Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle (14 page)

A little part of me felt bad for leaving Butler alone out there, but he was happy to see me move up in the ranks. “Hey, brother,” he said, “just don’t forget about us little folks when you become a bigwig in the house.”

Working the laundry was a cool job, and I really appreciated the opportunity to explore every aspect of it. Even as a little kid, I had loved starching up my jeans and getting that deep crease down the front of the pant legs with the iron. Now as a big boy I was running the laundry, learning the pressing machines and various new cleaning techniques with chemicals and detergents. As a result, I had the whitest, crispest, freshest clothes and sheets. I gave Butler’s the same treatment. Our gear was straight.

When the other guys caught wind, the bartering came into play. Now that they had their boy Booker T in the laundry, I was in business and everything was negotiable. If some of the other dudes were bumming around and needed new clothes or just wanted theirs to be as sharp as mine and ahead of schedule, we did a quick trade. They might give me some pastries or spread ingredients like Ramen noodles, cheese, or cans of tuna.

Butler would always see the deals going down and marvel at my scam. “Shit, man, you’re the godfather of laundry town. Can I be your general?”

He knew he already was. I would keep some of the stuff for Butler and myself or trade it for cigarettes, a habit I’d picked up again, or sell it for pocket cash. It was a great setup and no different from the way life worked on the outside. If there was one thing I could count on, both in prison and in the free world, it was that one hand always washed the other.

Now that I had my laundry role, it was easier to relax and check out the lay of the land inside Pack 2. When going into a prison environment, the best approach is to keep your back against the wall so you know it’s covered. As time moves on, you can slowly decide the best way to venture out into the population. It didn’t take me long to understand the social dynamics with certain inner circles and learn who was cool and which players to avoid.

My mother had always said something that proved true in prison: “You’ve got to know when to speak up and when to shut up.” You definitely did not want to go running into a place like Pack 2 and step on toes and draw attention. In the event that a situation did come your way, you had to handle it swiftly and strongly.

After I had been in Pack 2 for a couple of months, I got to see what it was like when a new guy came in and didn’t understand how to handle things or stand up for himself. Sometimes those dudes would pay off an established inmate with commissary items, cash, or cigarettes in exchange for protection. This was called riding with someone.

When I first entered prison, I had no idea what that meant. I sure as hell would not have gone for it anyway. The moment I walked into Pack 2, as green as they come, I understood this was a dog-eat-dog scenario and prepared to do anything necessary to survive. Armed with my street knowledge and fearless attitude toward anyone stupid enough to cross me, I skated through Pack 2 without major incident.

But on occasion, I did see others have a hard time. When this new white kid named Jason came in, he was obviously far out of his element. He didn’t have the slightest clue where he was or what to do.

One day, apparently Jason figured out how to find protection. “Hey, Booker,” he said, “I don’t feel so safe around here, you know? I was wondering if I could ride with you.”

Man, I hadn’t seen that one coming. In my lifetime, no one had ever asked me for protection. It was kind of embarrassing.

I found out this black guy named Vernon had smelled the kid’s trepidation like blood in a shark tank and was messing with him. Jason was scared out of his mind that something might happen to him. I could see the deathly concern in his eyes when he asked me for help.

Feeling bad for the boy, I reluctantly agreed. “Don’t worry. Just get yourself to the commissary and get me some bear claws as fast as your little legs can move. I’ve got you.”

This cat Vernon was a hardened prisoner currently in Pack 2 for his third bid, obviously not having gotten the point the first two times. I saw him around but did not talk to him, was not his boy, and definitely was not afraid of him. By now, I was twenty-two years old, six foot two, and well over two hundred pounds. I always walked around feeling there wasn’t a dude in the dorm I couldn’t whip.

It was easy to see the others felt it too. They would all watch as I repped out my usual five hundred push-ups before bed, looking at each other as if they were thinking,
Damn.
During the day it was as if a sign hung from my neck, stating, I Am Booker T, and I Have Zero Patience for Bullshit, so Don’t Fuck with Me. This worked out just great for everyone involved, especially me.

