Orange is the New Black: A New Life
Chapter 3 - Alex
"You alright?" Diaz leans across the aisle and whispers.
"No talking," The marshal sitting shotgun orders, her voice calm, but clear.
"Demonios, ni siquiera puedo preguntar si está bien," Diaz mutters under her breath.
"I'm fine," I quietly reply . I stretch my injured leg towards the aisle and lean my head back against the seat and window. I close my eyes. I'm not alright. Not in the slightest. Everything hurts.
The bus hits a bump. Pain, which already grips my body, radiates throughout. My hand is a motley abstract balloon of blacks, purple, and yellow. It has nearly tripled in size and I suspect a bone or two is broken. I lift it. I rest it against the coolness of the window. ICE – ice, compression, elevation. I have none of those, but the window is cold, and feels soothing, sort of. Diaz is watching me. When she sees that I see her, she looks back out her barred window.
The ride is endless. The bus is a symphony of cacophonous jangles, rattlings, hums, buzzings, squeaks, knocks, and hisses that accentuate the rickety rocking and shakes that punctuate the whizzing lengths of mileage of roads, highways, and freeways. Lights and darkness streak through the widow's slits.I have no idea where we are headed. I can only imagine. It is cold. I am cold. I can't even cross my arms or hug myself for warmth. I touch the sausage-sized ring finger on my left hand. It should have a ring made from a large paperclip. It's naked. I want to lay down and curl up in a ball. I wish Piper were here. I want her to hold me, to hug me. I think of the way she held me the morning she found out she was being released.
I had gotten up and dressed. Piper was still in her bunk, asleep. Seeing her, I leaned against her jamb and watched. She looked at peace.
I love watching Piper sleep. It is better when she's in my bed after a long night of sex. I take the pieces of her that flow across the pillow and comb it with my fingers. I pull away strands that have fallen across her face and examine the softness of her closed eyes, her smooth cheek, her mouth, her lips. If I could only touch her, kiss her, have her do the same to me.
If … well in MAX we never had any of the chances we'd had up at the camp. I remember the morning she learned of her release almost six months ago. I was leaning on the jamb of her cell. She was sleeping on her back, her head turned to the side, her prison issued blanket pulled up tightly to her chin. Winter had ended, but early spring was still cold. I wasn't there long when she moved. Her eyes opened a tad and through the slits, she saw me.
"Are you watching me sleep? What time is it?"
I told her and she stretched and yawned.
"I haven't slept this well in months." Madison, Piper's cellmate and nemesis, had been leaving her alone.
I, on the other hand, could not sleep. "We are like yin and yang.".
Piper thought it was because she had spoken to the head CO, Hopper, about the drugs Madison tried to plant on her, but I knew it had more to do with the deal I'd made with Carol Denning, the psychopathic lollipop sucking boss of C-block, where Piper and I lived. Even here on the bus, I know that I had betrayed Piper's trust. I had promised to not get drawn into the bullshit between Carol and Barb, her sister, a drug-addled psycho, who headed the D-Block crew. I'd agreed to work for Carol if she kept Madison from messing with Piper and stealing her release date, which is, no, was, coming up in a few months. So Piper was sleeping better and I was sleeping worse.
"Come join me," she'd flipped open her blanket. "The water's fine."
"What and risk getting more shots," I'd reply, but sharing a bed with Piper in a horizontal position was too tempting. It'd been so long and even the memory makes my body ache, but in a good way, not how it actually feels.
So, against my better judgment, I joined Piper beneath her blanket. Piper pulled the blanket up and held me in her embrace.
"Isn't this nice," she rested her forehead against mine; her eyes closed.
I removed my glasses. "It would be nicer if you'd brushed your teeth." God, I could teach a class in sarcasm. Truth be told, despite her rancid morning breath, her arms felt good. They were heaven.
She breathed into and sniffed her hand. "I'm not getting it."
"Really? I'm getting Purina," which was what the dinner the night before had tasted like.
The COs started yelling for inmates to form a line. They threatened to hand out shots. Piper didn't want to go and in my memory, which is being hijacked by the false lies of dream, Piper's breath and what actually happened have become immaterial.
I am with her on the lower bunk. I roll over and press my lips against hers. They taste good. She giggles, we are being naughty. I kiss her again. When I pull back, her hand cups my head. She leans forward and takes possession once again of my lips. I press with my tongue and she welcomes it. I need more leverage, so I push, pressing her back into the thin mattress beneath us. My tongue dives deeper and she uses hers to caress and suck. I need air. She takes my hair and claims me again. Her mouth is relentless. Her hands pull me so close we are conjoined. Fuck air, I don't need to breathe. This communion is leading to ecstasy. I snake a hand under her shirt and locate one of my favorite playthings which I flick and massage, enjoying the malleability and silky texture. I look up at her. She is so aroused. Her limpid blue eyes track me, watching.
"I heart–"
The bus jolts and rocks wildly ripping me from my dream and sending me back to the horror show that is my battered body, the cold, my chains, and … and no Piper.
I am stiff and every bruise and battered bone has woken and they are screaming. I cannot inhale without agony. My hand throbs. The fishy ammonia perfuming my drenched shoes adds to my distress and my feet tingle from cold. I am cold. My neck is stiff and I have a headache. With tears stinging my eyes, I try to adjust my body, to stretch hoping that will alleviate some of my agony. right leg, shoulders, back. My left leg can't move at all as the seat in front has it trapped. I try to bend forward.
"Sit still, inmate." The guard in the rear cage is more stern than required.
