Yuma Prison

Yuma Prison By Dale Chase Prison doesn’t fix a man, it ruins him. And if it’s Yuma Prison, that Arizona hellhole, the ruin goes deep. Many a man is lost to the place, cooked to nothing in an adobe cell where he welcomes the relief of death. Those of us keeping on do so in defiance, sending the grim reaper down the cellblock row to feed on the weak. Life in the cell is bare, hard, and crowded. Six men inside a nine-by-eight foot adobe cell, no window, just a lattice-like iron door letting in mostly hot air. Two tiers of bunks, three bunks to a tier, and that was it, save for a slop bucket. When a man did give up his life, he gave us room so we weren’t always sad to see him go. Things went on inside that cell, as they will when men are confined. Going in at seventeen, I was set upon and learned not to fight. By the time my sentence was up, I was setting upon others. I am free now, having done my six years, but I am ruined in too many ways to count. Just twenty-three, I feel old while young, used up before my time. I don’t look back, but this matters little because some of that hellhole sticks to me and I fear won’t ever let go. Five dollars was given to me at my release, that and fresh clothes. Not new, just clean and better than what I had inside. In the town of Yuma, people look at me funny, though I wear no number or stripes, but maybe it’s just me thinking wrong because I’ve no idea how to go among people anymore. I have to learn that. Both prison and town sit on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River, and first thing I did when I walked from the prison was to venture to the river’s edge because it had pulled at me something awful while inside. Steamboats would call, and I could hear men shout, and it drew me to think on a seafaring life. Now, I stand to view the river and know it’s not my way. It’s water I want, not the river. And shade. It was kind of prison authorities to release me in early spring, before the heat turns mean. I stand under a tree to view the river. I take in fresh air of which I’ll never get enough. I stretch my body, enjoy having room to spread out. First order is to find work, because five dollars won’t last, though it does get me a whiskey at the Acme Saloon. I first tasted the stuff at sixteen and it had a part in my downfall a year later, but now I welcome the promise, dulling the edge, brightening the outlook. Standing with my back to the bar, I watch men playing cards, laughing, and drinking. A few women are present, one sitting in a fellow’s lap. I have no idea on women. It’s men I turn to. Sipping a second whiskey, I enjoy a new kind of heating up, my body awakening to what’s before me. A fellow catches me looking and gives me the eye, drops a hand to his crotch to adjust himself. He c***s his head with the question and I nod, follow him out. He’s maybe ten years older, but fine-looking. He takes me behind the saloon, gets out his d**k, and pushes me to my knees. I take him into my mouth and suck out his load, then stand, undo my pants, and tell him to face the wall. He grins and does as asked. I mount him and have me the best come in six years because it’s not inside a goddamned cell with others looking on. As I let go in the stranger, I feel my first real taste of freedom. Once we’re buttoned up, he turns to leave and I stop him. “Any work hereabouts?” Now he gives me a different eye, looking me up and down. “You from the prison?” “Just got out and I need work.” “You got a couple choices. There’s a silver mine five miles north, pays good, but I’m thinking underground work may not suit you. There’s ranches along the river where you might get on, but I don’t know how many will hire an ex-con.” I’m not liking my prospects when he gets up close and says, “There is one other way.” I step back because my first thought is law-breaking, which I’m not about to do, but he assures me it’s on the up and up because the local law turns its head. “The Acme’s got rooms upstairs where the girls take men for a price, you know. Well, Abel Fortnum, the owner, likes to have a young fellow up there too for those of us that go the other way. Earn you some money and it’s not exactly hard labor.” This brings thoughts of life in a cell, that clawing pit, so I thank him for the information and go on about my business. “See you around,” he calls as I walk away. It being a fine day, I head to the nearest ranch outside town, but there’s no work, and the owner says I won’t find anything upriver. “You’d best try the mine,” he says. “They’ll hire anybody.” * * * * My five dollars are down to one when, three days later, I enter the Acme Saloon and ask for Abel Fortnum. When he comes over, it’s like he knows what I’m going to say, because he looks at me like he’s going to give me a try. “Upstairs work?” he asks. “Guess so. I’m needing money and can’t find a job.” “Come with me.” Upstairs is a hallway with rooms on one side, and as we pass one, I hear a woman laughing. At the next, I hear bedsprings squeak. The end room we enter, and soon as the door is shut, Abel says to strip. “I have to make sure you got the goods.” I do as asked and stand bare for him, hating him for what he’s making me do, hating him more for giving me such awful opportunity. He nods, has me turn around, then comes over and starts to handle my d**k. Before I can speak, he drops and pulls me into his mouth, where he sucks me off. He then sits back, wipes his mouth, and says to get on the bed. I know what’s coming. When he’s bare, he says he doesn’t hire anybody without a try, so he proceeds to get into me and ride out a come. He’s okay-looking, but sweaty as hell, and by the time he’s done, the room reeks of him. As he dresses, he says I’m hired. “Fifty cents a throw, I get half, you get half. The more throws, the more you make, and I expect lots of business. In between, you show yourself in the bar just like the girls. Man gives you the eye, you take him upstairs, let him know he’ll have to pay, and with your looks, they will pay. Once you’re done for the night, you can sleep in the room at no charge. You get Sunday off. If you prove to be popular, I may raise your price, so do a good job at satisfying the men and you’ll prosper. Now clean up, come downstairs, and go to work.” “How about food?” I ask. “I’m powerful hungry.” “Sam, that’s the bartender, he’ll fix you a sandwich.” It is not the life I want, but when I ask myself what I do want, I have no idea. “Free” was all I thought about, and I am that. I don’t have to labor in some mine or punch cattle. I tell myself it’s temporary, and as, not an hour later, I take my first fellow upstairs, I hold onto that.