Westside Story

Steve Ely

Just another fool, baby, hurtin' inside.
That was me since sixty-three. I peaked at five
on the R'n'B with Movin'.
Forty-eight on Billboard. After that, a drawn-out
downward spiral. Sure, the afficionados
dug me, and I just about hung in there,
cutting flops for Scepter, Polydor and Pye.
My end was UK supper club cabaret
and Northern Soul pastiche. I parlayed
the Harlem Apollo into Wigan Casino,
traded Sy Devore sharkskin for March the Tailor's
Humperdinck range. Dress you well.
That night I was playing the Lion Cabaret Bar,
midweek summer season on Blackpool's Golden Mile.

The lounge was filled with loaded Jocks,
picking fights and puking. I took a deep breath
and launched in - I'm gonna work you so hard
my chocolate's gonna melt. I back-dropped, front-dropped,
spinned and flipped, medleyed my hits and everyone else's:
but I played to turned backs, rival soccer chants,
laughter. The second I'd thanked them kindly
and received my lukewarm ripple, the DJ
dropped Tiger Feet and the whole fuckin' joint
got jumpin'. I called a cab and bailed,
holed up in digs with Johnnie Black
and a .38 special. Morning never came.
Rice Krispies awaited detonating milk.
Screaming cleaners nixed the bedroom challenge.



Sammy found me in Westside with a hole
in my head. I was sprouting a kinky tail
and jabbing a trident at the bums 'round my dumpster.
He checked his list and shook his head.
"Cat gotta be swacked outta his gourd
to ride the night train. Charley, I always
liked your style; us Negro swingers oughtta stick together.
Maybe I can pull a few strings, get that skull
put together on the right side of the tracks.
Whaddya say?" I said, "The Lord gives life
and the Lord takes it away. Blessed be the name
of the Lord." He put me in a tux
behind the wheel of his Cadillac Fleetwood,
jangling the keys to a suite at the Rancho Nevada.

So this day we're heading to darkest Westside,
the Cartwright Pen. Three serious sinners
fixin' to hit those smoking streets, all killers:
some ofay, a brother and a wannabe pachuco.
Sammy strolled down from his Tropicana penthouse,
stylin' in white satin top hat and tails.
He slapped some papers down on the leather seat
beside him. "Let's roll, Charley. Maybe these fools
fin'ly fittin' to catch them parole." I pulled out
onto the smooth black asphalt, joining the flow
of late model Caddys and Mercs. I drove down
avenues of palm trees, past fountains
and esplanades, alfresco bars and pavement cafes,
Lexus showrooms and designer boutiques.

The promenades were catwalked with beautiful
people, everyone saints like me – perfect teeth,
good skin, hair swept back with Valentino shades.
They were laughing into cellphones,
hailing down limos, pleasantly burdened
with leisure and shopping. In the rear view mirror,
Sammy was oblivious, flicking through papers,
making notes in the margins. He looked up
and whistled. "This ain't gonna be easy,
even from God's right hand." The Strip petered out
into vacant lots and fiery Westside
rolled into view on the wrong side of the tracks.
It's a good place to come from; garbage strewn
alleyways, tenements and flop joints, tar-paper shacks.


Smoke smouldered from everywhere, hanging
a toxic pall across the streets. I flipped on
the full-beam and took in the sights.
Juicers lounged against storefronts and trashcans,
sucking down T-Bird and methylated spirits.
Crack hoes screamed at their shitty-legged pickneys,
lashing out slaps and pool-cue correction.
Juveniles nosebagged in plastic sacks,
bubbling snot and Evo-stik. Mobs surged out
from boarded up bars, formed circles
round parking lot knife-fights, beaners and reecans,
taking their shit outside. I hit the gas
and swung a sharp left and there it was,
looming from the gloom like Dracula's castle:

the Cartwright Pen, God's supermax warehouse
for the baddest of the bad. Some o' these muthas
ain't never gonna make it, on account
of they won't back up. They got Panzram
locked down there, cellin' with Hitler.
I parked in Sammy's spot at the entrance.
Deferential hacks spirited us
up to the tier. Sammy said, "Let's go.
First stop, the pollak pachuco." I saw it happen
from the corner of my eye, it was done
before I could speak - a locked-down brother
leapt to the bars of his cell and whipped
a cup of shit over Sammy's satin suit.
Man, he was spritzed like the bowl of a hostel john.