Doesn't matter. What would normally provide relief, like a good morning stretch, causes misery. The obliques and the other muscles along my left side and down my back have erupted and spasm.I cannot move. I cannot breathe. I want to double over, but I can't.
"Vause?" Diaz asks.
"No," I say, I say through gritting teeth.
"Chica–" Diaz says gently.
"Inmate!" The guards in front and behind speak together.
"Diaz, drop it," I hold myself and my breath. I persevere through yet another spasm and I try to get my brain to focus. "Don't attract attention. Please, I'll be fine." Diaz watches me.
All too slowly the spasms dissipate and my body relaxes. I give her a thumbs up. She turns away and looks out the window.
I close my eyes. No moving, I take my respiration down – quiet – lessening the pain, I want to return to the memory of that morning in Max when I laid down next to Piper in her bunk. We are laying there. Piper's boxing me with her Purina-flavored halitosis. I know she had brushed her teeth the night before. She always wanders into my cell, which was next door to hers, while she does it. Sometimes, she even spits in my sink. I don't mind, though I like giving her a hard time, "Hey, you got your own fucking sink," I'd say.
"I like pretending."
"Pretending what?" I'd ask, though I already knew what she meant.
"Being married. Sharing a small bathroom in our apartment."
Each of us would spit again and I'd smile. I was looking forward to that day.
Still, that morning, the guards were calling for inmates to line up.
"We can be a lump." She pulled the blanket over our heads.
"This is a mistake," I warned as she shushed me. "You're hot boxing me with your breath." I complained.
"How, how am I hot boxing you?" she asked, making her h's sound like a hard German ch. The smell assailed my olfactory, but truth be told, I was enjoying her silliness. It was the first time I'd seen it in a long while.
Silly can have serious consequences in Max and when the blanket flew back exposing us, CO Hellman was standing over us. I thought we were going to get shots at the very least. He could have sent us to the SHU.
"Peek-a-boo," he flapped his fingers downward in a wave. "Throwing a slumber party? All that's missing is the shots." Yep, I was right.
"Oh, come on." Piper whined.
"Is that really necessary?" I asked, putting my glasses on.
"No licky fish in here unless I can watch and right now I have shit to do. Vause, get the fuck gone." I got up and headed out the door. "Chapman, you're coming with me."
What? I thought. Was she in trouble?
I looked back for one more glance as Hellman shewed me from the cell.
Piper was getting up. She asked Hellman, "Where? Do I have time to brush my teeth, because I apparently need to."
I wanted to stay to see what was going on, but Hellman can be a scary SOB. Now, Ferguson's made him the warden. If he tried to get retribution for the drugs I flushed. In a way, thinking about him, I am glad to be out of Litchfield MAX.
I go back and rewind the vignette. Piper's in her lower bunk. I am there with her. I want to roll over and kiss her like I'd done in my early dream. Skip the intro, our slow, sensual kissing, ooh that memory was so good. No, no rewind. I want to go back to that unwanted pause where our mouths intertwined and her perfectly sized breasts fit so perfectly into my hand, the hand now broken and aching—Please take me from this agony. I need to depart her back into my favorite fantasy. Transport me from this fucking reality of pain. I want to go there. That horrid cell and that dreadful bunk. Take me there, I will my brain; and, suddenly I am there. But when I roll over Piper's not there. Piper?
Reality beats back fantasy. My mind is back to that day. I see Hellman lead Piper and a small group away. They walk in a straight line. I didn't see where they went, except that they turned right. I didn't know. Were they going to the SHU? That didn't make sense. I took note of the other gals in the line. I'd never noticed them getting shots or causing trouble. Why take them? What had they done wrong? Piper had had six months to her sentence for supporting Taystee's negotiations and overseeing the installation of Soso's library to honor Poussey. In Max, she had kept her head down, spending time with me, going so far as to waste a couple hours in line with me as I waited to have a doctor oogle at my female parts. The only fly in her proverbial ointment was her crusade to make prison better by bringing kickball back and organizing a game. It was part of her fucking need to make amends for her past actions at camp when she .
Later, I learned Hellman had taken Piper and the others to see their counselors. There, Piper received the news. She needed to call someone. She was being released at noon the next day. She was getting out. It was such an abrupt, early release. It took both of us by surprise. She had three, no maybe, four months left. We had counted on having this time together.
Piper had been conflicted and troubled by the news. She didn't want to go and not because she loved prison. Hell and fuck, we both hate prison. She wanted to stay with me – to be with me, because she loved me. I told her that her early release was a good thing. It was good she was leaving prison. She would be free. Out.
I was a fucking idiot. If only she hadn't gotten early release and left prison, left me. I wanted her. I needed her. And, what did I do? I married her, then cheated on her, then tore out her heart. I told myself that I did it to set her free. She didn't want to go free. I told her to go away. I was such a fucking idiot. I am such a fucking idiot. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, repeats in my head like a bad song as it keeps time to the dismal whine of the bus. I bend and wipe my face with a sleeve. I gaze towards the window out through the slits between the grates. I can't see much. The night is still dark and the slats, no bars, block most of my view, but I watch anyway. What I see blurs as I dwell.
I touch the place where my stolen wedding ring once resided. It is mammoth and black like a burnt brat. So are the surrounding knuckles and everything close by. I cannot bend my hand. It is heavy and hot. It is retribution. All of the pain, all of the bruises and inflammation. I did this to myself. If I had listened to Piper. If I hadn't cheated. If I hadn't pushed her away. Pain of body. Pain of heart. Pain of soul. Pain everywhere. Pain. Pain. Pain. Piper has a beauty fish tattooed on the back of her neck. Back when we were originally together she got it to show me that life was about beauty. In response I had Life is pain tattooed on my arm. In retrospect, it's true and much more fitting. Life is pain. My life is a pain. I hate it. I wish I had a beauty fish.
