they don't let black sheep stray from the road Who: Rodeo Hawkins Where: Cafeteria, La Quinta Correctional Facility What: Rodeo's blues nearly get the better of him, but then his temper does instead. When: Early evening, December 4, 2018
back home the family's eatin' dinner, there's a fire in the fireside warm and bright. but i won't be there today cause i've got a debt to pay, and they don't let black sheep stray from the road.
my throat is crying out for water, lord, that wind is blowing cold. that guard is watching me like a hawk up in the tree, and i'm longing to be free from the road.
every bone inside my body's aching, and that guard don't care if i live or die. he told me yesterday, "son, don't try to get away, for i'll lay you down to stay by the road."
Some moments are harder than others.
Out in the yard or milling around gen pop, Rodeo has his distractions. He has friends at his back, reminding him he ain't alone. He's busy playin' cards and runnin' books, hustling for food, for cigarettes, for booze and favors. He's got his eye on the bottom line, knowing the currency he needs to secure a foothold in the prison's power structure-- and knowing also that he can buy allegiance, broker deals, but ultimately the only thing most of these men will understand is pain, violence, spilled blood. There's been plenty of that, too. His knuckles are black with bruises and scabs. He can barely make a fist anymore, his fingers swollen and stiff.
So swollen and busted he can't even hold his fucking spork.
Moments like these are harder. He's in the cafeteria alone, sitting in front of the tray of unappetizing slop on the table in front of him. He readjusts his grip on the flimsy plastic utensil and tries again to spear a piece of the gray-tinged "turkey" that might have come from a can or a dehydrated food pack or straight from hell for all he fucking knows. His hand shakes as he tries to lift the slice of soggy meat, and halfway to his mouth his grip slips and the meat slides off his spork and into his lap. Greasy gravy splatters across his leg, and he grits his teeth in annoyance and peels the piece of meat off his orange scrubs with his fingers. It jiggles unappetizingly in the air, but his stomach is a pit of hungry needles and he stuffs the turkey slice into his mouth. He chews, and marvels over how something could possibly taste worse than the freak tuna casserole they served him yesterday. The meat has the texture of slimy leather and the taste of cardboard that's been sitting in outhouse runoff for five or six sunny days. Rodeo prides himself on having an iron stomach, on finding palatable even the most nightmarish of food items, but for one of the first times in his life he gags. He presses his half-curled fist to his mouth, shutting his eyes and forcing himself to swallow the bile and the half-chewed meat. It's unequivocally the most repulsive thing he's ever had in his mouth, eclipsing a lifetime of gas station cheesesteaks and juke joint strippers with names like Dallas Sunrise. And, quite suddenly, as he pounds a fist against his chest to overcome a bit of meat stuck in his throat, he feels like he could fuckin' cry. Just break down and cry 'cause his heart is broken and his woman don't love him and his sister can't reach him and his ribs are busted and his stomach is empty and his goddamn hands can't hold a goddamn fork and he's tired, tired, tired, tired of it all.
He shouldn't be back here. When the world ended and he made it out of Huntsville, he somehow believed he'd never wind up in a cage again. He was a lawless man in lawless world and it suited him just fine. The struggle to survive was a struggle he could abide, but once those pigs in black fatigues came and tried to tell him his place he knew the law hadn't died with the rest of civilization and that his fight to stay free was long from over. Still, he had been so determined never to let them lock him up again that he had started to believe they never could. Now here he is again-- trapped by walls and wire, hunted by all the hungry animals penned inside these close quarters with him, separated from his sister, from his home, from his friends and family and his bike and his goddamn dog. But he shouldn't be here. Whatever legal system they're processing him under ain't just, ain't righteous, and somehow that makes this imprisonment so much worse than the other times he's found himself behind bars. He understood the old way, whether he agreed with it or not-- but this new world order ain't serving anyone but the motherfuckers at the top of the food chain, and Rodeo doesn't cope very well with not being the apex predator.