Shit shined in Sammy's 'fro, spattered his glass eye.
He took his time. He pulled out his peeper
and wiped it off in a monogrammed hanky,
before popping it back in and turning to face
the bomber. "Hey, George, you were number three;
you know us darkies are always last in line.
That's the thing with you – you never could wait:
But let's just say you got yourself cuts.
Howzit hangin', Soledad Brother?"
George just snarled from the gloom of his cell:
"No white man's nigguh can call me brother,
fried chicken fool." It was all downhill from there.
Sammy riffed through the script, the bank job,
the butchered hacks and the peckerwood hat-trick.


"Whaddya say George, you sorry in your heart?
You sure done enough time. Maybe you ready
to drop that Black Guerilla bullshit?
You can make it as a plain man up here,
you don't have to add a color." George said,
"I been a man all my life, a black man,
proud of my African skin. Ofay Amerika
made me a nigguh, locked me down
in Paso Robles, Soledad and Quentin.
Those redneck hacks abused me every day,
callin' me coon and jigaboo, hockin' phlegm
into my food, dishin' out brass-knuck
and nightstick beatin's, then blastin'
my brains out over the big yard:

now that cracker fuck God playin' the tape
over. You think I'm gonna back up?
I've been hungry and hurt for too long. I'll do life
in this hell before I join your white heaven."
Sammy frowned and shook his head.
"This the afterlife, baby, this the last Word.
And the Word says you wrong, George. You thought
ten-for-one could put the racist world to rights?
You thought Marx and Mao gave us brothers
the green-light to murder and rob, long as the victims
were white? You had a nice line in pinko jive, George,
but it was nine-tenths bull. You were a stick-up punk,
sold down the river by a greenhorn legal aid lawyer;
one to twenty five - Man, that's some cold shit.

But you could've done the one, like your homeboy did.
You make a big deal about how you wouldn't take shit
from the hacks or the AB 'woods
and how the parole board pigs kept fuckin' you over
because you wouldn't be a vegetable.
Maybe. You ever hear the word institutionalised, George?"
George leapt up and gripped the bars.
He was shackled like King Kong.
He strained at the chains, pumped biceps bulging,
black eyes burning with hate. He opened his arms,
revealed the draped tonnage of metal. "You think I like this?
Nigguh, you more stupid than I thought.
All your bourgeois life you made it suckin' up
to whitey, eating his shit and lovin' it.


'Smile so we can see you Smokey.
Here's your monogrammed Rat Pack bathrobe –
brown for you, Smokey. Play our Jim Crow lounge
and entertain the white folks - then get the fuck
to Darktown, nigger.' You never had pride
in your African race. You wished you were white
so bad, you traded your dignity
for a table at the Copa, a suite
at the Warwick Hotel. When they called you coon
you died inside and thanked them kindly.
When they said No Negroes you were hot with tears
and crazy to get in. When they served fried chicken,
you grinned yassuh, mighty fine, though you longed
to share their caviare, lobster and shrimp cocktail.

Fool, where you been all our strugglin' lives?
Swingin' with guineas and hustlin' white women.
Sure, you marched for the cameras
on the Edmund Pettis Bridge, linkin' arms
with Dr King and Charles Evers; but how'd you get there?
Belafonte had to drag you kickin' and screamin'.
What scared you, Sambo? Jim Clark's billy clubs?
Cracker-snipers on the overpass?
Redneck Vegas' disapproval?
Man, as a brother you a fuckin' disgrace,
your piddy white balls shrunk up your bitch's ass.
Get away from me, choc ice." George turned his back
and rattled back to his bunk at the rear
of his cell. Sammy slumped against the bars.