The bus stops and three of the guards, the one in the cage in back, the woman on the front bench, and the older marshal in the front seat beyond the locked cage door, stand, zip their jackets tighter, pull down their beanies, and check their gloves. The young black marshal in back unlocks the door separating him from us, closes it, and joins those in front. The driver quickly opens the side door. The wind is brisk and sends flurries of snow through the opening. The guards exit with their heads down. Thankfully, the driver closes the door as he slips from his seat and takes up a position on the jumpseat. He holds a rifle in his hand, his stare icy.
The pain goes from excruciating to almost unbearable. I close my eyes. Slow deep breaths. I concentrate on only that. Hold the breath, then let it out slowly. I do this again and again. Focus on breathing. Focus on breathing.
Time passes and the driver reaches over to open the door. Four women wearing fucking BOP issue brown jackets appear climb in. Two of them, a black and hispanic woman, are stocky, the last black woman reminds me of Poussey. She is petite and super slim with just a little fuzz on her head. The final woman, a caucasian woman, is huge, tall and thick like Black Cindy, but with a girth that hangs towards her knees. She is larger than CO Copeland, who is morbidly obese. Her bulk will require someone to remove an entire bench. The two black women climb onto the bus and sit in the last empty row back by the cage. The Latina takes the seat next to Diaz. The bulky woman, I can see by her face, has a snarly disposition. She eyes me and then Betsey's location.
"Move," The woman motions for Betsy to squish herself against the window.
I can see Betsy's head. It angles up.
"I need to sit," the woman says.
I imagine Betsy's blank, uncomprehending gaze.
"Hey!" I hear her frustration.
"What's going on?" The female marshal intervenes.
"She needs to move so I can sit. My size. It will take part of her seat, too."
"The woman has dementia. Here," the marshal motions for the heavy set woman to move forward. She takes a step towards the back of the bus directly opposite my seat. I feel like I have to inhale and make myself thinner as her girth overflows into my space. The marshal coaxes Betsy from her seat, where she has been alone and moves her up a couple of rows and has her sit next to someone else. This time she has an aisle seat. "Now," the marshal motions for the large woman to sit. She moves back up to the front of the bus.
The woman squeezes into the seat. She has to be uncomfortable. Her legs, like mine, do not have room. What makes her situation worse is that her torso needs a shoehorn to wedge into the seat. I perform a double take at her ankles. She has clean white socks! Fuck Litchfield!
Meanwhile, Diaz has been whispering to the Spanish-speaking woman next to her.
The black marshal stops next to Diaz and the young latina, "No talking," he says.
"I just wanted to know where we are," replies Diaz in defense. "Why you gotta be so mean?"
"Because you're mouthy."
Diaz stares at him, almost defiantly. "You'd be mouthy too if you got taken 'way from your kids. I gotta protect them. They got drug dealers and shit all around them. I'm scared for them."
"Then you should have made better choices. Now, shut up. You got me," he adds more menace to his voice.
The marshals upfront chuckle.
"Yeah.," Diaz crosses her arms.
"LaFrond, chill," says the female marshal.
LaFrond looks back. "Sure thing, Russell," he flashes an impish smile. LaFrond unlocks and enters the cage.
"All present," the older male marshal says. He closes the cage door in front.
"Let's go," says the one called Russell.
The bus driver, who has already moved back behind the wheel, gets us underway.
Diaz twists to look around her new mate and says to me, "She says," referring to the Latinain front, "she's coming out of Danbury. Where's that?"
"Connecticut," I tell her.
"Fuck!"
"Quiet back there," commands the woman marshal.
Diaz lowers her voice. "Why we in Connecticut?"
"Federal women's prison, picking up inmates joining us for our little trip," I explain.
"We picking up more bitches?" she asks.
"Probably. Went through this when I went back to Chicago last year for my ex-boss's trial." I explain. Another spasm grips my side and goes into my back.
"She beat you hard."
"Yeah." I close my eyes and focus again on my breathing.
"You fuck her?"
"Yeah." I let my breath out slowly.
"Yeah. It don't pay to fuck with guards," she starts again, first twisting to share with me, but when the marshals demand quiet again, she quiets to a whisper and reveals her sorrows to the girl sitting next to her.
I close my eyes and concentrate on breath control and calming the pain.
"That Bennett did a number on my Daya. I tell you," I hear Diaz's story again as she explains to her new neighbor. This time she adds new details. "I think that's what turned her. She was sweet. Stupid, but sweet. Now she mean. Evil. She do drugs and got her little sister involved. Probably didn't help that I got Hopper bringin' 'em in and that I got thrown back in for destroying Eva's boyfriend's car. But, I just tryin' to get my kids out of foster care. Protect my kids. Keep Eva away from gangsters. She only thirteen. They with Hopper, but he got no job. Daya set us up and he got fired. Got caught fuckin' me. But, we'z together before I got thrown in here. Now he got no job. He a loser, too. Just like Bennett. Mess with guards, they screw you over. And now my man, Cesar, he workin' with Daya, too. I didn't want her in that life. I went to prison for him. So did Daya. He fucked her, too. Both of us went down for his shit. Now he gonna let Daya drag Eva in and then maybe even Christine and Emiliano."
