A Day at the Bleachers
A Day at the Bleachers
By Robert Rosso
USP Leavenworth June 1999
After unearthing a bag of wine from beneath one of several piles of dirt scattered about the yard, Gator Boy, Billy, Weasel, Swivel, and myself sought refuge on our cozy little perch, an area up in the far left corner of the old concrete bleachers.
Billy tipped up his gallon jug and greedily consumed the contents. When he finished, he licked his lips and let out a loud burp. “Fuckin’ shit was all that,” he said, referring to the tomato-paste, cornmeal, and sugar concoction that we called wine.
“Did he just say ‘was1 all that, as in, there is no more?” Gator said to no one in particular.
“That’s what I heard him say,” said Weasel.
Gator Boy, who was up on his feet and leaning against the chain-link guard-rail, wobbled past me, Swivel, and Weasel and shocked Billy in the chest. “You finished all the fucking wine?”
“Ouch!” Billy cried. “There was only a sip left.”
“Rob, did Billy drink all the shit when we went to piss?” Gator Boy asked.
I wasn’t about to get in the middle of it. “I didn’t see nothing,” I lied.
“You know he did,” Swivel said bitterly. “Billy always, always does scandalous shit.”
“Fuck you, Swivel,” Billy countered. “Why don’t you go snack on another booger, you booger-eater.” He .then looked up at Gator Boy, held up two fingers, and with a straight face said, “Scouts honor, brother. I didn’t drink nothing while you dudes were gone.”
“Cracker, the only scouts that you know anything about are those little Girl Scouts that you diddled. We all know why you’re really in here.”
Billy looked genuinely offended. “Man, don’t put that jacket on me– I aint no fuckin’ chomo. (child molester). I’m in here on a drug beef.”
“Yeah, right,” Swivel remarked. “You mean you drug those little scouts under the bleachers and slipped your beef in them.”
We all laughed. “Seriously though, Billy,” said the smallest guy in the bunch, Weasel. “If you don’t go find me some wine, I’m gonna smash you.” That was classic Weasel, always threatening to smash someone.
“There is no wine,” said Swivel. “The only batch we have left is over by the bocci ball court and it wont be ready until tomorrow – at the earliest.”
Gator Boy snatched the jug from Billy’s hand, shook it, then flung it over the bleachers, landing on the miniature golf course some 20 feet below. “Go find us some wine, Billy, or you’re going over next.”
Billy let out another loud burp and stood up. “Alright, alright. I know where some’s at. All I have to do is find one of the rec’ pigs and have him open up the utility room door. Jersey and Wolf have a batch brewing in there that I’ll just steal; fuck’em.” He then turned around, whipped out his dick, and stuck it through one of the chain-links. Seconds later, a stream of urine arched down onto the sidewalk.
And that’s right about when we heard a foreign-born Middle Eastern man yell out: “Hey! Hey you guy up there! Stop that! You stop that now!”
Me, Swivel, and Weasel all jumped up and looked down. There, on the ninth hole of the miniature golf course, kneeling on a prayer rug, was one of the Islamic Extremist who attempted to blow up the World Trade Center in 1993.
“You stop now!” the extremist shouted at Billy, shacking his fist. “Can’t you see I pray?”
“Suck on this camel boy,” Billy yelled back, doing some shacking of his own. “Besides, the Prophet Mohammad was a pedophile.”
“Allah Ahkbar!” Gator Boy cried out.
“The next time you try to blow something up, strap some dynamite around your neck” Swivel told him. “You could be in Heaven right now fucking some burqa-wearing virgins.”
The failed terrorist shook his head. “I pray for you sick people,” he said, before pressing his forehead to the ground, sticking his ass in the air, and calling upon his God.
Finished tormenting the jihadist, Weasel turned to Billy and said, “You know Wolf and Jersey are suppose to be coming out on the next move. You can’t go steal their shit.”
“Sure he can,” said Gator Boy. “He just has to get to it before they get here.” “You dudes ain’t right,” Weasel mumbled.
Swivel pointed his thumb towards Weasel. “Look at who’s talking about not being right. A guy who carjacked a 90 year old lady.”
“Yeah you piece of shit,” Gator Boy said to Weasel. “We don’t want no cracker carjacker’s drinking with us anyway. Why don’t you go find Jerome, Tyrone, and Ham-bone Willy. Maybe you brothers can talk about all the rides you jacked.”
Billy looked over at Swivel. “Hey, speaking of niggers, what’s that one tall and skinny toad cop’s name anyway?”
Swivel ponder on it for a minute, then said, “I’m pretty sure it’s Silverback.”
I almost busted out laughing.
“Are you sure? I thought it was Sampson, or Simpson or something,” Billy said, missing the joke entirely.
“I think it is Sampson,” said Weasel. He, like Billy, obviously didn’t watch the Discovery Channel.
But Gator Boy did. And he played right along. “No, it’s Silverback. I use to work for him.” Gator Boy turned his head. “And look…here comes the black devil now.” Walking up the stairs was the officer in question.
“Uh-huh, yeah,” the black officer said, as he slowly took one step at a time. “Y’all know why I’m here.”