He raised a hand to his face and wiped away tears.
Sobs ripped through his chest, he was fighting
to keep his face from falling apart;
the cat looked broken. George gloated from the gloom:
"S'matter, nigguh? I hit a nerve?"
Sammy's voice was whisper-weak, like a guy bereaved
or dragged half-dead from a train wreck:
"You could say that, George. I'll admit it, brother,
I'm ashamed of some of the things I done:
I put a season at Caesars' before the NAACP,
chose a Linda Lovelace blowjob over dinner
with my wife. I grinned my way through
the white world's shit – nigger-baiting cat-calls
in Reno casinos, Dean's darkie jokes,


all those back door entries and exits.
I wanted success in that world so bad
and I did what it took. I never realised
black was beautiful until it was too late.
I grew my 'fro, said right on bro' and came on
like a phony. I fucked up so bad,
you kids put me down as an Uncle Tom.
But I'll tell you the truth George. I never really
saw myself as black, as African-American.
I was a man, period - like Frank, John Wayne
and JFK – and you too, George;
that's all I ever wanted, to be my own man,
no ethnic prefix, no color appended,
a man, representing no-one but myself.

And you know what? I made it.
I run the whole fuckin' cosmic joint forever.
It's the way of the absent Lord's sweet world –
get down with your shit and never hurt nobody
doesn't hurt you. That's what it's all about,
not vengeance and killing and holding tight to hate.
You might say I'm a role model, George.
Now what's it gonna be? Another year
of supermax lockdown, or parole
in the rainbow world?" Shit spattered
through the bars and missed, raining from the tier.
White eyes glared from the cell's blackness.
"I'll take that as Fuck You. Parole denied.
Let's move on to the next one, Charley."

We strode off down the tier, Sammy bouncing
spry and chipper in his shit-spotted
ethereal threads. The Boss got himself
pulled back together, and boy, did he need to -
next con up, Terrible Tom Conway,
four-time prison killer and white supremacist
A.B. fool. Sammy stopped in front of a cell
and swivelled his cuban heels. "This the one,
Charley." A cup of shit whipped through the bars
and burst up Sammy's vest. My man stood back
and gave me a look. "Charley, I'm struggling
to adapt to the culture in here.
Guess I should be grateful it wasn't a shank."
He dabbed himself down with another pristine hanky


and rapped the cell bars with the tip of his cane:
"Hey Tom, quit hiding in the shadows;
we got some business together." Laden with chain,
Conway shuffled to the bars of his cell,
threadbare beard ratted down to his waist,
shark-eyes flat and blank in his waxwork
prison face. "Last nigger I had business with
got stabbed sixty seven times." He switched
his gaze from Sammy and fixed it on me.
"One before that, I strangled with a wire."
He spoke in a weary monotone,
like a deathbed cancer patient.
"The fuck you ghost-coons at? They got
affirmative action in the afterlife too?"

Sammy brushed it off. "Conway, I'm the man
and I got your sheet. You got two more notches
top of Rob and Ray, some ofay skell
and that redneck guard, all four iced inside.
How you feel about that? You sorry in your heart?
Ready to make a brand new start?"
Tommy shook his head. "The first guy was a frame.
The others had it comin'. That's it.
I did what I had to do." Sammy sucked his teeth.
"That's not sounding too good, Tom.
You got the whole free world a-waiting
and you're still riding for the Brand; but Tom,
the Brand rolled up; they working for the white hats now."
He doffed his topper, bowed stage-right

and in strode Ray, huge and sombre
in his Trappist's hooded robe. We stepped back,
respectful, with Tom looking puzzled at the bars.
Ray dropped his hood and turned to face him.
"How are you brother? It's been some time."
Tommy looked drop-jaw staggered, fell back,
then opened his shackled arms. Tattooed forearms passed
between the bars and they embraced long and tight,
broad backs shuddering with emotion, tears splashing
and shattering on cassock-cloth and jumpsuit.
Man, it even brought a tear to my downtown
African eye. Heaving silent moments passed,
before Tom pushed him gently away,
hands gripped tight to his shoulders.