Damn Diaz, she's been through a lot, but now, I understand the reason behind Piper's release in a new light and Madison's change in behavior. My agreement with Carol, stopped Madison from going after Pipes. Piper's turning the drugs Madison had planted on her into Hopper and her promise to find out where the drugs were coming from, that was the reason for the early release. The more I think about it, the more I know I'm right. The more I think about it, I realize just how lucky she was. Hopper could have thrown her into the SHU. He could have had her killed. He could have done any number of things. I had Hellman and McCullough; Piper had Hopper. Damn, Diaz is so right. Fucking guards. Fuck them all. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
We make several more stops, adding more women, each wearing a jacket and socks, but I find myself dozing off and on. What sleep I am receiving isn't restful, but it dulls the pain. We get on and off the freeway making a stop here for an inmate and another there. Except for the obese inmate, everyone ends up with someone to share their row with, including me.
When a black gal my age sits next to me, I am forced to pull my right leg in. My body screams as I make it more compact.
"Sorry," she says at my expression
"Guard at Litchfield beat her," Diaz says loudly.
"No problem," I say.
We are traveling northwest. I know this because the sky following the bus has gone from black to gray. At first the gray is darker liked smeared graphite from a number 2 pencil. Eventually, the gray is the gray of a drab winter day. It paints everything out the window. The falling snow comes at an angle. The wind is still blowing. It makes the bus shudder. Sometimes it's the cracks and potholes in the roads. Right now the surface feels smooth. We are on a freeway from what I can tell. Maybe Interstate 90. Did we go north or did we go back into New York or Pennsylvania? Who knows? Perhaps we're on 390? Or 86? I don't know and while my guessing game of Finding Vause kills time, I am totally clueless regarding our location. I close my eyes again. The bus jiggles wildly, like my cellphone on vibrate. My head jolts. I wake up. We are pulling onto an airfield. Ahead, I see a white 727 with a blue stripe on the fuselage. While I have no idea as to our location, I do know where we are: Welcome to Conair.
We file out of the bus. I am stiff and in the need of oiling, or maybe sex, but I hurt too much even for that, maybe. With Piper! Boy sex with her was a limbering experience. Fuck! I need to get that image out of my head, or at least until I am on the plane and seated. Maybe, maybe. Movies of our greatest hits would certainly take my mind off this goddamn odyssey and pain, but once again I would only remind myself of my fucking stupidity. Hell, it already does.
I see several buses and a number of large vans with their windows heavily grated or barred. Our marshals move us in a single file towards the plane where we join the end of a long line.
"Hey you stink," says the heavy set woman who unfortunately has to stand behind me. "I knew I smelled piss on the plane."
"Yeah, I know It's my shoes." I apologize.
"Shut the fuck up!" The young black marshal gives my shoulder a shove with the butt of his rifle.
"Damn it, LaFond. Enough of that," the older male guard reprimands. He speaks quietly, but his voice carries. "You're not going to last on Russell's bus if you don't cut out this aggressive macho crap.
I smile inside. Yeah. He'd make the perfect CO. Join Hellman, Hopper, and McCullough.
Marshals surround us. They wear warm jackets, hats with ear muffs, and thick black leather gloves. I have an undershirt, the orange jumpsuit, and stinky urine damp shoes. Nothing else. I am shivering as wind and snow wrap me in their icy grip. My fingers are red and tingle. My feet have felt cold, tingly, and numb most of the day. My feet are becoming a block of ice.
I look around a little. A terminal with a single concourse with a dozen gates lays ahead. To the west I see a wide river. South, three large beige stacks; two emit huge white clouds of what looks like steam. Three large metallic gray military-style planes sit on the tarmac while a line of 737's and a private jet are waiting for their turn to take flight from the runway. At the moment none are moving into position and I finally see why. An American Eagle floats in from the distance and lands. Even from our line the screech of the wheels touching down and braking and the roar of the engine cuts through the wind clawing at my face, arms, legs, urine-smelling, damp sockless feet.
The line moves slowly as each felon is searched. So stupid. Do they think we got hold of a weapon on the bus? Damn! I'm freezing! Damn I have to pee again. It's been a long time. Piper told me about her flight to Chicago. She had to pee so much that she did it with the guards watching. She used to hate to pee in front of me when we were together, before our first break up. Boy! How she's changed from that naive Laura Ingalls I first met. Fuck! Stop it. Those long locks she had back then. She'd used a curling iron so it had texture and waves. She was so delicious looking. Oh–Fuck, it's cold. Don't think about the cold. My back is spasming. My hand screams, as do my ribs, shoulder, hip, and leg. You idiot, don't think about the cold. Don't think about the pain. Think about Piper and sex with Piper. That'll take your mind off the misery. The pain might dissipate some. Piper is … was, no is hot. Boy we could sweat up the sheets. Damn that's not helping. I shiver hard.
"Hey, I wanna sit with you," says Diaz. She is in front of me. "At least I knows you and no one's gonna fuck with you."
"Quiet!" The guard shoves me.
I glare at him. Fuck! I wasn't even talking. What is it about CO's and marshals? Leave me the fuck alone.
Diaz turns back. "Fuck it's cold," she says. "No jacket! Not even a fuckin' blanket. What they want? Freeze us all to death?" She stares at the guard who now stands in her face. "Huh?" She wants an answer. "Our nuts'd fall off if we had any." She keeps pushing it. I want to tell her to knock it off before a marshal gives one of us, yes probably me again, another shove or worse.
Up ahead mayhem breaks out. I have not been paying attention, but suddenly, the old woman from Litchfield, Betsy Davenport, starts yelling and pushing. I cannot make out what she is saying, except the words "no", "take your hands off me", "leave me alone," "Didn't your mama teach you no manners? I ain't your wife!"
