“Prison was a state of mind. There were those who always fucked up or who were fucked over and around, and then there were those who never were, who had found their own form of solitary confinement apart from the general population. He was never fucked with, and he never fucked with anyone else. Maybe it was the hands and scars, the missing fingers and ear, the rumpled flesh, the bent nose, the missing and mismatched teeth; maybe it was the word that had gotten around about his having been in Nam, or about what he had done in that bar or in the felony ward of the city jail; maybe he seemed a dead man in whose eyes was momentary acknowledgement of others’ presence but no hesitation, no fear, no challenge; maybe it was his focus when working with weights in the yard, the special exercises he had invented to use the straps made from his torn pants or bedding or plastic bags for the wrist of his ruined hand to accommodate his workouts or the way he turned it sideways to do burpees and planks; whatever it was, too much damage had been done to him, and he had done too much damage to others to give a damn. He wanted nothing; he expected nothing, and so, was free – as long as he obeyed freedom’s one, simple rule: pay attention. He never, ever, practiced martial arts, obeying his own catechism: never show what you know. He was equally obedient to the catechisms of his surrogate monastery: never lose your rationale; don’t let the snakes get under your skin; don’t let ‘em see you sweat; do the time, don’t let the time do you; don’t get ready, stay ready.

He said ‘excuse me’ if he bumped someone and moved aside for others to pass. He was always respectful to the guards. He applied for a job and was pleased to have it. At first, sweeping, and mopping the corridors were just a means of staying out of his cell as long as possible, but soon they became chores, similar to the ones he had done for Mrs. Warren.

Thoughts of Mrs. Warren made him think of Micaela and why he was here in San Quentin Prison in Marin County just below Mount Tamalpais on the other side from Inverness. Such thoughts made him remorseful and gave him great pain. Pain made him angry. Anger made him forgetful. Forgetfulness made his work sloppy. Sloppy work led to reprimand. Reprimand was reminder of reason. Reason was unforgiving clarity between desire and destruction: frustration, annoyance, anger, rage, loss of rationale, annihilation. The Rule of Law was so profound. It was not others’ rules you had to obey – it was your own you had to obey about yourself. O.R. Your own recognizance. A recognizance you owned because if you did not, you were fucked over and around, and you had nobody to blame but yourself. That’s why you stayed ready.

To stay ready, he had to find reason that belonged to him and no one else. To continue to sweep and mop just to stay out of his cell or to avoid further reprimand would be to have the time do him, and so he swept and mopped for no reason but to do them, and in so doing, went beyond punishment for deeds done to serving why he had done them. He acknowledged the simple truth of his daily life without guilt or remorse, cleaning the corners of his nine-by-four cell as conscientiously as he cleaned the corridors, cleaning its sink and toilet, knowing that others knowingly shared cells, glad he did not have to share, for he had nothing to share, finding peace in nothing, knowing that peace was not as simple as having to fight for what you thought was yours.

A visitor, a guard told him one day, you have a visitor.

The only person he could think of was Mrs. Warren, but he did not know why she would want to see him after he had so profoundly disappointed her unless it were to justify her disappointment. Everyone else he knew who would want to visit him was dead.”