He looked incredulous at the monk's greased pomp
and moustached face. "Fuck, Ray, it's you;
I can't hardly believe it. You ain't changed a bit
since Leavenworth. What happened man – how you
get out?" Ray smiled beatific – "'s a long story
brother. After we killed those guards, they locked
me down in the FedMed in Springfield.
They put me in the SHU on Birdman Status,
no human contact in a soundproofed basement cage –
I know they did the same to you, brother.
First off, I stayed mad and prepared for war.
I kept my size with a thousand push-ups daily,
countless dips and pull-ups from those ceiling bars.
I jabbed and hooked in my stainless steel mirror.

I kept my mind raw with memories of hate:
MPs and drill sergeants, BOP cracker hacks,
those uppity DC blacks – and took strength
from the Tip. Ev'ryday I'd think of my brothers,
Snail and Preacher and John and yourself.
At night I'd say the creed before going to sleep,
like a kid saying his prayers – 'An Aryan Brother
is without a care/He walks where the weak
and heartless won't dare/And if by chance
he should slip or lose control/His brothers will be there
to help him reach his goal/For a worthy brother
no need is too great/He need only ask,
fulfilment's his fate/' I was still riding for the Brand.
I was looking to kill the first chance I got.

I blocked up the john so I could take
a maintenance hostage and slash my way out
with his tools. The joint stank up for a month
before an eight man goon squad doused me
in pepper spray and shackled me to the bars
while two squeaky-assed plumbers got to grips
with the bowl. I faked a fever; moaned
and wailed and hardly ate for three weeks;
I thought I could make the Infirmary,
maybe get me a Federal nurse,
then bail out over the wall. The Warden came down
with a billy club goon squad and put me right:
the only way I'd see the hospital
was from the morgue under a sheet.


I leapt from my bunk and spat in his face
through the bars. I told him if I ever got out
I'd go looking for his wife and kids, and I would have."
Tommy nodded, approving. Ray shook his head
and sighed. "I was a monster, man, a fucking monster."
He was lost in the memory, talking to himself.
Tommy looked puzzled. "Hey man, don't beat up
on yourself. Don't blame yourself for what they made you -
no human contact, their sick fuckin' trips-"
Ray cut him off with a weary raised palm.
"That ain't it, brother. It was me.
I been boiling with rage for all my goddamn life.
Was me shot the guy on the boat.
Was me looked to hook up with the Tip.

Was me – was us, bro' – shanked Robert and Ray
and Merle and Bob. We were monsters,
so shot through with ego and hate. The fuckin' AB …"
Ray hung his head, oppressed by the memory.
He shook his head weakly and looked up
through the bars at his brother. "I gave it all up man,
I gave myself up to the Lord."
Tommy was opening and closing his mouth
like a gaffed catfish, but nothing was coming out.
Ray reached out to him, but Tommy stepped back
and pushed his hands away. "The fuck you sayin', man?
You down with these niggers? You down with the man?
Blood in, blood out, motherfucker."
Ray held his gaze. "Yeah, I'm down with them, bro'.

Took me five long years to burn out the poison.
I traded cellhouse callisthenics for prayer
and contrition. I turned my solitary hell
into a hermit's cell." He turned towards Sammy.
"Hey boss, I'm pickin' up the house-style here."
Tommy leapt at the bars and lashed out
through them, shackles sparking on the metal.
His eyes were flashing, wild, dilated.
Spittle flew from his foaming mouth as he rocked
against the bars, screaming and choking with rage -
"You motherfucker, you rat bastard snitch,
you nigger-loving piece of treacherous shit -"
He paused and re-composed. "You're a dead man, Ray.
Blood in, blood out. Don't never call me brother again."