The marshal who shoved me moves up to see the cause of the fuss. Surreptitiously, I watch. "Okay, okay," an older male marshal says. "Hey Seaborn," he calls across the tarmac. "Get Acosta."
I see the marshal standing at the door stick his head inside. A moment later, a black woman of medium height and build comes down the stairs. She wears a frown and checks her gloves. "What do we have?" I hear her ask when she arrives.
"I think she would do better with you."
"Yeah. Hey, Grandma," Marshal Acosta takes Davenport's arm. She guides her gently aside, speaking to her in soothing tones. "It's cold out here." She turns to the marshal checking our line, "Where's her jacket?"
"Didn't come with one."
"Damn, all of these elderly," she says back to her colleagues. "This is the fifth time this month. Who's unloading their mental patients?"
"Litchfield."
She takes note of my fellow travelers."Damn private contractors," she says as she gently checks the old woman. "We gotta get you out of this cold. Can you open your mouth for me?" Good. "Let's get you warm, hon."
The line moves forward. The snow is falling more heavily and if it is at all possible, the wind has picked up. I am ice. My hands, fingers, my nose and ears tingle sharply; my feet and toes are on fire.
I watch Marshal Acosta help Betsy walk over to and up the stairway into the plane. At least one decent guard. Good. Betsy shouldn't be out like this. Doesn't matter what she did a century ago.
I think of Red and wonder how she's doing. Early onset Alzheimer's. For such a diminutive, but powerful woman. Mom to her clique. At one point, I was a daughter; Piper, too. Boy, she could cook. Given real, fresh ingredients. I remember the meal she made with the corn she grew in her garden at camp. Makes my mouth water. Now, she can't remember yesterday. Poor Nicky. Red and Lorna. Both are in B-block. Lorna's lost all sense of reality. Nicky loves both of them so much. Now she's "mom" and runs the kitchen at Polycon's new immigrant detention facility. That's what Ms. Linda Ferguson turned our old camp into after the riot. Fucking bitch. Piper and I should have left that bitch to be swallowed up by the riot. Let everyone know who she was right from the start. They should have kept her in Cleveland. That's funny, I muse. Linda Ferguson, the Counterfeit Cunt of Connecticut, pretending to be an inmate doing time for forgery during the riot when in reality she was the Head of Purchasing for MCC. She was responsible for the horrible food, the four bunks to a cube, the slave labor. She ended up being Boo's bitch and when Boo discovered who she really was and spilled the beans, the inmates let her have it.. She'd wound up in Cleveland after the riot. That's where I'm going. It makes me smile, just a little. I could actually think about her and laugh instead of thinking about how my toes are probably frostbitten or will be before I get on the plane, but fuck her! Fuck her! Maybe if she'd actually given us edible food, descent COs, and had not made Litchfield as crowded, the riot would have never happened and life would not be this fucked up mess.
I move forward. I have almost reached the front of the line. Diaz is still complaining. The younger marshal tells her in a very low voice that he's going to muzzle her if she doesn't shut up. They stare at one another and as he walks away, she spits. He instantly turns around.
"Got some snot caught in my mouth. My nose's runny 'cause it's freezin'," she says.
He stares some more and then walks away. He stops and speaks to the older marshal conducting the searches. When Diaz reaches the front of the line for her search, the marshal comes back with a muzzle and against her protests puts it on her.
I am next and go through the search process with only a little humiliation. I pull myself up the steps and board the plane, pass by the marshal at the door and enter into the main cabin, the only cabin. This is definitely not first class. Or business class. It doesn't even make the grade for coach; the seat spacing is strictly economy.
The women are situated in the front of the plane. Behind them, making up more than three-fourths of the flight manifest, sit more than a hundred men. My biggest take away, all the men have jackets. The men have jackets. Even most of the women. The ones without jackets are those of us who came from Litchfield. Why didn't we get jackets? Why didn't Litchfield give its women jackets? Was it Linda Ferguson? Fuck her! Fuck PolyCon! Fuck Copeland, McCullough! Fuck all of them!
The men are hooting and hollering for each woman as she boards, making obscene remarks. I guess they want us to feel welcome. When they start on me I want to shout, "I'm a dyke fools. Always have been. Always will be. Grow some tits and a pussy, maybe I'll take an interest."
I keep my head down and follow the marshal's orders. I see they've placed Betsy on an aisle seat three rows back from the door. Diaz is on the aisle across from Betsy. She is still in the muzzle. What little I see of her face is angry and I see tears in her eyes. The marshal pushes me down the aisle to the eleventh row, right in front of a row with three middle-aged men displaying tattoos on nearly every inch of their bodies. One is clean shaven and the other two sport beards of medium length. One of the bearded guys is bald. Tattoos cover his scalp. I count three swastikas.
A short, round Latina woman occupies the seat next to the window. She watches me with a querulous expression as I sit in the middle seat. She looks away and stares out the window when I look down at her.
"Can't I have an aisle seat?" I ask. "My legs."
"There are two left. You get this one."
The marshal takes a few steps back and waits for the next, presumably the last inmate to get on board. Oh, no.
The obese woman from the bus shuffles down the aisle.
The marshal pats the seat next to me, indicating it is hers.
I feel sorry for her. I mean her girth makes traveling hard and the big women I know have such a difficult time. I know, but she can't have the aisle seat next to me. No, fucking way, no! No, no, no, no. "Hey, isn't there any way I can get an aisle seat?" I ask just before the woman sits. "There's no leg room."
"You can sit with me," offers the guy behind me.
"Me, too," says his friend with the swastika on his head..