Actually, we didn’t. I mean, it couldn’t have been about us drinking – this was a cop who routinely stashed wine and other contraband for inmates.
“Which one of you racist crackers be pissin’ off the bleachers and makin’ my man in the tower trip?” asked the correctional officer.
Simultaneously, we all turned to Billy.
“Jesus Christ!” Billy said looking back and forth at all of us. “You’re all a bunch of fuckin’ rats. Why don’t you offer to sign a witness statement against me.”
We all started laughing, including the cop,
“You gonna behave yourself?” the officer asked Billy. “Or you gonna keep acting like you ain’t got no momma?”
“I’ll be good,” Billy said, sounding like a little school boy.
“Good. Now you boys keep it on the low. Because if the man in the tower be calling me again, I’m gonna have to do somethin’ real stupid.” And with that, the officer turned to leave.
“Hey, Silverback, wait,” Billy said.
The cop missed a step and nearly lost his balance. Spinning around, he said, “What did you call me?”
Billy looked him right in the eye and said, “Silverback. Why?” Me, Swivel, and Gator Boy started rolling.
“Oh, y’all Klu Klux Klan wannabe’s think that shit’s funny, huh?” said the cop.
“What’s so funny?” asked Billy. “Why are you guy’s laughing? I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes.
“Boy, you’re so stupid you don’t even know what you saying,” the officer said to Billy. “Who done told you my name’s Silverback?”
Billy fingered Swivel.” He did.”
“Oh, okay. I’ve got my eye on you, Hitler,” he said to Swivel. To Billy he said, “A Silverback is a gorilla, dummy. You might as well called me monkey or a nigga. Now, what is it you want?”
“Can you pop open the side door so I can get my wine?” Billy asked.
“What? Is you crazy? First you call me a silverback, now you want to go and steal the wolfman’s wine. I know that shit don’t belong to you.”
“Yeah, but Wolf told me that I can have it,” Billy lied.
The officer gave Billy a suspicious look. “I’s doubt it. But I’ll tell you what, play”a,” he said scratching his chin. “I’m gonna give it to you anyhow. ‘Cause when the wolfman comes looking for it, I’m gonna tell him that you got it. Hopefully, he’ll beat your white ass.”
Swivel and Billy both followed the cop down the stairs. A few minutes later, Swivel came running up the stairs. “Look what I found! Look what I found!” In one hand he had a funnel; in the other hand he had a piece of garden hose. “Fuckin’ awesome,” I said. “A beer bong.”
“A beer what?” Gator Boy asked. “A beer bong. Haven’t you ever heard of a Beef bong?” I said. “No.” “What kind of a high school did you go to?” “I didn’t,” Gator Boy said.
Swivel handed me the funnel. “What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?”
I sniffed it. “woof…smells like gasoline.” Weasel looked over at me. ” That’s my favorite Nirvana song.” He lost me. “What the hell are you talking about?” “You know, Nirvana,” he said. “As in Kurt Cobain. They sung a song called Smells Like gasoline.”
I laughed. “You dumbass, Weasel. It’s called ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’” I handed Swivel back the funnel, and said to him,” Can you believe Weasel’s from California? He’s like an embarrassment to us.”
“He’s from Modesto,” Swivel said as he connected the funnel and hose together. “I don’t even consider that place a part of California.”
Billy, out of breath, came running up the stairs. When he made it to the top, he dropped his jug and handed Gator Boy and laundry bag. “There’s about three gallons in there, brother.”
Gator Boy placed the net-bag in front of him and opened it up. Inside, a white towel used to prevent punctures and tears was wrapped around a plastic trash bag. Reaching inside, he pulled out the bag of wine and two objects hit the ground. “Well, lookie lookie at what I found here,” he said reaching forward. “A. pill bottle full of Simple Green and – he held up _a syringe – tahda! A brand new outfit. Just what I needed.”
“That’s Dago Joe’s outfit,” Weasel said. Gator Boy stuck the syringe in his sock. “Finders keepers.” “Hey, I gotta a good idea,” Swivel said. “Why don’t you do a shot of wine, Weasel?” “I’m not gonna shoot wine in my veins,” Weasel said. “Come on, Weasel,” Billy encouraged. “It’ll be cool.” Now this I had to see. “I’ll tell you what, Weez. You see that black dude down there on the softball field wearing a heavy coat? Well, he’s got dope on him. If you do a shot of wine, I’ll go down there a buy us both a paper.”
“Cracker, I’ll do it for a paper,” Gator Boy said. “Me too,” Billy said. Weasel wasn’t going for it. “Fuck you guys – I’m doing it. So hook me up a shot, Gator.” Swivel was now standing in front of Gator Boy holding the beer bong in his hand. “Well? Who’s going first?” “Why don’t you go first, Swivel,” I said. That way YOU can suck down all the gas fumes, I thought. “Here, I’ll even help you out.” I grabbed my empty cup and stood up.
Gator Boy untied the knot in the wine bag and opened it. “Help me hold this open, Billy.”