Without realizing Jason had a guardian angel, Vernon trash-talked him one night in the dorm within my earshot. “Hey, boy, how come you ain’t got a beat-down yet, huh? Who said you can just walk around here like you want? There’s a price to pay for motherfuckers like you. If you don’t cash in tomorrow and get me some cigarettes, your ass is on the line.”

Jason did the right thing and kept his head down, ignoring him.

Vernon didn’t like that at all. “Don’t you hear me, boy? I’m talking to you.”

I had heard enough. It was time to let everyone, specifically Vernon, in on my arrangement with Jason. Letting out a sigh, I rolled from my rack, sat up, put on my boots, and took off my shirt. Staring directly at Vernon, I stood and made a little announcement. “All right, everybody, listen up. This is how it goes.”

That silenced all the inmates. Even Butler was taken aback by what was unfolding, because he wasn’t really aware of my agreement with Jason. I knew he would have my back in a heartbeat, but in a situation like this he knew to sit back and let his boy take care of his own business until otherwise necessary.

“This three-time piece-of-shit loser sitting here is about to be a prime example of what happens to anyone stupid enough to fuck around with Jason. It ain’t happening no more, understand?”

Everybody looked on to see what would happen.

By that time, Vernon’s jaw had dropped, and he ran to his rack.

Thinking we’d been on the verge of throwing down, I stood there among the boys and called to Vernon. “Come out, man. This is what you wanted, right? You wanted to kick somebody’s ass. Well, come and kick mine, bro.”

There was no response.

Seeing how well my point had been made, I decided to let Vernon off the hook. He was ruined from that point on anyway, looking like a complete fool in front of the house.

I could not have been happier. Even Butler walked up and nudged me while I was making a victory spread of Ramen noodles, chicken, and cheese with crushed-up crackers, which we shared over our usual laugh.

“That was right on, Book. I thought I was going to shit my pants when you went off. I think old Vernon actually did.”

In one moment, without having lifted a finger, I had shown the entire dorm exactly what I was made of. And I’ll let you in on a little secret—I was bluffing. The truth of the whole matter was that because of the trouble I would get into, I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to lose my job and get extra time. No way. Although I was ready to swing for the fences, my intention was to overwhelm Vernon with a ferocious bark and back his ass down without the conflict coming to blows. When it worked, I thought,
Whew, that was a close one.

Just for added measure for the show, while Vernon brooded on his rack in a crumpled mess, I decided to sit on my bed and stare across the room at him for an hour or two. I would say he got the message. From that point on, my status within Pack 2 was established. Neither Jason nor I had another problem with anybody during the remainder of our bids.

After about four months in Pack 2, the one-year anniversary of my arrest came up. Despite how agonizingly slow it had seemed while I lived it day by day, I could not believe so much time had passed since that fateful evening of April 9, 1987. That’s the thing about prison. All you truly pay attention to is time. You’re fully aware of the days and the pain of being inside, severed from the world.

My grip on the outside had pretty much faded away by that point, and I was becoming institutionalized. Sure, the letters from Billie Jean and Red still came, but they were fewer and further between. I understood, though, and simply accepted it for what it was. I did not feel like communicating with anybody anyway.

Being in prison was a realistic example of
out of sight, out of mind.
Life didn’t stop out there just because mine was on hold. I was the one who had slipped through due to the idiocy of choosing to be a Wendy’s Bandit.

The only option I could see now was to keep my chin up and my nose to the grindstone. Otherwise, bitterness would devour my spirit. With this awareness making more sense by the day, I continued to focus on being constructive while waiting out my sentence.

I had been doing great with the laundry and enjoyed all the benefits that came along with the job, but it was growing a little stale. I wondered if there were more productive or worthwhile things to apply myself to. I wasn’t sure what I would land my sights on, but I looked around at all the possibilities.

After the episode with Vernon, nothing was beyond my reach. The guards’ and inmates’ ever-growing respect made me feel like the captain of a high school football team or something. Everyone knew my name, wanted to talk, and even offered to help get me into other programs or jobs.