I ignore both of them and plead my case to the marshal, "I'm nearly six feet tall. I need leg room." I don't mention the bruises, possible broken ribs and hand, or my need to pee.
"You get what you get. We're not Delta or American Airlines."
The huge woman squeezes into her seat. The armrests are not supposed to have any give to them, but the one between her and me pushes into my side where there is a bruise. It isn't the worst bruise, but it could be by the time we get to where we, or she, is going. When we do eat, there will be no room for her tray and when she sets her fleshy left arm on the arm rest it is in my lap. So are other parts of her body; her hips ooze beyond the contours of the bottom cushion and her waist spreads out to her arms. I feel trapped and if I were claustrophobic I would be like Betsy and having a complete panic attack.
If the obese woman were actually a paying customer, she'd have had to pay for two seats. One of Kubra Balik's couriers had to do that. Ahmet something. He met Fahri, my handler, and me once in Java to pick up some cash. Ahmet was a huge guy. Six seven or eight, built like a sumo wrestler. We met at a bar and had drinks and dinner. At dinner he described his flight from Istanbul. He was a good natured fellow and doing well so he had purchased both seats in front of the midsection exit. Yes, sure he'd help little old women during an emergency landing, but the younger women, he laughed, might get a little extra, if we knew what he meant. But seriously, the airlines always made him buy two seats. He couldn't fit in a single seat. Later, Fahri told me that Ahmet had left the organization. He had borrowed some money he thought Kubra wouldn't miss. I wondered if Aydin had helped Ahmet leave. He'd helped Fahri retire and then me, almost. It might have been someone else, but I doubt it. Aydin was Kubra's go to guy. I wondered if Kubra has a new go to guy. Would he, or she, Kubra is an equal opportunity kind of employer, follow me to Cleveland?
Now that I think about it, I should have mentioned needing to go pee.
The door to the plane closes.
"Hey," I call to the closest marshal, the one who told me that I was not flying Delta. "I really have to pee."
"You'll have to wait until we're at altitude." He grins and walks down the aisle to the back of the plane.
The stairs are moving out of the way and the plane is rolling and quickly builds up speed. It turns onto the thoroughfare that will take us to the runway.
"Hey, welcome to the friendly skies of the National Prisoner Transportation System, fondly referred to as Conair, except you will not find Nicolas Cage, John Malkovich, Danny Trejo, Ving Rhames, Steve Buscemi, Mykelti Williamson, or Dave Chappelle in any of the seats. Instead the only passengers are you. However, if a movie is made about this flight, I will be played by Channing Tatum." The marshal standing in front with the microphone thinks he is a comedian. Though truth be told, he does have a slight resemblance to Tatum or Dwayne Johnson, as the marshal has a shaved head and a short thick neck. "Likewise, I am not a flight attendant. On this flight you will not have any form of entertainment, except staring at the seat in front of you or taking a nap. Some time today we will serve a meal. You may or may not be on the flight when it comes. Oh, and don't ask when it's coming. We will feed you when we feed you. Follow orders and we will all get along. Now, make sure that your seat belt is fastened. We will be coming around to check."
I click the ends of the seat belt together and manage to tighten the belt without the pain flaring too much. I sit back, close my eyes, and try to put all that has happened in the past few days, today, and now out of my mind. Maybe I'll take option two of our entertainment choices and try to sleep a little. I wish Piper was sitting next to me. We could hold hands. We would talk, share music, read or watch the inflight movie; eventually, her head would rest on my shoulder and then my head on her head. We have fallen asleep like this on flights before. If she were next to me now, instead of the large woman, perhaps we could figure out a way to hold hands. I want to hold her hand so badly. Stop it! I tell myself. I can't. The memory of those times is so sweet and right now I miss them. I miss her. I don't want to be here.
"Hey." A hand shakes me. I start. The marshal, who just completed the standup routine, is staring at me. "Lift your hands." I must be staring at him like some dumbass. He adds, speaking as if I am a kid. "I need to see the seatbelt."
I raise my hands.
"Must be tired. You fell asleep fast," says the heavy woman next to me.
"No, just thinking," I reply, "Zoned out."
The woman huffs as if she doesn't believe me and looks off into space as we taxi to the runway. The Latina next to me fixes her eyes out the window. I do too, what little I can see. The plane rumbles and lifts and takes off. I continue looking at the ground. I don't know where we are. New York? No, I think I saw cars with Pennsylvania license plates. Pennsylvania, yet I can't help feeling, this is really it. The bus took me away from Litchfield and any possibility of Piper coming up to the prison to fight for me. Now, as I look down over the landscape, I feel deep down that I'm leaving for good. I will never see New York, or Piper, ever again.
I hope it won't take too long to reach altitude. I really have to pee. However, it isn't even ten minutes and I notice that the plane's nose is angled down. What is this? The next thing I know we are landing. From the sun, I see it is a small airport, even smaller than the airport we just left. Once we land, as I look out the window, this isn't even an airport. It's just an airfield.
Outside, inmates stand in formation. They are wearing jackets. Four marshals deplane once the stairs are fixed and the door opens. The marshal who had searched us walks up the aisle and starts calling names. As he does this, the other marshals shift prisoners so those sitting in the middle and next to windows can get out of their rows. Soon several dozen men file out of the plane. A few cannot leave without making obscene remarks to the women. Some of the women, especially the younger ones, respond back. When those prisoners are on the bus, the men in the formation begin the process of being searched and boarding the plane. Most board silently and make their way to the recently emptied seats. Some shout greetings as they see old friends and acquaintances and others invite the women they see to join them in one sexual activity or another; several invite me. I try to ignore them, but when a few refuse to shut up, I shout. "Sorry guys, this gal only eats pussy. No dicks." I cough and grab my aching side.
