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. Not to you, you understand, but to another inmate. If your reason for arrest doesn’t include a taste of violence or at least a hint of drugs, its regarded as a bit of a humbug. 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 on the stainless steel benches to sit, 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 being exchanged, when the guy next to me suddenly stood up to face a man already standing and said,
“I’m Tiny of the Milli Gangstas 127th St. Watts. Maybe you want somma this.” He proceeded to thrust out his chest and chin.
“Well, you be talkin’ **** to Fat Man of the 7O’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 hear when a butcher drops a side of beef off his shoulder and it hits the cold cement of the freezer 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 their critique of the performance. The men were enthusiastic about critiquing, and took it seriously, shouting things like,
“Are you gonna let him do that to you?”
Or whispering to someone nearby, “I wouldn’t let him do that to me.”
Tiny lost one shoe kicking Fat Man, as his laces had been removed by the sheriffs, in case he was suicidal. (he wasn’t) He kicked him vigorously; taking advantage of the fact the Marquis of Queensbury was not present that day. With each contact of his toe to Fat Man’s chest a small snapping sound was heard, like the snap of a turkey wishbone after Christmas. Fat Man was not to be outdone however and now had Tiny’s face pushed into the corner, pressing his nose against the cement, leaving crimson droplets splashed against the wall, decorating the tank with Tinys’ lifeblood. Fat Man became suddenly coatless, as Tiny pulled it off him, failing to hang it up. (no coat hangers in jail, sharp objects prohibited) We put both shoe and coat 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, just when it was getting good, the noise from the crowd awakened the sheriffs. We gave them plenty of room. Both inmates seemed to be winners somehow. The sheriffs, being the thoughtful guys they are, awarded each one of them his own private cell for participating in the championship bout, and provided each an escort upon leaving. The audience was satisfied and felt they’d 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. The ever-thoughtful sheriffs keep the facility open twenty-four-seven for your convenience.
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.