During some of my conversations, the guys mentioned a weight lifting team, so I asked for details. My mind raced considering such a perfectly suited avenue.

I had first noticed the weight room while watching Butler destroy everyone on the basketball court in the gym during recreation time. It had a full arsenal of barbells and dumbbells with benches, squat racks, and all the cable pulley machines. I had been working out ever since, capturing a lot of the essence of those old intense sessions with Lash. Over the months I was in Pack 2, I had steadily put on about 30 pounds. I was up to around 225 pounds of pure, lean mass when I found out about the competitive lifting team.

The other guys in the gym took notice of how strong I was. “Damn, Booker, why don’t you come on board the team? We could use you, man, and it counts as a job.”

That’s all I needed to hear.

But there were two problems. The first obvious issue was the fact that I still worked in the laundry room. It wasn’t as if I could simply transfer to another position at my own will. Always being the pragmatic thinker, I found a solution.

Pack 2 had a General Education Development (GED) program for inmates to pursue a high school equivalency certification. If they accepted me in the program, they would release me from my duties in the laundry room for the necessary class time. This meant I could not only redeem myself for dropping out of school but also free my schedule to join the weight lifting team.

When I applied to the GED program, they welcomed me in with open arms. As great as it felt to be accepted there, I had to address a second issue to join the weight lifting team. All team members had to have a minimum ten-year prison bid to qualify for competition. I clocked in at only two concurrently running five-year terms.

I got a little creative and came up with a less-than-honest solution.
Well,
I thought,
since two sets of five equals ten, I’m good, right?
So I lied to the guard in charge, telling him I met the ten-year eligibility. Due to my stand-up status, they put me on the squad without any further investigation.

Classes started almost immediately for me. Entering the GED program was probably the best decision I made while at Pack 2. There was an actual classroom complete with rows of desks, a blackboard, a globe, and a wall-mounted pencil sharpener. The only thing missing was Ms. Hughes’s ass. I sat through all the standard science, math, and social studies courses and even had homework assignments due each day.

After class was over, I went straight to the gym, where I got to complement my studying efforts with good old heavy metal. It felt great to be exercising my mind and my body, all the while repaying my debt to society. I knew this was all preparation for a better life when my release would come. This was exactly the type of productive pursuit I had been looking for all along. I would go back into society with a whole different perspective and appearance, and I would have so much more to offer the outside world than when I had been taken away.

But in order to make sure that was the case, I had to stay on my toes. For the first time since my mother had been alive, people were telling me exactly what had to be done and when or there would be repercussions. Because I had been released of laundry room duties to go to school, I had to meet the grade eligibility requirement to stay on the team. It was the life of a student-athlete. If my grades went below a solid C and the teacher knew I was not focusing, I would lose everything and be sent back down to the dirty socks, the piles of sheets, and the pressing machine. That was not going to happen. I was certain to get my work done and hit those beckoning weights as if there were no tomorrow. It was all that mattered.

I did what was required of me in the classroom, but when it came to the team I was an overachiever. On the bench for the first time since the days with my brother and Darryl, I tossed up 265 pounds. On the squat, I managed 335.

Although those figures are respectable for anyone, on a competitive level I needed to make some serious progress. Within months of throwing that iron around as hard as I could, I watched my bench climb to 315 and my squat to 405.

I was in a good mental place when something inconceivable happened. Just when I thought all the correspondence from the world beyond had ended, an envelope from Billie Jean arrived. The message chilled me to the bone.

Billie had forwarded me a letter from the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services (DFPS) in Houston. They were attempting to locate me so I could take custody of Brandon before he was entered into their adoption system and possibly lost to me forever. Apparently, Angela had given him up to DFPS for reasons unknown, although I had my suspicions she was overwhelmed being a single mother at such a young age. Since I had been roaming for such a long time with no steady residence, the department had lost considerable time tracking down my last known location to Billie’s, where they had sent the letter.