Orange is the New Black: A New Life Chapter 13
Alex
I am wondering if this could be Lake Erie.
"That's a big lake," says Diaz. She and Montoya peer over my shoulder.
I see a large body of water, a lake, and some tall buildings in the distance. I know Chicago's skyline and what I see out Diaz's window is not Chicago. I don't think it's Detroit either.
"I think it's Erie," I reply.
"What?"
"Lake Erie. I think that's Cleveland over there."
"Finally," Montoya sighs.
"Yeah, we been ping ponging all over the place," replies in her usual style.
"Home," I sigh.
"Not my home. My home's New York," Diaz asserts with defiance.
"Yeah," says Montoya. "You have kids."
"Right," I exhale. I don't have anyone, so I don't care any more. Cleveland, Oklahoma City, or Timbuktu, I simply want to stop this odyssey and uncertainty.
The plane continues its descent. I survey and take note of the lakes, rivers, highways, track homes, and trees. Snow covers most of the landscape and ice covers part of the lake. The plane rocks and we circle again. I adjust my back and legs. I didn't want this window seat, but when Diaz got up to use the bathroom after we took off from Oakland, the marshal insisted that the window seat should become mine. My height and bruises did not dissuade him. Luckily, we have made no stops since California.
The more I look at the landscape below and further the plane descends, I feel hope spark. It's not like I'm on holiday or going to see a relative or friend. I'm not even meeting one of my former mules moving Kubra's heroin or cash. It's just another fucking prison, but this time I will not be a simple guest. I will have a cell and I will be able to buy some decent shampoo and soap with the meager funds in my commissary. I'll be someplace where I can keep my head down, read, maybe even get a job. I'll even know two of the inmates, Diaz and Montoya. As annoying as Diaz can be, I have grown fond of her and Montoya, with her greenish black hair and even temperament. Maybe we'll be placed in the same cell block.
The plane looks is on its final approach. The runway is somewhere ahead and the ground is coming up fast as we fly over homes, churches, parking lots, roads, and trees. I see the runway come up under the plane and feel the tires as they make contact with the tarmac. The plane bounces and then grips the runway as the engines roar.
"We're here." Diaz pats my arm.
"Yes," I look at my friends.
I bite my lip. Nerves and apprehension. I feel sad now, too. The move is real. I am here. Maybe I here. Maybe it will be better.
The plane comes to a final stop on the tarmac. The door open to a portable stairway. A marshal with the clipboard starts calling off names in alphabetical order. Mine is the last read.
Diaz and Montoya have already filled out the door. I stand and shuffle to the door where a blast of cold air, which has already blown into the plane, assaults me further. Thirteen names, this is a big group. It is afternoon. The sky is clear and bluer than blue. Leaving the plane, the sun stings my eyes. I need a pair of sunglasses or a hat with a wide brim. I try to shade my eyes with my hands, but the chain between my cuffs and waist are too short. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, but only for a moment. I cannot walk blindly. I don't want to fall, look stupid, as Diaz would say, or injure something else.
We are guided to a waiting bus, where five women wait to the side for their turn to be searched and continue our flight. We get on the bus. I am given another window seat. My legs have not fully recovered from the plane. I look out the window through the bars. Just another out of the way area of an airport. The engine starts and the bus rolls.
We exit onto a freeway and quickly merge onto another freeway. The sign is a red, white, and blue shield with 480 painted in white. The road bustles with traffic. The bus moves slowly. I catch part of a sign for Brooklyn Heights. I chuckle. This is definitely not New York. Nothing similar, except for the cold. We exit onto another freeway. I have no idea which one until I catch an part of an interstate sign with two sevens in white. Eventually, we exit. I see bits of scenery, which consists of trees and passing vehicles. I see signs for a nature preserve. We turn left and then left again. We ride a bit more until we stop and idle. I hear the hum and rattle of a large gate opening. The bus starts up again. I have arrived.
Prisons are pretty predictable. Hurry up and wait. We are ushered into processing and immediately placed in cages. Diaz and Montoya are together with a handful of fellow bus riders and I am in a second cage with the rest. I sit on a bench and proceed to wait. The wait does not take long. Our holding pen is the first to go through processing. We strip and perform the open, lift, squat, pull cheeks, cough, hair search and then are given clothes to put on. A CO hands me a dark blue pair of pants and top. I hope the color does not signify a specific gang. I've had enough of the likes of Carol. I want no drama.