"You haven't tried my dick," one of the guys grabs his crotch.
"Don't need to. My wife is choice," I respond through my grimace.
"I bet I can turn her," he challenges.
God, I hurt, but what the fuck, "Oh, but you'd never satisfy her –"
Acosta, the female marshal stops in front of our row. "Inmate, quiet".
"- the way I do." My voice trails off. I can't breathe. It hurts so much. I should have stayed quiet.
My seatmates are staring at me. I try to steady my aching sides and back. That was so stupid. Who are you proving yourself to?
"Are you all right?" asks the large woman on my right.
I nod.
"Your hand?"
"Everywhere." I look straight ahead and close my eyes.
"You must have made someone angry."
"Oh, yeah."
Satisfy Piper? Fuck you, Vause. All you did was ruin her life. I look at my throbbing boxing glove-sized hand. I touch the blackened left ring finger."My wife," I say in a whisper.
We are back in the air. This flight lasts about half an hour. This airport is large. The skyline looms in the distance. I recognize it. We're in Philadelphia. Both men and women deplane. There is a federal court in the city. Most are probably going to some kind of hearing or trial. Fewer replace those who have gone and again, in less than 30 minutes, we are taxing for a place to take off. I see planes five deep in the queue. We wait for planes to land. Half an hour later we are back in the sky and I still have not gone pee. I really need to go.
This flight is longer and I can finally catch the eye of a marshal walking up the aisle. Problems immediately large woman next to me needs to lift herself from her seat and move so I can go up to the bathroom. Secondly, Diaz and other women, and men have the same need. Oh, there's a third one, the bathrooms have no doors.
The female marshal manages the twenty-three women in front and the male marshals take care of the men, who use the three bathrooms at the back of the plane. The entire flight is taken up with everyone going to the restroom. We are descending for our next stop, when I finally return to my seat and snap on my seatbelt. My heavy neighbor, having decided that she would use the restroom too, is the last to sit.
I turn my head and look out the window. Another small regional airport is my guess. This one is in a valley surrounded by low rounded mountains covered in trees and snow. The wind is less brutal and the flurries I see are more delicate. The scene out the window as we land is more picturesque. The heavier snows have either bypassed this region or it is late enough now that it is at the tailend.
I have no idea where we are, but we do not stay long. We land and drop off four men and pick up two. Within twenty minutes, we are back in the air.
Another short hop. We are back on the ground in thirty minutes. About a dozen women get off and we pick up eight. I hear someone answer an inquiry that they were coming in from Alderson. I think that's where Yoga Jones was before the BOP moved her to Litchfield. She said Alderson was much nicer. That was where celebrity chef and lifestyle specialist, Judy King, was supposed to have gone, but she had wanted to stay closer to the Big Apple and elected to spend her incarceration at Litchfield, much to the delight of Taystee and Poussey. If she had gone to Alderson, she would have missed out on the riot and the trauma it brought to her psyche. I don't know. I never really met the woman. I saw her around, usually in the cafeteria or with Black Cindy and some of her friends. I heard a rumor that someone took a photo of them kissing. I'm sure Healy loved that. The homophobe.
Back in the air, we fly about forty minutes and land at another small airport. No terminal. We drop off and pick up men. I am half asleep and only peek. Before I wake totally, we are back in the air, only to land a half an hour later. This time I don't open my eyes until my neighbor extracts herself from her seat with a grunt and leaves. Immediately, I unbuckle my seatbelt and take her seat. I stretch my right leg out. I am almost in heaven. I stretch and the spinal column pops in some of the right places. For a couple of seconds my body feels marginally better. I sigh and close my eyes.
After take off, the marshals serve lunch. It isn't much: a dry turkey sandwich with cheese, apple slices, a chocolate chip cookie, and a box of juice. Perfect for five year olds or most of the men, who dig in happily. Most of the women do, too. I am so hungry I would eat a jar of generic baby food.
It does come with a little packet of mayonnaise. The pouch is nearly impossible to open. I cannot grasp it to rip it open. I bend over and use my teeth. Finally, I give up. I cannot lift the food with my hands to my mouth. I graze like a cow. Overcoming the pain of breathing and spasms, I bend my head to the tray table and take my bites from there. It's not Shake Shack or a dish of coco vin, but I am starving. It's been more than twenty-four hours since my last meal. I know this because the sun which shines through the window opposite me, is riding low. It will be setting soon.
I toss the wrappings and cartons into one of the plastic bags the marshals hold out for trash. I push up my tray. It has been a day I want to forget, but it's still not done. I close my eyes. I really don't want to think at all, but the constant misery of my wounds, physical and emotional, just won't let me be. For some reason my brain decides to compare this trip with my last excursion on Conair. My trip from Litchfield to Chicago for Kubra's trial two years ago was very similar. However, I had no pain, I didn't smell of urine, and my only worry was making sure that Kubra wouldn't kill me and I guess Piper.
Just before Christmas, I had broken up with Piper. Even though she said she loved me, she had chosen Larry, her fucking fiance, over me. For some reason, Larry had decided to come and see me one Saturday during visiting hours. He had warned me that I needed to stay away from her. He had blamed me for pulling Piper back into my orbit. I set him straight. It had been Piper who drug me to the chapel and in a frenzy had kissed me. I, of course, had enthusiastically dove into our affair. When Larry broke off their engagement, and I told Piper to fuck off, Piper went nuts. As a result she had spent Christmas and the first part of January in SHU for breaking most of Pennsatucky's teeth with her fists. A psycho hillbilly, 'Tucky, as she was known by her meth head followers, had put a fatwa on Pipes when she backed out of letting the evangelical, faith-healing nut-job baptize her. After the inmate Christmas pageant, as Pipes later confirmed, 'Tucky had challenged her with a crucifix sharpened into a stake. Piper's strength, size, and the impromptu defense training provided by the friends she had made in the ghetto dorm where she lived, had given her the win. When I saw Piper in Chicago, she was certain that she had been sent to Chicago to face murder charges. I had informed her that 'Tucky was alive and well.
