaking just a little, and notified the yard nurse that they'd need to bring some disinfectant and maybe a bandaid. Safe inside the officers' duty room I stood back and watched. I could never tell if it was because I was there or if they really were that tolerant of a silly, naughty boy, but the officers were gentle with him. "Come on mate", they said, "Off we go". He emerged from the shower bay and did a little victory dance with fists raised in the air, showing off to all the boys in the exercise yard. No doubt they'd be shouting to one another through the loo pipes all night. The stories he would tell the others of his conversation with me would be distorted beyond all reality. He would tell them how he'd told me to fuck off out of it, how he was going to slash up and slash me too. He'd tell them next time he'd spray his name all over the walls with blood. Someone would probably tell him he should have sprayed me with blood. Someone else will tell him he should have bled out, that he was piss-weak, and they'd all laugh but he'd know it wasn't a joke. He'd been a tough for a minute, getting himself into segregation by throwing piss at the officers. He'd wanted so much to impress the big boys. But once he was there he realized just how much it took to truly impress them. He didn't have the guts to cut deeply enough to get to the infirmary for a more comfortable bed. I had no doubt that had been his aim, but his cuts were superficial and he didn't need to be hospitalised. He got the requisite amount of attention from me, but he shouldn't have. He'd painted himself into a corner and then the officers, not knowing how to handle it, painted me into one with him. But we got through ok. I knew that next time he would cut deeper to make sure he got transferred to the infirmary. I knew eventually, just to impress the big boys, he'd threaten to bleed out just to piss me off. But for now there was nothing more I could do… I'd gotten the blade and I got to go home…
RAPID RESPONSE EMAIL: What do you think? Saturday, December 18, 2004 |