Granny panties, combat white bra, long-sleeved white undershirt, white socks, slip on and blue canvas shoes eventually all move to pick up a mattress, blankets, pillow, extra clothes and undergarments, a jacket, and a light gray beanie. All of this, except the mattress, goes into a large bag made from the standard fishnet fabric. We stop, get our pictures taken, and are handed new IDs, which we clip to our shirts. My picture isn't bad. I attach mine to the shirt pocket. In a line, we follow four COs into the heart of the prison. We pass offices and closets until we arrive at an hexagonal intersection where six hallways meet. This includes the hall we are in. The lead CO, a tall female linebacker with long reddish hair who could be in her early fifties, reads from a clipboard. Blackburn, Smith, Quarles, Oakes go with CO Foster to Block A. Black, tall and physically fit, he has a runner's body, CO Foster leads the four women, two white and two black, down the hall directly on the right. Just in case someone should be confused, a large A is painted on the walls and hallway tiles.
The lead CO reads a list of four more names, this time a Latina and two blacks, and sends them with a CO to Block B. They proceed down the next hallway on the right. Block C is next. Four more head in that direction. Diaz, Montoya, an Asian looking woman, and I are the only ones left. The lead CO tells us to follow her. We head down the hallway with D on the walls and floor. We pass the infirmary. The hallway makes a jag, and we walk by two doors. One of the doors is open as I pass. I look inside and recognize the face watching the transferees walk by. The nameplate on the desk re-enforces my discovery. Berdie Rogers. Petite, kind in an irritating way, African-American woman, rises from her desk and comes out into the hall.
"CO McGowan."
The CO has us pause and goes back to Rogers. "Rogers," she is smiling.
"I would like to speak to Vause," she says.
"What's that about?" asked Diaz. "I recognize her."
"She was my counselor at Camp before MCC. I guess BOP transferred her. I wondered why she disappeared." We continue eavesdropping.
"We have another transfer from Litchfield." McGowan points at Diaz.
"I didn't have her, but sure."
"You have a thing for Litchfield transfers?"
"I feel like I was forced to abandon them. Thanks."
"See them after dinner?"
"Sure and any one else."
"With Henry out, you might get all four."
"Fine."
We continue. The hall makes another jag and we end up at D. The heavy doors roll open. The metal crunches and clangs as it does so.
"Inside, ladies," says the CO. Two COs walk over to the CO bring us in. The block is a near cookie cutter of what I left back in New York. There are two levels of cells on four of the six walls. This wall has an opening and there is a second opening that leads to the showers. Tables with attached stools fill the floor space. Women fill the tables. They watch us. We're new curiosities. Our arrival breaks the tedium and boredom. "Okay ladies this is your new home." The occupants at a long table back by the right-hand stairs leading to the second level point and speak with animated gestures. I see faces I recognize. I can't believe it. I give them a small smile. "De la Cruz," McGowan reads from her clipboard. "Cell 231. Diaz - 105." Diaz gives the young woman a look, sizing her up. "Montoya - 217. Vause - 207."
I carry my bag of stuff and head over to the stairway and the table of friendly faces.
"Hello, Vause." Romano holds up a small notebook. She was one of Red's best friends, but unlike her more boisterous friend is mostly introverted and doesn't speak, but I have heard her sing. She has a beautiful voice. She wears her strawberry blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and her large brown eyes are kind. She gives me a smile.
"Vause, why are you here?" asks Murphy, one of Red's prison daughters. She is short with a boyish haircut and scars that run up her neck and arms from a fire set off in an oven filled with cooking oil.
"Transferred," I answered.
"And Chapman?"
"Out," I say. I work to keep my face neutral.
"Diaz, too." DeMarco gives Diaz the eye. Anita DeMarco was another member of Red's family. She join the Litchfield community when Red did more than a decade ago. Like Murphy, she is short with short brown hair. Unlike Murphy, who has a waifish build, DeMarco looks like an Italian nonna. She also has a heart condition and uses a machine to help her breathe at night.
"Yeah," she answers as she and Montoya join me at the table.
"So why did they transfer you?" asks Jones. Like Murphy she is petite, but a little taller. In her fifties like DeMarco, she has short choppy blonde hair and at camp was the prison yoga instructor. Whenever she encounters a newbie, she always tells them that they should think of prison as a mandala. That they should work hard to make something as beautiful and meaningful as they can, and when they're done, they can pack it in and know it, meaning prison, was all temporary. She gave me the speech and when Piper showed up, she gave it to Piper, too. She and DeMarco were among the first to befriend Piper when she came to camp, them, Nichols, and Moreno, Nichols' love and occasional fuck partner.
"I tried to strangle Daya," says Diaz without hesitation.
