CHAPTER 4 Suffolk County Children's Shelter - 1975 Man in flannel shirt grabbed waistband of my jeans from behind. “Move,” he said, lifting hard, propelling me forward across the courtroom fast, I walked on tips of my toes to keep from falling, crotch of my blue jeans cutting hard into my balls, so hard, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.
Turned back, looked for my dad. Gone.
Immediately ahead, a side door, hadn’t noticed before. Man pushed me through, up against a wall, top of a stairwell. Metal door closed behind us.
“Hands behind your back,” he said.
Obeyed, relieved he let go of my jeans. Man snatched the back of my hair, pressing my face against the wall as he snapped handcuffs on my wrists, too tight, they hurt.
“Down,” he said, pushing me towards the stairway.
“Dad?” I said, not moving, not loud enough for anyone to hear.
“Go,” he said, sharper.
I went.
At the bottom, another door. Man opened it. The other side, a long, narrow hallway, fluorescent lights on the ceiling that hummed and flickered, throwing more shadow than light. Only one door at the far end. A tunnel.
“Move,” he said.
I moved.
Man opened the other door, another stairway, going up.
“Up,” he said.
I went up.
At the top, a landing, a metal door, this one with a small window. Man reached over, pressed a red button on the wall, right side of the door. It buzzed.
I stood, nose inches from the window. Instantly, another man appeared, bald, sweaty, wet cigar between his teeth. Seemed angry.
Loud clicking noise, the door opened.
Man behind me said, “Go.”
So, I went.
“Stop at the line,” he said.
I stopped, looking down at a red line on the floor.
Man unhooked a large ring of keys from his belt, turned, locked the door, removed my handcuffs.
Man with the cigar, short, fat, unhappy, glared at me, grunted as he jerked his right thumb over his shoulder at an open doorway behind him.
Didn’t need instructions. I moved inside.
Surveyed the room quick. Mint green, cinder-block walls, large metal table in the center, to the left, a wall of shelves, small cubbies filled with folded clothing, two canvas carts in the corner, red phone on the wall, sign underneath said ‘Emergency.’ No windows.
Fat man entered, looked at me, grunted, moved over to the shelves, pulled out one bright orange t-shirt, one bright orange sweatshirt, one khaki-colored pants, one pair white socks, all neatly placed across table.
He pointed at my black leather jacket, my boots, gesturing with his cigar, I should place them on the table.
I complied.
Grunting, he swept everything into one of the canvas rolling carts. Reaching into the other cart, he held up a pair of dirty sneakers, no shoelaces, thin soles, kind girls wore in gym class. Tip of his round, sweaty head, he motioned I should try them on.
I did. They fit.
Another grunt, satisfied.
Started to like him. Seemed like we were playing a game, and I was beginning to understand him more with each grunt, nod of his head, poke of that wet cigar.
Needed a friend. Maybe even this short, fat man who didn’t speak.
Continued, signaling I should change into the clothes on the table. Turned to leave, clouds of cigar smoke trailing behind. I was relieved.
Standing alone in that room, silent, no one around, I thought, I must be in jail. Handcuffs, locked metal doors, dirty sneakers, no shoelaces.
No time to think on it. Changed clothes.
Man in flannel stood in the doorway, “Let’s go,” he said.
We went.
Several feet along the hallway, stopped at a small opening in the wall. Man appeared, white hat, white shirt, rubber gloves. He vanished and quickly returned. “Come closer,” he said, smiling, handing over a small brown paper bag, two small milk containers.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Wait,” he said, stepping aside, returning with an apple, handing it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, again.
“Get moving,” said the man in flannel.
I followed, alert, listening carefully for sounds, signals, clues, anything that might tell me what was next.
Nothing.
End of the hallway, another metal door. Man in flannel unhooked a large ring of keys from his belt, unlocked, opened the door, immediately, voices, yelling, shouting, cursing, doors closing, metal chairs screeching across concrete floors, sounds amplified, concentrated against hardened walls, polished floors, all of it echoing, everywhere, all at once.
Too much.
Have to focus.
Ahead, stopped outside a small office, two men, seated, either side of a desk, both wearing flannel shirts.
“Room 14,” one said.
“Let’s go,” my man in flannel said.
We went.
Another hallway, both sides lined with doors, each with a small window. Walking along, the noise grew louder and louder. Faces in the windows, different sizes, shapes, colors, some laughing, some smiling, some angry, lips moving, and I couldn’t understand any of it. The people inside those rooms pounded on the metal doors as we passed. I turned to look away, to avoid eye contact.
We stopped, number 14, stenciled under the window. There was no door handle. Man in flannel inserted a key, pushed open the door.
“Go,” he said.
I moved inside.