Ray shook his head. "Tommy, we're already dead.
And whether you like it or not, we're brothers forever."
Sammy stepped forward and edged Ray aside.
"It's over Tommy. Your life was a waste.
But maybe you can make it in the afterlife here.
Whaddya say, Tommy? You sorry in your heart?
Ready to make a brand new start?"
Tommy was hunched on his bunk, twitching
and gaping, struggling to comprehend.
He curled into a foetal and buried his head.
Hoarse with hate, he rasped his response:
"I ain't never gonna ride with rats and niggers."
Ray flinched, as if reeling from a blow.
Sammy opened his arms, moved to embrace him.

He hung off his size like a possum on Bigfoot.
"Don't sweat it, Charley. We can try again
next year. With some, it takes longer than others.
We just gotta keep tryin'. Everyone can make it
in the end. Ray nodded and disengaged.
He bent and pulled something from a rucksack.
"I'm sorry you're stayin', brother.
Here's something to tide you over for another year."
He pushed a Bible through the bars.
"I've written my number in the front.
Call me anytime. So long, brother."
Brother was coiled on his bunk, catatonic.
Ray exited stage left. Sammy gave me the nod
and I filled in the form. Parole denied.

Sammy bounced off down the tier. "Keep up, Carlito.
I got a good feelin' 'bout the hombre
comin' up." I scuttled to make the pace.
"You got a way in here, Boss? Weren't your Momma Reecan?"
"Cooban, Carlito, Harlem via Habana."
The cat was hamming it up, waving his arms,
and rapping in Calo barrio style.
"Sure, Sam, but ain't the lingo all the same?"
He turned and clamped me on both shoulders.
"Lingo's the same, but the culture's a different world –
Eslos, carnale, la vatos loco!
Joe Morgan, twenty-year caudillo of La Eme,
the Mexican Mob - the meanest motherfucker
ever hit the yard at Q. Check out his sheet:


'46, sixteen, running with El Hoyo Marvilla:
brains his girlfriend's husband and buries him
in the hills; awaiting trial, breaks out
of the can; on the lam for nine months;
finally captured and busted to Quentin.
Paroled in '55; back in Folsom '56,
machine-gun bank-job, West Covina.
'61, leads an eleven-man jailbreak –
recaptured, locked back down in Q.
In Q gets tight with Shy Cadena –
flyweight Eme kingpin and hair-trigger
big yard shankster. Opt-in barrio-Joe
turns him on to pachuco identity,
the Aztecs, Brown Berets, Octavio Paz.

When Shy gets croaked in Chino, big Joe steps up
and the bodies start to drop. They nailed him on five
but fifty's prob'ly closer. Joe took the joints
in Cali, county, state and fed.
La Eme ran the hoes, dealt the horse,
made the hits. From lock-down in Q and later,
Pelican Bay, Joe schemed and politiked.
He hooked up with the guineas, the Brand
and the BGF. He unified the barrios
from Bakersfield to Dago, street-taxing ten per cent,
green-lighting punks and Nortenos.
Carlito, our guy's a wetback legend!
And he wasn't even Mex: Eslos Croatian-Irish,
carnale!" Sam was getting whipped up.

"You got a soft-spot for this shitbird, Boss?"
My man looked thoughtful. "Maybe, baby.
This ofay pollak reached the top
in a nutbrown wetback world. With that
a guy can empathise." He shrugged
and raised his eyebrows. "He croaked in Corcoran, '93,
throat cancer, just like Sammy D."
We reached the cell at the end of the tier.
Joe was standing at the bars, grinning all over his face.
The guy was fuckin' huge. Stripped to the waist
in BOP undershorts, his tattoo-gun torso
was thick with weight-pile muscle.
He musta stood six four in his supermax knee-sox.
His gleaming head was shaven and oiled.