"Wow!" Boo guffaws. Boo, whose surname is Black, is a short, dark-haired, heavyset, confident butch whose sarcasm and love of pussy is equal to my own. While I am more selective and enjoy a more monogamous lifestyle, Nichols, she will go after every gal who catches her fancy, especially if she thinks they are pretty. There was a time at camp when she and Nichols competed against one another to see who could fuck the most inmates.
"And you, Vause," asks DeMarco?
"Guard, trouble," I murmur, trying to be nonchalant.
"Let me tell you." Diaz drops the bag with her stuff. "This chica is the dumbest gringa I ever met."
"Diaz," I want her to stop. "It's not any of their business."
"Fuck that," Diaz replies.
"Yeah," Boo leans in.
"Let me tell you. She been depressed and crying," she emphasizes the later word, "because she cheated on Chapman, her wife," she adds emphasis on wife.
"Wife?" DeMarco questions.
"Vause, you fuck 'em., not marry them."
"Did you go through Caputo?"
"No. It wasn't legal," I mumble.
"Let me tell you. Then she cheats on Chapman with a guard."
"No," the choir mutters.
"Who was it?" asks Murphy
"Was it Fisher? Nichols tried to get her."
Jones interrupts Boo, "No, she was gone before the riot."
"Who was it then?" asks DeMarco.
"That tall blonde," Diaz answers. I am cringing.
"Who?" asks DeMarco.
"Bayley?"
"No. Not the baby face guard."
Boo snaps her finger. "The one held hostage?" She asks me.
I shrug. "I was outside when that garbage went down."
"I was out," adds Diaz.
"McCullough," chimes Murphy.
"Yeah, McCullough."
"I remember her," Boo nods. "Good one, Vause."
"Not good," I stare at Boo.
"So Piper broke up with you?" asks Jones.
"No!" exclaims Diaz. "This chica tells blondie-"
"McCullough," DeMarco tilts her head.
"No, Chapman," Diaz enunciates.
"Blonde must be your type," Boo tells me.
"What did you tell Chapman," asks Jones.
"I told her to go," I admit.
"And then that McCullough had Vause here transferred."
"Why?" asks Murphy.
"I broke up with her," I say.
"And then when we go, McCullough beat her bad– back, side, legs, hand–and she stole her wedding ring and then this week a guard beat her again when she tried to help me after I was hit. They put her in solitary and she had this," she points to my face, "this morning. It's took us two months to get here. You should see what we got put through. We," she motions to us-me, Montoya, and herself, "probably got PSPD."
"You mean PTSD?" Jones corrects.
"Yeah, that. We got it. PTSD. Fuck! We probably all got it.
"Shit!" replies Murphy.
"Fuck you, Diaz!" I snatch my bag and head up the stairs.
"You're welcome!" Diaz yells back at me. "You need help. Your friends. They can help. I tried."
D-207 is near the end on the far left wall. I climb the stairs and head for my new home.
The cell is neat. There is a bunk. The lower level is made up in typical Litchfield fashion. That means I'm on top. A ladder on the far end gives access to the top. Drawers welded to the lower bunk provide storage. Opposite the beds is a desk with a pull out stool. The desk has a couple of books and nothing else. I drop my stuff on the floor and lean my head against the top bunk. I close my eyes. Tears loom in the background, but they don't fall.
"Hey, bunkie." Yoga Jones appears at the cell door.
I push back from the bed.
"I hope you don't mind taking the top. I had it when I first got here. My last bunkie was a real cranky ass, thought of herself as queen of the block. So, I just gave way." I grab my thin mattress and fling it up on the top bunk. My side and back spasm. "Need help."
"I got it. Thanks." I throw the blanket on the bed and work on making it so that it passes inspection, Litchfield style. It's what I'm used to. "Your bunkie?" What happened?
"Time up. Paroled. I don't know. One day she was here and the next she was gone. We never really talked. I tried, but she didn't, so there. When she left, I moved to the bottom. You can have it if your back–"
"I'm okay." I quietly interrupt.
"What about your back?"
"Mostly my ribs."
"So you married Chapman." Now she's hit the topic I know she wants me to talk about.
"It wasn't legal." Jones says nothing. I sigh. "Piper wanted to get prison married and her release came as a surprise, so I managed to get in touch with Nicky."
"How is she?"
"Alone."
"What happened to Red? Lorna? No, finish. Tell me about Chapman."
"Well, Lorna was there. She stood in as a witness. Piper and I recited our vows; I had time to write mine. For Piper, the wedding and seeing Nicky and Lorna was sort of a surprise."
"Surprise?"
"Yeah. It was my gift to her. She was leaving that day, later that morning in fact."
"Was the wedding just for her?"
