The Fish Tank
The Fish Tank
By
Steven Hunley
Right before Thanksgiving I was in the fish tank for over $48,000 worth of traffic warrants and F.T.A.s, which is pretty embarrassing to admit. So when another inmate would ask me,
” Whattcha infor?” I’d say, “Warrants,” or, “$48,000 worth of warrants.” That usually took care of it, and didn’t make me look quite the knick-knack I was.
The fish tank was like all fish tanks; full. There wasn’t enough room to sit on the stainless steel benches, so you had to cop a squat wherever you could. Many were standing. The iron door slid open with a metallic click, and we all watched to see the new arrivals. Many greetings were shouted and returned, and many gang names were mentioned. But something evil was in the air. Bad looks were given freely, then worse words were exchanged, when the guy next to me suddenly stood up to face a man already standing and said, “I’m Tiny of the Millie Gangstas 127th St. Watts. Maybe you want somma this.” He proceeded to thrust out his chest and chin.
“Well, you be talkin’ s*** to Fat Man of the 70’s, Compton. How ‘bout maybe you want somma this?” he replied, and swung hard with a round–house right. When Tiny’s head caressed the concrete, it made the sound you only hear when a butcher drops a quarter of beef off his shoulder and it hits the floor. Then, since they were on the floor anyway, they commenced to rasslin’.
Suddenly the crowd moved back. It was like watching iron filings being attracted to the corner of the tank by a giant magnet. Now they started to cheer or berate the participants depending on the critique of their performance. The men were enthusiastic about critiquing, and took it seriously, saying things like,
“Are you gonna let him do that to you?”
Or talking to someone beside them, “I wouldn’t let him do that to me.”
Then Tiny lost one shoe kicking Fatboy. Fatboy was suddenly coatless, as Tiny pulled it off him, failing to hang it up. ( no coat hangers in jail) They were put aside for safekeeping.
It was better than the last fight I saw on T.V, better than Pay-per-View or H.B.O. It was commercial free. It was live. All the way live.
Finally the noise from the crowd awakened the sheriffs. We gave them plenty of room to get in. Both inmates seemed to be winners somehow, as the sheriffs, being the thoughtful guys they always are, awarded each one of them his own private cell for participating in the championship bout, and provided each an escort. The audience was satisfied and felt they had got their moneys’ worth. Later, when the post-fight talk died down, we made arrangements to return the shoe and coat to the proper owners, and gave the sheriffs explicit instructions to do so. They were more than happy to cooperate. It was over, but not for long.
That’s how it is in the fish tank, the first of many tanks in Twin Towers, the beautiful and reasonably new Jail for the County of Los Angeles. I couldn’t wait to see what was next, what wonders the Sheriff’s Department had in store. I would of course. I wasn’t going anywhere soon.
By
Steven Hunley
Right before Thanksgiving I was in the fish tank for over $48,000 worth of traffic warrants and F.T.A.s, which is pretty embarrassing to admit. So when another inmate would ask me,
” Whattcha infor?” I’d say, “Warrants,” or, “$48,000 worth of warrants.” That usually took care of it, and didn’t make me look quite the knick-knack I was.
The fish tank was like all fish tanks; full. There wasn’t enough room to sit on the stainless steel benches, so you had to cop a squat wherever you could. Many were standing. The iron door slid open with a metallic click, and we all watched to see the new arrivals. Many greetings were shouted and returned, and many gang names were mentioned. But something evil was in the air. Bad looks were given freely, then worse words were exchanged, when the guy next to me suddenly stood up to face a man already standing and said, “I’m Tiny of the Millie Gangstas 127th St. Watts. Maybe you want somma this.” He proceeded to thrust out his chest and chin.
“Well, you be talkin’ s*** to Fat Man of the 70’s, Compton. How ‘bout maybe you want somma this?” he replied, and swung hard with a round–house right. When Tiny’s head caressed the concrete, it made the sound you only hear when a butcher drops a quarter of beef off his shoulder and it hits the floor. Then, since they were on the floor anyway, they commenced to rasslin’.
Suddenly the crowd moved back. It was like watching iron filings being attracted to the corner of the tank by a giant magnet. Now they started to cheer or berate the participants depending on the critique of their performance. The men were enthusiastic about critiquing, and took it seriously, saying things like,
“Are you gonna let him do that to you?”
Or talking to someone beside them, “I wouldn’t let him do that to me.”
Then Tiny lost one shoe kicking Fatboy. Fatboy was suddenly coatless, as Tiny pulled it off him, failing to hang it up. ( no coat hangers in jail) They were put aside for safekeeping.
It was better than the last fight I saw on T.V, better than Pay-per-View or H.B.O. It was commercial free. It was live. All the way live.
Finally the noise from the crowd awakened the sheriffs. We gave them plenty of room to get in. Both inmates seemed to be winners somehow, as the sheriffs, being the thoughtful guys they always are, awarded each one of them his own private cell for participating in the championship bout, and provided each an escort. The audience was satisfied and felt they had got their moneys’ worth. Later, when the post-fight talk died down, we made arrangements to return the shoe and coat to the proper owners, and gave the sheriffs explicit instructions to do so. They were more than happy to cooperate. It was over, but not for long.
That’s how it is in the fish tank, the first of many tanks in Twin Towers, the beautiful and reasonably new Jail for the County of Los Angeles. I couldn’t wait to see what was next, what wonders the Sheriff’s Department had in store. I would of course. I wasn’t going anywhere soon.
