Prologue
The notion of perfection is so often scoffed at—what a fickle, ludicrously unfathomable notion, the Man of Past would lark; the Pious Fellow would bark, only the Heavens held such notions; but the foolhardy Storeman promised to be a paragon of perfection, who sold products so polished and refined, and with the utmost solicitation, that one would believe they were dreaming up a world akin to—no, better than the Heavens! The Pious Fellow would cry blasphemy and heresy and all the other things ending in “y.” The Man of Past would scoff, just like many so often did, knowing all too well another storeman downtown sold better wares. The Storeman was no saint—that Storeman was a liar, and a no good liar at that. Refined? Most people are generally crude.
The Tale of a Tax Fraudist: Johnny P. Hammocks
You know, Great Auntie B. Bethuselah was pancaked by a drunk dump truck driver back in the day. Yeah, ol’ Bethusela got hit pretty hard. I’ve had so much time to think about it lately. I went to visit her poor ol’ pancaked self in the hospital that day. She told me, “Whatever you do, Johnny, don’t let life hit you as hard as it hit me.” Wise words. Yeah, she was hit pretty hard in life. But not as hard as when the IRS discovered I was committing Tax Fraud. I was a big deal businessman before I went to the slammer, I swear to it. And you don’t become a big deal businessman if you don’t have a few brain cells knocking about your noggin, you know? But the IRS hits you quicker than an alcoholic runs out of liquor. Did I mention Auntie B. was an alcoholic? Yeah, she survived that pancaking that Dan Daniels the dump truck driver gave her, but ended up dying from liver failure a year later. Rest her soul, I hope she is suing Dan Daniels from up above. Anyhow, one day I’m running my liquor store (hopefully no relation to Auntie’s ARLD), committing tax fraud like normal, and another day I’m serving two years' time at Eastern State Penitentiary—sitting in solitary to reflect on my tax-fraud mistakes, similar to how parents do a little finger point and send their children to their room for time out because they refused to pipe down. Or something or other.
Man, those Quakers get me all riled up. They likely invented solitary confinement by reading a guidebook on odd and unusual punishments, written by Satan himself. I tell you, those Quakers are god damn devils disguised as prison progressives. It has to be, otherwise they wouldn’t be reading Satan’s guidebook on odd and unusual punishments. Yeah, those Quakers fooled me. Two years in a Quaker prison couldn’t possibly be that bad, I recall thinking. I would soon purge that thought.
When I arrived at Eastern State, there was a miasma of self-pity and self-loathing that stenched the prison’s fortitude.The beauty of its tall walls and that maudlin scent filled me with madness. Beauty and putridity—it was evil. The solitary system was not fully abolished yet, but the penitentiary was becoming lax; the practice of hooding prisoners was abandoned because of the increasing issue of overcrowding (a pungent issue indeed). Every so often, I could glance at the hopeless physiognomy of my fellow prisoners—a synchronous compendium of misery-ridden people.
That first night, and each night to follow, the air would strangle me asleep. New prisoners that verged on some idyllic dream would wake to the sound of a fellow inmate crying out in terror from ghoulish nightmares. How painful it was to wake from one nightmare to another nightmare: the horror of a rancid and hellish cell block with floors either wintery or fiery to the touch. I came to despise the beauty of the prison, its hallways arched and etched in the dirt of misery-ridden people—most of us would have preferred to stay in that ghoulish nightmare that woke that fellow inmate with freight. At least it was something new.
As the weeks went by, my old problems as a fraudulent businessman became so puerile. It turns out all it takes is no air conditioning, a prison food diet of starchy potatoes and peaches, and hours atop hours of solitary confinement a day. Who would have thought? It's when winter comes that those puerile problems become evermore puerile. Oh, by the way, most inmates aren’t actually crying out from night terrors, that was just dramatic overkill, you know? Anyone that actually makes a peep would get beat by the guards with haughty faces. Boy, those Quakers really are a lovely bunch.
No, it’s mainly when you’re sitting with nothing but your own thoughts in a cell block that ostensibly shrinks and shrinks and shrinks and shrinks down and down and down until you feel terribly cramped by your own weight; your mind cries out silently in a craze of loneliness. The winter days and nights chill the prisoners’ hearts through and through. Many figures tremble on their wintery cell block floors. A few of them grasp their toilet seat as if they are trying to vomit a vileness; a plague that murders the rationation that sanity holds dear. When these nights come, there is no sound to be heard from the prison. Pious or not, each prisoner prays for the sorry soul in “The Hole.” In summer, the misery-ridden people sing a maudlin melody of mind. But in the winter, they sing a somber monody: Please save me
I can't escape this prison
Nor she
Nor he
Only Grandpops is free
It's a wonder I have any humor left to talk about Great Auntie B. Bethuselah and her being pancaked and whatnot. I won’t say Eastern State Penitentiary ever harbored humorous moments; I won’t say there was some silver lining; I won’t say there was a saving grace; I can’t say I ever laughed.
When I finally got out of Eastern State, the first thing my best friend Ed said was, “Johnny, you never laugh anymore. What happened to your sense of humor?”
I would always say, “People laugh when you fall on your ass. What’s humor?”
Yeah, life hit me pretty hard, I guess.