"No," I say quietly. "I got the girl in the end. She loved me and I love her. So I had Nicky marry us. It wasn't legal, but in my heart," I pause and take control of my emotions. "I blew it. I blew it all to shit."
"You know, we do have phones."
"I told her to go away."
"The last time you did that I believe she returned with your glasses; by the way, where are your glasses?"
"Broken." I pull them from my pocket. "Now that I'm where I need to be, my records will be here and I can get new ones." I return them to my pocket.
I pull my extra pair of pants and shirts and undergarments from my bag.
"I have the drawer on the right," says Jones.
I open the drawer on the left and neatly stack my clothes. Jones quickly rearranges them so that my small bottle of shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and toothbrush can have a spot. "For when you get your commissary," she says. "You need to put Piper on your call list."
"Why would she want me to call?"
"She did marry you."
"You didn't see her when I told her to leave."
"Why?"
"I'm here. She's there. New York. I have more than three years left."
"She knew you had time when you married her."
"I was still in Litchfield."
"So?"
"I cheated on her!"
"McCullough?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Fuck how do I know. I thought since she was out and making friends, having fun, missing calls and visits, that she was going to leave anyway." Jones snorts. I face her. "That's what she does. She leaves, especially when things get hard."
"Oh come on. That's a bowl full of crap." Jones sits on her bed.
"You don't know."
"Vause, I've seen this story play out before."
"When?"
"At the end of the riot. You told her to go and you gave that same cock'in bull song then. She leaves."
"You don't know."
"That's not what I saw," says Jones.
"In Paris, she left me the day I found out my mom died of a stroke. She hugged me and poof, she took off."
"And what had you done?"
"I needed her and she left me."
"And you?"
"I needed her to go to Turkey to move–"
"Isn't that why she was at Litchfield? She moved some kind of money."
"I know. I know."
"I'm thinking you broke something."
"So I promised after that first time to not do it again, but I was in a jam. Kubra–"
"And that is why she left. But in the pool? Remember? She came back. And she didn't just come back. She brought you your glasses and then she gave you a can of beans. I never learned what that was about, but then, right there in front of all of us, she asked you to marry her."
"Yes, and then I … I blew it to shit. I did that. I destroyed her."
"You don't that. Call her."
"I did" I wipe at my eyes.
"When?"
"In Oklahoma."
"And?"
"She didn't answer."
"You need to try again."
"I don't know if I can."
"So you're a coward. Well," Jones pats my back. "I think it's dinner time. Let's get something to eat. Come on, bunkie." She gives my sleeve a gentle tug and I follow her. "The food's not as good as Red's, but it's better than that slop MCC brought in."
I listen and think as I walk with her down the stairs. A line has formed in front of the cart holding trays filled with the dinner time offering. The line moves quickly. I take my tray. It has spaghetti, a roll, a banana, and a cup for coffee or tea. I fill the cup from the large coffee server.
Jones waits and I follow her back to the table which has even more Litchfield alum. Norma scoots over and I sit next to her. Jones sits across. DeMarco, Murphy, and Boo have their spots. Diaz, Montoya, and de la Cruz, Diaz's new bunkie, slip in on the other side and across from Norma. I would think they would prefer a different crowd, but I I see few who probably speak Spanish. One of the girls who helped Ruiz during the riot is in the block. She is at a table with two of the white nationalists Piper teamed up with when she went crazy and failed at gangster life. Seeing Diaz and I, they pick their trays up and come over to our table. The two crazy meth heads who followed and aided Pennsatucky in abusing me are walking together from the lower cells to the left. Brook Soso, Poussey's girlfriend, has her tray and is walking with Janae Watson and the Muslim woman who hung around Taystee, Crazy Eyes, and Black Cindy are also headed our way. Everyone squeezes together and questions start coming about those who go left behind.
Once again questions fly. Diaz and I answer. Once audience number one rehashes my soap opera for audience number two, the Litchfield alum ask about news from our former home.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Jones whispers to me.
"Great." I twirl the pasta around my spork and put it in my mouth. "It is not horrible. It's bland and room temperature, a little cool, but it's the best food I've had in a long time.
"How's Lorna?" asks Jones.
"I heard she was pregnant," says Murphy. "She was saying something to this guy who broke through the barrier when she came out. I think it was her husband."
"She was," I say. I swallow my second mouthful. "But the baby came early and died. She's had a complete breakdown and is now in Florida, Block B. That's where the grannies, trannies, and former psych patients go. PolyCon,"
"What?"
"PolyCon. MCC changed its name to PolyCon after the riot."
"They also changed the camp into an Immigrant Detention Center," adds Diaz.
"That's fucked," says Brook.