It shone under the striplight like the jacket
of a .38 slug. His blue eyes flashed
under aviator shades. He spoke
before Sam could do the meet and greet,
laughing mouth moving under his Walrus
moustache. "Chingao! I sure hope you dwarf myates
ain't packin' cuetes from el Jefe big George;
I thought we had a deal; myates and chicanos –
camaradas all in la pinta."
I looked across at Sammy; what the fuck –
superhonky's talking shit in a voice like Desi Arnaz.
Sammy mock-creased and offered his hand
through the bars; "Howzit goin', el mero chingon?"
Big Joe gripped his hand and nearly shook it off.

"As' me little later, jefito." Sammy pulled away
and mimed the effects of a crushing handshake,
grimacing and blowing on his wafting fingers.
"You almost made it last time, Joe; don't know
about you, but today I got a good feelin'.
You can't do any worse than those pendejos
down the tier." Joe shrugged. "Hey homes,
we all gotta do our own time," then smiled;
"El mero chingon? Pendejo?
Some tourist been hittin' the bi-lingual dictionary."
"Live and learn, big Joe, live and learn.
And what about you, gabacho?
What you learned? You thought any more
'bout the things we said last year?"

Joe breathed deeply. His barrel chest swelled
and he stuck out his Easter Island chin.
He closed his eyes and screwed himself up.
He was suddenly serious, jaw set firm,
hard eyes meeting Sammy's through the bars.
"Ese, I think I'm ready." Sammy gave a clipped nod,
meeting his gaze."Tell me why, vato."
Joe pulled a scrap of paper from his waistband.
"You mind, jefito?" Sammy nodded and Joe began.
"Primero, the hombres I killed.
It seemed the right thing at the time. That first one,
that puta; que desmadre - caught me humpin'
his ruca with my trousers round my ankles.
I took some hard shots before I buttoned up.


Then I lost it; red mist, homes; I fucked him
que volada, stomped his head to shit
with my horseshoed Stacey Adams. I was a kid,
jefito, sixteen years, some punk gabacho
tryin' to make it in the barrio.
I know it's no excuse. I'm sorry he died,
for him, for his family; I wasn't at the time.
In la pinta it got me respect. The carnales
accepted me, even though I was white.
I took my place in the Eslos cholo clica -
when you're sixteen on the big yard, you gotta
have your homies, just to watch your back.
I took plenty of shit for hangin' with la Raza,
raw-boned Okies and asshole cowboys,

riding me, trying to turn me out –
hey dollface, don't give it all up to the beaners,
save some your sweet ass for the white man.
I'd go mano-e-mano with all comers,
stick 'em if I could. Que jodida.
La torcida made me, jefito,
un camarada de aquellas.
My whole grown life, '46, to '93,
I spent three fuckin' years on the streets.
My choice, I know. I could have got clean,
moved out to Utah, worked construction,
got myself a rig. Ah, ya basta.
I stayed, became caudillo. I got fifty-six notches
on my belt, six with my own hands;

The rest I decreed. Mi vida loca, jefito.
Some of these corpses were putas;
short-eyes and ratas, Norteno cabrones;
the others, just business or to keep up a front.
This guy Mon talked behind my back.
That's all. Ya estuvo. I had Topo stick him
in the LA county jail. The cholos helped the film guy:
I had them blown away. Was for respect,
it's how you stay on top. The rest,
check the papers. His shoulders slumped.
Jefito, I was the Devil himself.
Who can take a man's life?" The words wheezed out,
withered and shrunk. He sank to his haunches,
head in his hands. Sammy looked grave.


His stare burned cold. Joe hauled slowly upright.
His face was grey and wracked with pain.
He opened his mouth and vomited contrition,
blurting and repeating, "I'm sorry for what I done,
forgive me, I'm sorry, de verotas, forgive me."
Man, I had to turn away. The guy was goin' to pieces.
Seems I flipped easy that time 'round the dumpster.
The Boss seemed satisfied. "You're forgiven, Big Joe.
Continue." Joe pulled himself together
and took a peek at his paper. "Segundo, my family.
I was state-raised, homes, my folks blew the barrio
when I was just a kid. But I got an old lady –
jefito, you should see her –
una ruquita de aquellas!