Small room, eight feet by ten feet, metal bed frame bolted to the wall, metal desk bolted to the wall, window to the outside, security bars in place, a single fluorescent light above. The walls, cinderblock, bare, painted a shiny pale green. Floor, polished concrete, gray. There was no desk chair.
Standing in the center of the room, I tightly embraced the brown bag, apple, two containers of milk.
Man nodded, said, “That’s dinner. Questions?”
“Nope.”
“Need to use the bathroom? Last chance.”
Shook my head.
Man turned, closed the door, locked it.
Frozen, I remained in place, staring at the door, holding dinner tightly to my chest.
I didn’t know what I should do.
Placed food on the desk, sat on the edge of the bed, a two-inch thick, plastic-coated mattress. No sheets, a gray blanket rolled up against the wall. No pillow.
Other than the brown bag, milk containers, apple on the desk, nothing to focus on.
Mind raced, thoughts coming fast. Where’s my father? Does he know where I am? What is this place? How long will I be here? Tomorrow? A few days, a week, forever?
Stood, moved over to the outside window. Several feet away, a high, chain-link fence, coils of razor wire running along the top. Beyond that, an empty parking lot, few buildings, one marked ‘Suffolk County Morgue’. Stood there a long time, looking at nothing, trying to figure out what a morgue was, refusing to acknowledge the room behind me.
Starting to get dark. I could see bright red colors in the sky to the west. Group of motorcycle cops pulled up to the building next to the Morgue. Dismounted, standing there, leather boots, leather jackets, laughing, joking, smoking cigarettes, unaware, it’s me, locked in this room, just a few yards away.
Wanted to bang on the window. To shout, to yell for help. A mistake, I’m not supposed to be here.
I didn’t.
Sat on the bed, suddenly, tired, hungry. Hadn't eaten for hours. Reached for the brown bag, peanut butter and jelly sandwich wrapped in plastic. Bread was stale, tasteless, filling was thin. Placed it back in the bag. Apple was good.
“Lights out,” crackled a speaker in the hallway. Immediately, overhead light went out.
Room was dark, the only light came from the hallway through the small window in the door. Sounds outside slowly died down.
Turned my back to the corner next to the door. I could feel the concrete walls pressing against my shoulders as I slid down below the window, where no one could see me. On the floor, I wrapped my arms around my legs, resting my head on my knees.
Cold, I began to shake. Eyes closed, I felt wetness on my cheeks. No, no, not now, not here.
Time passed. Couldn’t tell how long, minutes or hours. Opened my eyes, I was lying on the concrete floor, my face cool against the polished surface. The floor smelled of bleach, like the nurse’s office in middle school, just yesterday, when I had a stomachache. The school nurse was kind, I remember.
Began to think, what are my friends doing right now? Homework? A bath? Getting ready for bed?’ It’s Friday night. At home, my brothers and sister were watching the Partridge Family, fighting over who got to sit close to the TV.
Looked to my right, on the floor, in the darkness, I could see the wall, an inch from my nose. Carefully examined the rough texture of the cinder block with my fingers, smooth now, shiny even, from layers of paint, filling each small crevice. How many layers of paint, I wondered.
Remember my father once saying, “You're smart, use your brain, use your head, figure things out when they get bad.” I stared hard at that wall. Use my brain, I thought. Figure out how to get out of here, to escape. Burn an X-ray hole in the concrete cinder block, maybe. Something.
I knew it was useless.
Thinking, I’m fourteen, and my birthday is in three days. Will I be here for my birthday?
Felt it coming again, harder now, lower in my stomach. Lifted my sweatshirt, stuffing it in my mouth. Be silent, be brave. My body shuddered. I pulled myself into a tight ball on the floor. It just kept coming, in waves now.
Finally, I gave up.
Don’t know how long it went on. Eventually, it stopped. Removed the shirt from my mouth, wiped my face.
Looked around. The darkness in that room swallowed me. The hallway light seemed to disappear, though I sensed it was there.
Never felt so alone.
And there it was.
A voice.
“Hey.”
I stopped. I listened.
“Hey,” the voice came again.
“Who is that?” I said, a whisper.
“Mikey, my name's Mikey.”
“Where are you?” I said, searching in the dark.
“The grate. Talk into the grate.”
“Where?”
The grate on the floor, asshole,” he said.”
There it was, next to my face, a small metal grate, the size of a loaf of bread, inches above the floor.
He must have heard everything.
“Where are you?” I said.
“Room next to you.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, you,” he said. “First time?”
“First time what?”
“Children’s shelter. Ever been here before?”
“No.”
“Scared?”
“No.”
“Where you from?”
“Huntington.”
“Yeah? What do they call you?”
“John.”
“What’s up, John?”
“Hey.”
“Welcome to the shelter.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where the Court puts you until they figure out what to do with you.”
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I said.
“Yeah? How old are you?”
“Fourteen, I’m going to be fifteen on Friday.”
“Who’s your Judge?”
