Idle Chatter

One of my jobs on the Rec Yard is umpiring softball.  The field is a little unusual – a running track cuts through the outfield, there’s a drainage ditch and a light pole, too – so among other adaptations the ground rules require an umpire to stand on the track.  No one else would take this job, which seems to be an insult to their manhood, so I raised my hand, thinking, Dude we’re already in prison.  Seriously, is doing this least prestigious umping gig really going to be the thing that kills your ego?

As the trackside ump I earn a dollar a game (good money in the prison economy!), hang out watching softball and, most importantly, get to overhear all the wacky conversations the runners are having as they jog past.  Granted, I only get snippets, but in a way that’s even better, providing a stream-of-consciousness, channel switching ear to the zeitgeist of our community.  Below, I give you merely two games’ worth of what I consider Entertainment Gold:

1.     Guy says he’s sick of this place and needs to figure a way to get out.  His partner asks his plan:

Gonna file for that compassion (sic) release.

Oh yeah, heard about that joint, what you got wrong with you?

I got somethin’ called Chronic Death.

That sounds bad.

2.     Two guys resuming an argument started earlier on the basketball court:

Man, you lucky I’m givin’ you a ticket!

A ticket?  What you talkin’ about mother_____?

A ticket, a pass not to whip your *ss.

(Laughing) N***er, you hand out more tickets than a State Trooper on a holiday weekend!

3.     Monologue, with buddy’s rejoinder:

I’m sick of this mother_____ing place, I gotta get transferred.  Ya see a g__damn lion can only take so much of these little punk *ss b**ch zebras and giraffes thinkin’ they run the jungle!  Talkin’ back and shit.  At the end of the day you gotta teach ‘em a lesson.  I’m ‘bout to go full on hyena on sum these mother____rs!

Hyena?  Thought you were a lion, dumbass!  Who ever heard of a lion goin’ hyena?

4.     Four guys in a group.  One explaining that he was out “bangin’” when someone shot into the car and he got nicked.  He laughs and asks, “Y’all know what that means?  In unison, the other three reply, “Freebody!”  (Later I asked a former gang guy what that meant.  Seems the concept of a freebody means they are justified in shooting back, thinking they won’t get arrested for a crime if they shoot in self-defense.  Thus, a “free body” for their street rep.  Yes, just in case you are as slow or naïve as I am, I asked for clarification that they do indeed mean killing the person, adding to their body count.)  By the way, I do understand that this is dark humor.  I find nothing funny about killing people; it’s just the sheer absurdity of it that amazes me.

In addition to these four anecdotes, I have overhead endless boasts about how rich-bad-tough-connected-dangerous, etc. inmates were on the outside, along with a string of former careers ranging from airline pilot to lead singer in a top band to professional bowler, Mormon minister, architect, writer, rapper, cartel leader, tv producer and more.  Who knows how much if any of it’s true?  But next time, I’m going to try to take my journal with me and jot down as many of these passing conversations as I can.