No, he shouldn't be here. He should be home. The home that has felt more like home to him than any other place in his life before, a home shared with his sister and her baby boy in that little trailer out in the wide blue yonder. The endless sky, the dry red sand, the humming campers and trailers and tents, the smoke off the bonfire and the growling throttles, the laughter of ladies and shouts of men. He should have got up this morning and slid out of bed to put on his coffee, should have sipped it at his table while scribbling down his dreams or reading whatever had been on his nightstand from the night before (he'd been in the middle of Jack London's The Iron Heel, but he probably would have finished it by now.) He should have been listening to Charlie's gentle snores, waiting for the sound of those breaths growing less even, waiting for the baby boy to wake up for him. At first, Charlie had been a late sleeper like his sister-- but after he woke up early one morning only to be scooped up by Rodeo before his whimpers could turn into a cry that would wake Adelaide, he developed a new habit. Rodeo likes to think Charlie wants to see him before he heads out on his day, so he wakes before his sister and spends some of those early moments in Rodeo's arms. Lord, he misses him. He misses that baby so much that his heart feels hungrier than his empty stomach. He misses the way Charlie's little hands hold on to his shoulders, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. He misses the way he cackles when Rodeo pretends to nuzzle his ears like Sweet Melissa does. He misses sneaking him slices of syrupy canned peaches when Adelaide ain't looking, misses the sweet little pajamas his sister dresses him in each night for bed. He misses the way he smells and the feel of his soft blond hair against his cheek. He should have had that baby in his arms this morning.
He should have spent the day on the open road, Kali snarling and his brothers by his side. Whatever wars they waged, whatever discoveries they made, whatever missions they embarked on or friends they lost, they should have been doing it side by side. No betrayal tainting what once was so sacred, they could roam the roads with loyalty and purpose binding them, pushing them on. Rodeo longs for the feeling of the wind on his face, sand scratching his cheeks, whipping past the rubble and rot of the city. He should have spent his day driving out these ramblin' blues on the road.
And now, at suppertime, he should be home again. He should be entertaining Charlie while Adelaide finishes fixing dinner. He should be telling his sister about his day over the table, shoveling down whatever she set in front of him-- something hot and delicious, spambo or ramen or rice and beans, spaghetti or chili or scrambled eggs. He shouldn't be struggling to swallow rank turkey slices, that's for goddamn sure. His sister would never let him go hungry, never let him eat a garbage meal like this. It was the mess hall in Huntsville that used to get to him, too. An empty stomach and a tray full of slop makes him horribly, excruciatingly aware of what he's missing-- makes him ache so sharply for the warmth of home and a hot meal, for the sweet face of his loving sister. No matter how bonded he is to his brothers, it will never be anything like the comfort he finds in his sister's smiles and affectionate embraces. He misses her, misses her so much it's like a knife in his side, a constant pain that becomes excruciating with each savage twist of the blade. He misses the days when she was small and clung to him like the only raft floating in a raging sea, when she was too young to know his sins and always believed the best of him. But he misses even more the way she is now-- knowing him entirely and standing by his side still, finally a part of the pieces of his life that used to be hidden from her. The woman she has become is just as incredible, just as awe-inspiring as the brilliant little babe she once was, and he beholds her with the same religious devotion now as he did when she was just a little bobble headed toddler with ginger curls and freckled cheeks, when all it took to please her was letting her win a game of Pretty Pretty Princess or carting her around on his shoulders at a Slayer concert. Now that she's all grown, she ain't much bigger but she's even more phenomenal than ever to him. There's no head he trusts better than hers. Lord, he wishes he could just talk to her now. Hear what she thinks about Teagan. About all the enemies gunning for him, about the constant struggle for survival and dominance in these walls. About this bullshit trial they're gearing up for, and how it's all going to end. About how to make this garbage meal edible, because it sure as hell ain't going down easy and he's goddamn starving.
Heartbroken and low-down, he gives up on the spork and picks up another piece of the turkey with his fingers. After a moment of hesitation he stuffs it in his mouth and gives a few cursory chews. As he squints and swallows it down, a shadow falls across his tray-- someone standing just behind him, where he has to turn to see them. It's a discrete way to put him at a disadvantage, which means this is probably not a friendly visit. Rodeo twists slightly, glancing over his shoulder at his visitor and recognizing him instantly. Trucker's right hand, a mean motherfucker called Mossberg, is standing there behind him. Rodeo knows from his proximity that the man is looking to intimidate him, so he shows very little reaction to his presence, turning forward again and picking up another piece of turkey.
"Can I help ya, partner?" Rodeo asks cooly.
"Hear you're runnin' books," Mossberg says gruffly. "Trucker reckons you'n him could work something out. Expand the business."
"That what he reckons?" Rodeo scoffs, tearing savagely into a piece of turkey and keeping his eyes forward. He doesn't say anything more, letting the silence simmer for a moment, forcing Mossberg to be the one to break it.