“Abrams, I think.”
“He’s a cock-fucker.”
“Well, as soon as my dad finds out, he’s taking me home.”
“Oh yeah? He in court with you today?”
“Yes.” I said.
“What about your mother?”
“She’s dead. I have a stepmother.”
“You're fucked, man,” he said. “You’ll be here a while.”
“You think so?”
“Takes three weeks just for the shrink to come and see you. Then he has to write his report, he has to send it to the social worker, and then they have to send it to the judge. Fucking forever, man. Probably six weeks, at least.”
“Shrink?”
“You know, crazy doctor. He's going to examine you, ask a bunch of questions, then say you have to go upstate.”
“Upstate?”
“Yeah, Great Eastern, that’s upstate.”
“What’s that?”
“Reform school, man. I been there two months already. I’m going up in the morning on a private jet.”
“Reform school? Private jet? What are you talking about?”
“I went AWOL last week. Cops were looking for me all over New York State. Picked me up yesterday. Sometimes, they fly you back in a jet, you know, for security. It’s kind of cool.”
“I’m not going to reform school,” I said.
“Is that right?”
“No, I never got arrested or anything. Why would I go to reform school?”
“Man, this is Suffolk County,” he said. “They send everybody to Eastern.”
“I don’t think so, I’m not even supposed to be here.”
“Jesus, there's a lot you don’t know. Look, I’ve been coming here since I was seven years old. This is my sixth time in lock-up. I know shit.”
“Why would they send me away? I think this is just a mistake.”
“Let me tell you, your parents go to court, they tell the Judge, ‘We can’t control him no more.’ They say, ‘He’s not listening, he’s running away, he’s drinking and getting in fights, he’s out of control.’ OK, how am I doing here?”
“Some of that, yeah.”
“They tell the Judge you need supervision. See, that's called a PINS petition, Person In Need of Supervision. That’s you. You hear that in court?”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“They don’t usually lock you up for that, you know, because you haven’t been arrested or nothing. You said you haven’t been arrested, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Here's the trick. Judge puts you on Probation, you know, so they can supervise you. You been on probation?”
“Yes, a few months.”
“OK, you go back to court, parents tell the judge, 'Hey Judge, he still isn’t listening.’ Judge says, ‘Alright, you little shit fuck, to the Children’s Shelter with you. I want a report, I want an assessment.’
I didn’t know what to say. That’s what happened in court today.
“The report always comes back the same. Great Eastern. You're not going nowhere, man.”
“So, this is jail?”
“That’s it,” he said. “They call it the children’s shelter, stupid fucking name, it’s JD, man, juvenile detention. You stay here until they send you upstate.”
“I still don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
“You think your daddy’s going to come get you?”
I didn’t respond.
“He was in court with you today, right?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Of course he does. Who do you think told the Judge you're out of control? Your daddy put you here. He’s not getting you out.”
I was quiet. I could hardly breathe.
“Get used to it, Johnny, you’re going to be here for a while.”
“It’s John,” I said.
“Johnny, now. You need a name. John sounds like a pussy.”
“What are the other kids like?” I said. “Are there a lot of fights?”
“Right next to you, kid gets in fights all the time. I think he’s mental or something. They never let him out of his room except at night. That’s when they take him to the showers, clean him up. Stays in there all day, never a fucking sound. They put paper over his window. Can’t see nothing inside. I tried.”
“He stays in there all day?”
“Right.”
“Fuck.”
“Get this, they make him piss in a bucket in his room, they really fuckin’ do. You know what I mean? You know what I’m saying?”
“I have to piss,” I said. “What should I do?”
“They give you a milk container?”
“Two.”
“Piss in them. They’re small, but they’ll get you through the night. Throw them out when you line up for breakfast in the morning.”
“Give me a minute,” I said. I drank the milk, then immediately filled the two containers.
“All right,” I whispered into the grate.
“You a white kid?” he said. “You sound like a white kid.”
“Yeah, I’m white.”
“I knew it. Niggers don’t cry. Maybe the little ones, but I knew right away you’re a white kid.”
“I wasn’t crying,” I said. “I had a stomachache from some shitty food I ate.”
“Yeah, OK, man.”
After a moment, he said, “Look, I’ll teach you Mikey’s rules.”
“What’s that?”
“How to get along.”
“What do you mean, how to get along?”
“You’ve never been here before. You don’t know how to get along. It’s how you keep out of the shit.”
“I know how to handle myself.”
“Yeah, sure you do. Look, I’ve been coming here a long time. You have to know how to get along. If you don’t, you’re going to get your ass kicked. Believe me, you're probably going to get it kicked anyway.”
“What do you mean, rules? What are you talking about?”
“Mikey’s Rules. I teach kids how to get along, you know, so they don’t get in fights. Going to cost you four cigarettes. That’s how many they give out every day.”