"Got that right," Diaz agrees."
"What about Nicky?" asks Murphy.
"She runs the kitchen at the new detention center with Flaca, Marisol Gonzales."
"Not Red or Gloria?"
"Gloria got out," says Diaz.
"And Red's in Florida," I say. She spent a couple of months in SHU after she attacked Berlin. Triggered some dementia. The table quiets. "Nicky says she has her good days and bad. There are times she even doesn't recognize Berlin and they play Gin Rummy. Mostly though, she takes care of Lorna."
"Morello, she was already crazy," says DeMarco.
"She couldn't handle her son's death. Pretended he was alive and posted pictures of babies claiming them as her own on Twitter. Her husband couldn't take it and left."
"So, Nicky's alone now." Murphy shakes her head.
"That is so sad," says one of the white nationalists, the one with the tattoo.
"It is, and Max is not a good place."
"What prison is," says Brook.
"Is Nicky staying sober?" asks Jones.
"Far as I know."
"And Pennsatucky?" asks Boo, who had been her friend.
"Ah, she's dead," says Diaz.
"No," Boo leans towards Diaz and then looks at me. "Why is Penn dead? I mean," she has tears in her eyes.
"She OD'd"
"I knew she hadn't changed. So high and mighty." Leanne gloats.
"Yeah. Once a junkie always a junkie," agrees Angie.
"And you should know." Boo rises to take a swing at the two nicknamed the Meth Heads, because they were always looking for a way to get stoned.
"No, Boo!" Murphy and DeMarco grab her shirt and pull her down.
"Why are you two idiots even here?" Boo yells.
"We just wanted to find out." Leanne whines and looks toward Romano, "about the others. The others who stayed."
"We basically were sent to hell," I tell them. "I mean it! The place was brutal." I drink my lukewarm of mood. "What about here?" I ask. What can we expect in Cleveland?
Piper
"Yes, yes, yes!" I jump wildly up and down in the back hall. I look at my phone again. "Yes! Fuck Yes!"
Find an Inmate search results:
ALEX PEARL VAUSE
Registration Number: 1975-0425
Age: 38
Race: White
Sex: Female
Located at: Cleveland FDC
Release Dale: 10/18/2019
Sinking to my knees, I sob. Alex and I are in the same city. Now, I have a chance to heal us. No, we have a chance. I just need her to see it. I am not a flake. I am not going to abandon her. That was the old, stupid, insecure, hurtful me. Not any more. I am not that person. I AM NOT. I have changed. Prison changed me. Being with her in prison changed me. I have grown up.
"Are you alright?" Margot asks.
"Yes." I stand. "Yes. Everything is …" I pause for the right word. "Fabulously wonderful!" I mix the two and pull Margot into an enthusiastic hug and let go. "She's here. She's finally here."
"Who?"
"Alex."
"Where was she?"
"Oklahoma City Transfer Center a couple of times, but beyond that I don't know."
"Transfer Center?" Margot's face scrunches.
"That's where federal inmates go when they are being transferred between federal facilities." Margot's stare is blank. "Prison. Alex is in federal prison. That's why I'm in Cleveland."
"I thought you came here for law school."
"Yes, but only because Alex was transferred from Litchfield to Cleveland."
"Oh," she is thoughtful, then more forcefully she asks, "What did she do?"
"It doesn't matter. She made some bad choices when she was young. So did I."
"You were in prison, too?"
I clear my voice and stand tall. I own my past. "Yeah."
"Is that where you met?"
"No, I knew her before. It's a long story."
"Does Nancy know?"
"She knows everything."
"Wow and she hired you?"
"Yes. I've gotta go." I put on my winter jacket and stuff my phone in my pocket. "Class. I'll see you tomorrow." I walk to the back exit. "She's here!" I am giggly as I float into the body of the store and grab the coffee I'd poured myself before going in back to check out.
Professor Jackson notices my smile and skip as I bounce down the stairs and glide into my seat. I swing the desk up and remove the pen and notebook I use for her class from my backpack. She climbs the stairs and stops next to my whispers, "I guess I know the reason for the smile."
"Yes. Would you thank your wife for me?"
"Sure thing. It's nice to see you smile ."
Jackson walks down into the well. At one on the dot she asks me the first question of the day.
(This is a work of fanfiction based on the Netflix series Orange is the New Black. The story begins at the point the series ended. I do not intend to make any money from this endeavor. If you make any comments, please do so. I enjoy relevant feedback and critiques. I apologize for any mistakes in any foreign language, especially my Spanish. Please let me know of the proper usage. I hope you enjoy the story. I plan to upload updates at least every week.)