Billy plopped down beside Gator Boy and grabbed a corner of the bag. “Rob. stand in front of me and use your free hand to hold the bag open. That way Swivel can hold the funnel over the bag and we wont loose no wine in case you spill any.” Spoken like a true fiend.
As instructed, I faced Billy, grabbed the bag, and began scooping wine into the funnel. Meanwhile, Gator Boy stuck the syringe in the bag and started snickering.
“What’s so funny?” I asked him. “Watch this,” he whispered, removing the half-full intravenous device from the bag. “Is Weasel looking, Billy?” Billy nonchalantly glimpsed over at Weasel. “No.” From between his legs, Gator Boy pulled out the pill bottle of Simple Green and unscrewed the cap. “Don’t do it, you moron,” Swivel said out the side of his neck. “You’ll kill him.”
Again Gator Boy snickered. “Will not, he whispered, dipping the needle into the bottle. “If anything, it’ll cure his hep c.”
My God…I couldn’t believe it. Gator Boy was giving Weasel a potential hot-shot – and these guys were ‘brothers, members of the same prison gang. I’d hate to see how they treated their enemy’s.
“Okay, Swivel,” I said, once I got the funnel filled up. “Drink up.” Weasel asked Gator Boy if he had his shot ready yet.
“All ready, cracker,” Gator said as screwed the lid of the pill bottle back on and slipped it between his legs. “Come and get it.”
Swivel put his lips around the hose and raised the funnel. Four seconds later he let out a loud burp. “That was fucking awesome, man!”
“I think you’ve sucked a prick before,” Billy said to Swivel. “You gobbled that shit down way too fast.”
Weasel came around me and came up on Gator Boy’s right side. “Give it here,” he said.
“Here you go,” Gator Boy said. “Why don’t you sit down when you do that?”
Oh, now you’re concerned, I thought. What a swell guy.
“I’ll be fine,” Weasel said. “I’ve put a lot worse shit into veins than some funky-ass wine.”
Swivel was having no problem as he held the beer bong in one hand and scooped wine into the funnel with the other. “I’m gonna do another one real quick.”
“You really should sit down when you do that, Weasel,” Billy warned.
Weasel ignored the advice. Jabbing the needle into his arm, he maneuvered the outfit around until he found a vein. “Got it,” he said, seeing the blood register. “Rob, go get me a paper.”
We all watched as he released the wine and Simple Green mixture into his body.
With a mischievous grin, Gator Boy said, “Well? How does it feel?”
Weasel pulled the syringe out of his arm and smacked his lips. “I taste something… weird.”
“Like wine?” Billy asked.
“No, not wine…” you could see confusion swirling in his eyes? “It’s like… chemical taste the outfit fell out of his hand, as Weasel grabbed his head. “Ooh.”
Billy’s jaw dropped. “Oh shit.” “Oops,” commented Gator Boy. “Maybe that was a bad idea.”
How right he was, Weasel went limp and began to fall forward; Swivel, holding the beer bong in one hand and a cup in the arm, lunged sideways in an effort to save his pal from tumbling down the bleachers; at the same time, catching his right foot on the wine-bag-arid causing a major catastrophe- a tear in the bag.
Swivel screamed, “My leg! My leg!” Billy screamed: “The wine! The wine! Somebody do something!”
Tangled in between a row of bleachers, Swivel couldn’t get up. I grabbed Weasel’s arm. “Come on, man. Get Up.”
Dazed, Weasel blinked and said,” What the fuck happen?” “Get the fuck off my leg, Asshole!” Swivel screamed. You broke it.”
With my help, Weasel was slowly able to untangle himself from Swivel. “My heads fucking killing me,” he moaned. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Rob, get the beer bong!” Billy shouted. “Hurry!”
Knowing that the wine had spilt, I looked over to see why in the world Billy would need a beer bong. That’s when I saw Gator Boy and down on their knees soaking up the wine with their t-shirts.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Tell me you guys are joking.”
Gator Boy laughed. “Does it look like we’re joking, cracker? Get the goddamn beer bong.”
Swivel let out a moan. “Oh, my knee. I think I broke the motherfucker.”
“That’s because the Wine Gods are punishing you for spilling our shit,” Gator
Boy said. “l hope you die.”
The distinct sound of vomit spewing out of someone’s mouth and splashing on the concrete made me turn my head. Weasel, looking as green as the poison Gator Boy helped introduce into his body, was barfing his brains out. “Hey, Weasel. You still want that paper?”
Weasel spit, wiped his mouth on his arm, and looked at me. “You’re fucking right I do. Go get that fucking thing so I can get better.” Again, he started to vomiting.
“Hey, Rob,” Swivel said, as he slowly pushed himself up. “Since I sacrificed sel injury to help Weasel, can you get me a paper too? I wanna get real loaded before I go to the infirmary.”
Two hours later, a lieutenant escorted Swivel to the hole. Oh, he went to the infirmary alright. And x-rays did reveal that he had torn some ligaments. But the doctor recognized that he was wasted and called the Lt.’s office. As for Weasel, he got his paper of dope and recovered nicely. And yes, Billy and Gator Boy did manage to soak up a few quarts of filthy wine off the floor, and strained it into a beer bong. They said that it tasted just fine.