“I know how to fight.”
“Sure, you do,” he said. “You already sound like a new kid.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Tell you what, I’ll teach you Mikey’s rules, but you’ll have to give me your cigarettes tomorrow. Are we good?”
“Are you serious?”
“Four cigarettes, in or out?”
“All right.”
“OK. You a big kid?”
“Big enough. I’ve been in lots of fights.”
“Rule number one, don’t be saying that shit out loud. They’ll figure you for a new boy.”
“Well, I don’t belong here.”
“Look, most kids here don’t want no trouble. It’s the new ones you got to be careful with. Always got something to prove. They start fights.”
I listened.
“Mikey’s rule number two. Don’t get in fights. You can do good time or you can do bad time. Here, they’ll put you in solitary. Up at Eastern, they put you in the icehouse. You don’t want that shit, man.”
“I’m not going to Great Eastern,” I said.
“Look, you need to get with the program, man. It’s about learning to get along without being a pussy. You know what I mean, you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“There’s going to be fights, especially right off. Nobody knows you, you’re a new boy, and you're white. Just remember Mikey’s rule number three, never back down, ever. Niggers up at Eastern will test you right off.”
“What do you mean? How?”
“Motherfuckers will steal the sneakers off your feet before you even get off the bus at Eastern.”
“Really?”
“I don’t care how big the kid is, you have to stand up. You can't back down.”
“Alright.”
“They’ll test you right off. Starts easy, you see, a little fun, a little slap boxing, playing around, you know what I mean? They’ll get right in your face, be smiling and talking the whole time, and the counselors don’t do shit. They figure it’s good to let off a little steam, you're just playing, right? But remember, everybody’s watching you, checking to see what you’ll do. Eventually, guy gets a little serious, throws a hard smack, it hurts. What do you do?”
“I don’t know? What do I do?”
“Smack him back, good. No punching, remember? That will get you in trouble. But smack him hard, send a message. Remember, this is all playing around, nothing serious, but it is. They’re checking on you, man.”
“OK.”
“Sometimes there is a real fight, and you just have to go down. Deal with it. But don’t back off, take your beating. It just is what it is.”
“I thought you said I shouldn’t get in fights.”
“That’s right, I did say that,” he said. “Let me ask you, you know how to talk shit?”
“What?”
“Talk shit. That’s Mikey’s rule number four. Got some lines you can use? You know, talk shit when motherfuckers get in your face?”
“Not sure I understand.”
“You’ll see. Most of the kids up at Eastern are from the city. They can talk some shit, man. They got that gift, mouth always running, saying crazy shit. But they’re smart, you see. Motherfuckers just keep talking, and talking, getting in your face, yelling, all kinds of crazy shit, moving around, throwing their hands up. Before you know it, counselor here’s all this shit, steps in, says, ‘No fighting here boys,’ and that’s it. There's no fight.”
“Not sure I’m good at that.”
“That’s talking shit, so you don’t get in no fights.”
He continued. “Mikey’s rule number five. There’s always one asshole, one guy feeling like he’s got to prove himself, always running his mouth. Usually a new guy. Figure out who he is, stay away from that motherfucker.”
“I can do that,” I said.
“Rule number six. This is important. Don’t be sticking your nose in shit.”
“Like what?”
“See a counselor touching on a kid, you know what I mean? Or hitting them, shit like that, don’t let them see you watching, man. Believe me, it happens. Walk away. None of your fucking business. You didn’t see nothing.”
“All right.”
“I been coming here a long time. I’ve seen some shit. I know how to get along.”
“I don’t think I’m going to be here long. I’m going home as soon as I call my father and tell him where I am.”
“There’s no phone, man, you can’t be calling nobody.”
“I’m not staying,” I said. I felt like throwing up.
“Look, follow Mikey’s rules, learn how get along, you’ll be OK. Just learn a few lines, learn to talk shit, you can stand up for yourself without being nobody’s pussy. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
The rest of the night, we spoke through the grate on the floor. We talked about Mikey’s Rules and how to talk shit and how to get along without being nobody's pussy. Mikey talked and talked. He told me stories about getting beaten up, about robbing houses, and getting molested by a priest in his church, and about his little sister who died in the crib in front of him. He told me about his alcoholic mother, who loved him, and his alcoholic father, who beat him. He told stories about working with FBI agents, his connections to the mafia, and having sex with girls he met on the street. I didn’t know what to believe. I thought he was a bullshit artist.
But he was also right about so much. Six weeks later, I went before the judge, and he sentenced me to eighteen months at Great Eastern. When I arrived, I was tested every day. I got into fights, I was stabbed, my eye socket was fractured, and I saw things I shouldn’t have seen. I did my best to look away. I never really became good at talking shit like the city kids, and I never gave Mikey his four cigarettes.
He was gone the next morning before I ever met him.