“The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.”  

 — Fyodor Dostoevsky

The next time you look askance at the person cutting you hair, remember this little True Crime vignette. Suddenly, politics and concern about the Right or Left has little enduring meaning — as I found out.

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“It was difficult at Auburn,” said CO Ward, who had worked there for eight years. 

I mentioned what had just happened, a fight in another dorm. But, of course, the CO already knew about it. All of the cops carried radios. It was like a part of their uniform — baseball-styled Corrections cap, matching blue shirt and pants with the New York State Corrections emblem on it, and black boots. Like the Gestapo. It was “Springtime for Hitler.” With no gun, dangling handcuffs and other assorted paraphernalia hanging from their belts, the CO outfits were reminiscent of Victor Willis, the cop from The Village People video from the 1970’s. But, not nearly as entertaining.

“How?”

“This bullshit about putting people in the Box for a fight over a missing or stolen razor,” he laughed, “in Auburn they’d just go back to their cell.”

“Why was it different there?”

“In a Max, it’s a whole different story,” said CO Ward, and as he turned toward the glass separating the dorm from the Rec room and then relaxed behind his desk. The scar on his right cheek was evident, even though partially hidden by his beard. The hair wouldn’t grow there. “You got guys who are never going home in a Max. They don’t give a shit. What’re you going to do to them? Putting them in the Box is like threatening to kick someone in the kneecap after they’d lost the leg.

“So, what is the place like?”

“Completely different,”  he continued.”You’ve got three, or, I don’t remember, maybe four levels of cells stacked on top of each other with walkways around them, two yards — both concrete, no grass, trees or any other sign of life on it — and Rec time with maybe 600 or 700 guys milling around at one time.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah, great. So, they all have individual cells — there were no T.V. ‘s in each cell when I was there, but, I don’t know, maybe they do by now. Lots of other Max’s have them. Keeps them occupied and out of trouble.”

“I’ve talked to guys here who were there and say they prefer it,” I said.

“You gotta understand,” he said, “for those guys and the Lifers here, it was better since there’s privacy in the cells. There’s none here.” 

“Here, you’ve got cubes with half walls, a Rec room and a dorm. No privacy at all except, maybe when you take a shit. A lot of guys can’t tolerate that.”

“Yeah, I gather.”

“It WAS interesting, though,” he laughed. “But, the knifings and killings were not fun.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Couple times a week the guys in the Tower would announce to get down. Inmates had to get down, or else,” he said, smiling.

“What?”

“If there was a problem, you know, a cutting, a fight, or a knifing, especially in the Yard. They’d tell everyone to get on the ground with their hands behind their necks. If anyone stayed standing, the sharpshooters in the Tower would just shoot them. They didn’t give a shit. It was fun for them.”

“Nice.”

                                                  ****

Black had been at Auburn. He was one guy who talked little about why he was in prison. He was a 5’9″ black man of about 45 who had already done 20 years. He expected to see Parole in roughly 4 years. And, they usually “hit” guys like him the first time — meaning he would get another two years before being able to come back to see Parole, and see if they would release him. Likely, they would “hit” him again. Some had already been “hit” five or six times. It was a routine that Lifers had to come to expect. Any inmate with a 20 to Life or a 25 to Life sentence knew to expect it even if they convinced themselves they were different. Only one guy, who had a 15 to Life sentence had gotten out at fifteen years. 

It was talked about as if it were miraculous. Of course, when he shot and killed that drug dealer, he was only 17 years old.

But, Black had an animalistic quality about him. Not because of any stereotypical racist analogies about black people — but, because of his muscular look and slightly stooped, forward manner of walking. He had that look along with a halting, rapid, staccato speech which was very polite. But, after all, the inmates knew he was a killer.

He cut my hair.

“Yeah, Mr. M,” he would say, simultaneously buzzing the back of my head with the beard trimmer in the  bathroom — where everyone hid to get haircuts — watching for the Sergeant who routinely patrolled the area. No one wanted to get a ticket for having their hair cut. It was illegal to cut hair or let someone cut your hair except at the barber shop. 