"He's got connections you can't access from where you're standin'. And what's to stop him from startin' his own books if you won't work with him?"
"Oh, I think I could stop him," Rodeo says flatly, poking at the peas on his tray. He thinks Mossberg and Trucker both ought to know better than to encroach on his business here. If they don't remember what a dangerous mistake that is, he's prepared to remind them.
And, judging by Mossberg's response, he's got some reminding to do.
The other man reaches out, placing his palm on the edge of the table beside Rodeo, leaning over him. Rodeo doesn't visibly react to the invasion of his personal space, but it's reeling him back like a cocked hammer. One squeeze on the trigger and he's bound to blow.
"You really aren't shit in here, you know that? Trucker's got more pull than you. You can try to stop him, but him asking you to partner up was just a courtesy. He'll roll over you either way."
"Sure, sure. 'Cause it really worked out well for him last time," Rodeo intones, attempting to pinch a pea with his stiff fingers but giving up quickly when he suspects Mossberg might notice how busted his hands are if he continues.
"You're in his dominion now," Mossberg says. Rodeo's brow furrows and he sits back, casting his eyes back and forth across the crowd in the cafeteria and then twisting to look at Mossberg.
"You took a look around lately, partner? This is chicano territory, cabron," Rodeo says dryly, before turning back around to face forward. "Y'all got no pull. Fuck off."
But Mossberg doesn't budge. He's breathing heavily, leaning over Rodeo from behind him, doing his damnedest to act like he ain't afraid. But he should be. He should definitely be afraid to say what he says next, but even if he is, he says it anyway. "You wanna see how much pull he's got the next time your bitch-boy winds up in solitary?"
Without hesitating, Rodeo picks up the tray in front of him with a hand on either end and swings it up, smashing it across Mossberg's face. He's standing just as fast as the rest of the cafeteria is responding-- the inmates nearby all rise, crowing forward to watch, blocking the COs from getting through to the brawl. As soon as Mossberg recovers from the blow to his face his fists start swinging, but Rodeo's got no power left in his fists. He swings the tray instead, and this time when it crashes into the other man's face it snaps clean in half. Rodeo tosses the two halves down and makes the best fist he can, swinging his hand towards Mossberg's jaw. His fist connects, but it doesn't land correctly and he feels a sharp pain bite through his hand and up his arm. He keeps swinging, grappling with Mossberg in a frenzied and violent struggle that lands them both on the ground. Rodeo tries grabbing for the other man's head, but his hair is shaved away and his hands can't get a strong enough grip to crack Mossberg's skull against the tile. As Mossberg throws an elbow into his wounded ribs, he doubles over and knows he's going to lose the upper hand fast now that he's tipped the other man off on his weakness. He grabs for Mossberg's throat, but his hands can't even close tight enough to cut off his air. Instinctive and unhesitating, Rodeo finds himself reaching out, grabbing half of the snapped food tray. He smashes it a few times against Mossberg's head before pressing the edge of the tray across his throat, leaning his weight down on it to crush the other man's windpipe. He grits his teeth with the effort, struggling to stay sitting on top of the former Hellhound as he thrashes beneath the press of the tray garroting him. As the other prisoners howl and jeer, Rodeo watches Mossberg's eyes bulge from his skull, watches him gasp and struggle and squirm until it all stops. He presses out his breath until he's not breathing any more and then he stops, sitting back and tossing the tray aside.
"Hands up! Hands up goddammit! Hawkins!" the COs are shouting, finally breaking through the crowd. He's too beat, too exhausted to struggle when they descend, so he just puts his hands behind his back and tries not to writhe in pain when they twist the cuffs onto his wrists.
"Call it down to solitary," one of the COs orders another, who immediately gets on his radio to inform the other officers that Rodeo is being taken to the solitary confinement floor. "C'mon. Come on, Hawkins. Got a private suite just for you."
Rodeo bites down hard as they haul him up to stand, refusing to show his pain otherwise. As they march him out of the cafeteria he looks around, watching all the hungry eyes he passes, knowing each and every one of them now knows where to find him alone. Near the door he spots Trucker, pale-faced and crazy-eyed, lurking restlessly at the edge of the crowd. His eyes meet Rodeo's too, and he knows if Mossberg's right about the pull Trucker has, he won't be alone in solitary for long.