We had a canton in Salt Lake City.
I was with her eighteen months before they tore up my parole,
shipped me back to Q and threw away the key.
I got two kids, Sam, mijo e mija.
You got kids, homes?" Sammy nodded.
"You bring them up, spend time with them?"
Sammy sucked his teeth and shook his head.
"It's my biggest regret, Joe. I hired nannies and partied.
I'd sometimes go weeks without seein' 'em.
They grew up, we was strangers."
"Tha's a shame. But you'll know where
I'm comin' from. My son, I last saw,
he was ten months old. My girl I never seen.
Mi ruca would put them on at the end of our calls;

they'd gurgle and coo and I'd baby talk
back down the line. One day, end of the call,
Joe junior said his first words - adios Daddy.
Jefito, it cut me up. I was cryin' right there
in the hall, I couldn't hold it back.
As I walked back to my house, the whole fuckin' line
was starin' and whisperin'. Que pues big Joe?
I had to sock a vato just to keep face -
almost started a fuckin' guerra, homes!
They were the first and last words I ever heard him say.
The old lady cut me loose, hauled ass East.
I never saw or heard from any of them again.
I shoulda stayed out for them, homes,
done my parole, lived a squarejohn life.


I think of it all the time, how it might have been:
drivin' them to school, helpin' out with homework,
playin' ball in the park on summer evenings,
eating dinner 'round a table, askin' 'bout our days.
But no, I was el Jefe Big Joe, runnin' chiva
and cuetes and dealin' in death."
Joe bit his lip and went quiet. "Lock me down forever;
fuck, I deserve it. But I'm sorry
for what I done to my old lady and kids."
Sammy's eyes glistened. He swallowed the lump
in his throat. "I know you are Joe;
I know they forgive you. Go on, carnale, finish it.
Come and join them." Joe looked trashed,
but he forced out a whisper. "Last one, it's for me.

Mi vida loca's been nothin' but shit.
Forty-three years locked down. Any way you add it up
equals waste. I traded my future
for a bad-ass reputation, the whole world of wonder
for a five by eleven cell. Yeah, I ran the joints in Cali,
had the barrio bagged up tight. I clicked my fingers,
somebody died. I grew fat off sissies and smack.
Cholo wannabes salaamed at my feet.
But I tell you, jefito, I'd give it all back
for an hour in the mountains at San Luis Obispo,
breathin' in the menthol of a redwood morning,
feelin' the warmth of the sun from the rocks,
skin tinglin' with the salt breeze cuttin' up
from Morro Bay. My life, mi vida!

O to race a Caddy down the Pomona freeway,
to see Mount Pinos through the LA smog,
to dance with a woman, feel her soft body,
taste her sweet scent - ahh you motherfucker!
Quieres algo conmigo? Pues aqui estoy!"
The words caught in his throat; he collapsed
against the bars, tried to hold himself up.
Sammy ran towards the cell and pushed him upright.
"Brother, I know you sorry in your heart.
You ready to make a brand new start?"
Joe whispered, "Yes, carnale, yes."
Metal screeched like a braking train as the grille
of the cell slid open. Joe stepped out like a zombie,
into Sammy's open arms. They hugged
and embraced in a throbbing, sobbing heap.

Man, I couldn't hold back. I took a leap
and piled on. Sam felt the weight and looked up.
Joe was dazed, oblivious. Sam made the introductions.
"Joe, this Johnny. He helps me 'round the place.
Johnny, meet Joe. We gonna help this pachuco
get back up on his feet." We held on for a minute
until we felt stupid and peeled ourselves off.
Sammy blinked back his tears and smoothed down
his suit. "Come on fellas, let's blow this joint.
I'm top-o'-the-bill at Caesar's tonight,
I gotta look sharp." He started to stride,
then hesitated. He turned towards Joe.
"Hey, big dog; what's our chances of makin' it off
the tier without getting showered in shit?"