In the barber shop you had to tip or wind up looking like you’d gotten trimmed at Dachau. Tipping was also illegal. 

“S’better in a Max,” said Black. “Dis’ is boollshit, alla dese keeds, no respec’, s’much betta’ there Mr. M — got privacy, got you own T.V. Dis here’s  boollshit.”

“You actually liked it better there?”

“Yes sir, Mr. M,” as he continued buzzing the back of my neck, starting to shave the part near his ear. 

I was hoping that Black didn’t decide to use the razor next on his throat. “…s’much better in a Max, no kids, dis is boollshit” he repeated himself over and over again. I realized that this was no doubt due to some kind of psychiatric problem — certainly, in addition to PTSD — complicated by a very dull mental capacity. But, he was circumspect in dealing with an older, married, solid-citizen type of white guy to whom he showed some deference. Yet, all during his brain fog of mental illness and questionable intelligence he had a razor at my throat.

One needed to pay attention, I thought.

Black was a Lifer. He might not ever go home. The Parole Board could jerk him around for another 10 or 15 years if they wanted. There were no appeals left, attorneys or family members to help him out. This was it for him. Not quite nothing to lose, but close.

According to prison gossip Black brutally murdered two guys for making eyes at his girl. It was grisly because he’d used an ax and continued chopping for nearly 15 hours according to the police report. 

But, who knew? 

I wondered — how you could even manage something like that? What do you do, chop for an hour then take a break? Go out for a drink and then come back to finish up? It seemed physically impossible to keep chopping for 15 hours straight, didn’t it? 

The place must have looked like an explosion in the back of a butcher shop in Bensonhurst after one of Vinny The Chin’s murders. 

If you looked at Black, who had a certain resemblance to King Kong, he certainly looked capable of overcoming any physical adversity and getting the job done.

Black continued to chatter as he trimmed my hair. Others in the bathroom moved about, moving off into the stalls instead of the urinals which were blocked as he worked on me. Seeing Black, they quickly moved away. 

They all knew to respect his minimalist way of making his wishes known with “doing Mr. M’s hair now, go ‘way,” — and they left immediately. They all knew, or sensed, the protocol and danger. His obvious strength was not hidden and his level of intelligence just made him more dangerous.

They knew about the ax.

It felt like I was having my hair done by a brute of unimaginable strength. I could only imagine what Black was like after he did drugs, had some booze and was pissed off.

When Black was done, I offered him a chocolate and marshmallow mini pie. One of those chemicalized goodies sold in the prison commissary. Black looked at it, very straight-faced and without any obvious emotion. 

I began to worry. He looked at it like he was trying to figure out what it was. There was no disguise, no filter. It was just a fucking pie, for God’s sake, I thought. 

Fear started to rise up in my throat like an attack of GERD, and I envisioned Black throwing the saucer shaped treat on the floor, stomping on it and jamming the trimmer into my mouth while it buzzed, chewing up my tongue. 

Black continued to stare at the treat in his hand for another minute without saying a word. 

Was he pissed off? Was he insulted by the offering?

No, I realized. He was just slow. 

He didn’t know what I had given him.

“Well, thank you Mr. M. You don’t gotta’ give me dis.”

He shifted from one foot to the other like an animal rebalancing its weight, “you a good man Mr. M, you don’ hafta gimme nothin’, Mr. M.”

I exhaled, relaxing now, “Don’t be silly, take it Black, and thanks for doing my hair, my wife’s visiting and I want to look presentable.”

“You look fine, Mr. M.” he patted me on the shoulder, “ya wife’ll love it, looks good, you good man Mr. M,” he repeated several times, always saying the same thing, over and over, never smiling, continuing to pat him on the shoulder. 

Then he put an arm around me with a hug as if to say “you okay, man.”

Of course, being hugged by a brutal murderer wasn’t a relaxing event for a 70 year old middle-class white guy. It wasn’t like having a drink with a friend at the bar in the Peninsula Hotel or at the Patio Bar in the Hamptons when that friendly hug unexpectedly occurred. 

It was the kind of conviviality that could kill you with one wrong word or gesture.