When I told her that she had been sent to Chicago to testify in Kubra's trial, I argued that we needed to lie about knowing Kubra. Kubra would issue a fatwa of his own. It was also the only way I could keep her safe. I told her that I was going to lie, but I failed at that. My lawyer had gotten me a deal. I tried to get the deal for Piper, but failed. Everyone told me that the case was a slam dunk. Kubra was going down. So, I told the truth. At the end of my testimony, Kubra wanted me dead and he sent Aydin to Litchfied to do the job.
"This prison would hire fuckin' Forrest Gump," Aydin had said when he confronted me in the greenhouse. "They were surprised to find someone who was qualified."
"You don't have to do this," I pleaded with him. After all, we were friends. We had hung out.
"Actually, I do," was his reply.
He overpowered me and had his belt around my throat. He was choking the life out of me, my struggling, making not a bit of difference. I felt rather than heard the door open. Someone kicked Aydin. As I scrambled back, I saw Lolly. She had gone from kicking to stomping on Aydin's neck and head. We thought he was dead and answered Kubra's texts on Aydin's phone by sending him proof of my supposed death, including a shot of me "dead" with my boobs hanging out. When I returned later that night to bury him, I discovered that Aydin, though he could not move, was still alive. It was then I suffocated him.
I have wondered if Kubra ever believed the photos we sent on Aydin's phone. If he didn't, why hadn't he tried again. I think about that. What does he think happened to Aydin? Does he know Aydin's dead? Did forensic analysis ever uncover the identity of the unknown guard? And Lolly? Did her confession make news? Had he seen that? What of Aydin's cousin, Haluk? They were close. Doesn't he, or Kubra, ever wonder why they haven't heard from him? Have they pieced together the mystery and know Aydin is dead and that I'm the one who actually killed him or does Kubra really think I'm dead? If not, are Haluk or Kubra simply biding their time waiting for the moment to end my life? Kubra, if he is simply waiting, when will he try again? What if he decides to get to me through Piper. Is Piper really safe? Does he know where Piper is?
Piper is safe, I tell myself. She has to be safe. Another excellent reason for her to find someone else. I need to keep her safe. Kubra knows I love her. Would he use Haluk? No, Haluk isn't a hit man. If Haluk wants revenge, if he thinks Aydin is dead, then maybe. Again my circular thinking has me spinning and when I throw Piper into the mix, I am happy I broke up with her, but I miss her, and I wonder if she is really safe? Maybe she would be safer with me. I can protect her. Can I? Without me, she has no clue. She can be so clueless. Piper needs me to protect her. I need Piper. Piper. Vause, shut off your fucking brain!
The plane descends again. We land, exchange male prisoners, taking more than we give, and take off again. After another hour, we land again. The routine has become monotonous, like riding the subway where no one pays any attention, except to their own particular stop. In this case, since I don't know where we are going – I know I'm going to Cleveland, but Conair never has direct flights– or where we are I have no idea what I need to notice. We could be headed to Siberia for all I know.
The head marshal has his clipboard and as the door opens he starts reading names. I have my eyes closed. My mind has started another loop of "the greatest hits of sex with Piper," but then I hear Diaz, who had her mask removed so she could eat, say quite loudly, "What the fuck! Where are we?"
"Huh," I was getting to a good part. My eyes open and I see Diaz stepping into the aisle. What the fuck? Marshal Acosta is helping Betsy up from where she has been sitting.
"Vause, Alex."
"What?" I say to myself. I glance out the window. We are nowhere near Cleveland. We are in the South somewhere. There is no snow and I see people wearing windbreakers.
"You get off here."
"I'm going to Cleveland," I say.
"We need your seat. You get off here."
"Where is here?" I ask. How is Piper ever going to find me? I say to myself and then I remember. I gave Piper her freedom. She won't care. She won't be waiting for me to call her from Ohio. No one will be waiting. Mom is dead. My dad thought I might make a good lay and is probably dead from taking too many drugs, smoking, drinking, or driving into a tree. Who knows? Who cares? Mom was so wrong about him. He wasn't a god. He was barely a man anyone would enjoy knowing, a fucking embarrassment. I feel like crying. Instead, I release my seatbelt and like a tin woman left outside to rust, I stand with the grace of an ancient arthritic crone and shuffle up the aisle and out the door. I look up at the dark sky. The airfield's lights are strong enough to highlight a smattering of puffy gray-white clouds. I pause and take a deep breath. It's in the fifties. The air is calm. I need a jacket, but little more. At least I am not freezing into a block of ice as I clamber slowly down the stairs and head to the van Betsy is being helped into. A bus next to our van opens and empties thirty or so men. They are getting my seat, our seats.
Very quickly, our new guards complete a head count and fasten our chains so we cannot move from our seats. The driver starts the engine and we roll away from the tarmac onto a small road that leads to the outer gates of the airport.
"Where are we going?" asks Diaz. I wonder the same thing.
"Tonight's luxury hotel accommodations," is the reply from the driver, who exchanges a laugh with the guard seated in the co-pilot's chair.
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