© Steve Ely 2007


Glossary

Brown Berets – Chicano political/terrorist group, founded in 1967, modelled on the Black Panthers.
BOP – Bureau of Prisons.
The Brand – the Aryan Brotherhood. Named after The Sackett Brand, a book by western writer Louis L'Amour.
Cabrone – bastard.
Calo – Chicano street slang/language.
Un camerada de aquellas – a stand up guy, reliable member of the clica.
Carrie Ann Lenz – victim of the Oklahoma bombing.
Charley – name applied indiscriminately to 'in crowd' males by those associated with Sinatra's Rat Pack.
Chingao – exclamation: 'What the fuck?'
Chiva – heroin.
Cuetes – guns (literally, 'firecrackers').
DC Blacks – Washington (District of Columbia) based crime and prison gang.
El mero chingon – the top dog.
Eme – the Mexican Mafia, from the Spanish letter 'M'.
Eslos – East Los Angeles.
Gabacho – white American/anglo.
George Jackson – convicted felon, founder and leader of the prison gang the Black Guerilla Family. Made an honorary Field Marshall of the Black Panther Party whilst still incarcerated, Jackson was shot dead by a prison guard in August 1971 in an attempted jailbreak in which he was responsible for the deaths of five men.
GOP – Grand Old Party, the Republican Party.
Green-lighting – gang practice instituted by Joe Morgan, authorising 'murder on sight' of those decreed to have defied La Eme.
Joe Morgan – Croatian/Irish career criminal from East Los Angeles, who opted into Chicano culture and ultimately became the feared boss of La Eme, the Mexican Mafia. Died in Corcoran Federal Prison, California, in 1993.
Johnny – Johnny Blunt, c-list soul singer and latterly Northern Soul journeyman.
Mijo e mija – my son and my daughter.
Myates – black people.
Nortenos – 'Northerners', Mexican-Amerian prison gang, La Nuestra Familia, based north of Bakersfield. La Eme (Surenos) hold turf south of Bakersfield. The two gangs were (are) bitter enemies, holding 'kill on sight' policies towards each other.
Pendejo – idiot, a stupid person.
La Pinta – prison.
Que desmadre – what a holy mess.
Que jodida – what a fuck up.
Quieres algo conmigo? Pues aqui estoy – You want some trouble with me? Well, here I am.
Ray - Ray Mountain, four times prison killer, Aryan Brotherhood associate and prison partner in crime of Thomas Conway. Fountain was held on 'no human contact' status for twenty years before becoming a Catholic monk.
La Raza – the Mexican people.
Ruca – old lady.
Una ruquita de aquellas – a fine, good looking woman.
Short Eyes – child molester.
Smokey – derogatory racial epithet applied 'affectionately'(and with his tacit acceptance), to Sammy Davis Jnr by Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and other Rat Packers of the early 60s.
Soledad Brother – title of George Jackson's published diary of his experiences in Soledad Prison, California.
Thomas Conway – four time prison killer and Aryan Brotherhood legend, locked down ion 'no human contact' status since 1983, after stabbing a prison guard to death.
The Tip – the Aryan Brotherhood. A 'tip' is a prison gang.
La Torcida – prison.
Tramas – trousers.
Westside – before desegregation, the 'negro section' of Las Vegas; in the afterlife, Hell.
Ya basta – That's enough.
Ya estuvo – That's it, it's finished.

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Steve Ely lives in Yorkshire. He writes poems and short stories and is currently working on two main projects: a novel set in a California State Prison and a biography of former Federal prisoner Clayton Fountain. Westside Story is part three of the long poem JerUSAalem. Part One, Moshiach, can be read here.