The Blue Goose was written to speak directly to youth in need of or seeking guidance towards changing their lives and is purely fictional but partly based on some real experiences as well. The writer has written a full novel of similarly scripted content and looks forward to releasing it in chapters in the future. Meantime, experience what Canadian custody life is really like.
The "Blue Goose"
I remember it being a beautiful sunny day
as I’d stared out the window
that morning. I even recall thinking to myself -
at the risk of
sounding too cliché - that this was just like a
cut out of a movie, a really bad
one, only this was no movie, this was for real.
None
of the usual bravado was apparent that day as would normally
accompany, say, a trip
in the paddy wagon to
court. At least then you’d
stop at various “cop
shops” picking up guys that were new in off
the
street. Sometimes they’d
have wild tales of their bust
which broke the
monotony or occasionally
they’d have a T.M.
or a J to smoke which
was always a crowd-pleaser, but those routine variances occurred while
one was still in limbo
with the court system. I’d already been sentenced as
had everyone else aboard
that bus, to anywhere from 2 years to life, so the
mood was decidedly more
somber. No, this ride had an air of finality to it.
The
“Blue Goose”
made pick-ups at the Toronto Don
Jail and East
and
West
Detention Centres
before hitting the highway for Kingston. Funny, I
don’t recall much about the actual
drive. I know we had a padded bench seat
to ourselves which was more luxury
than I’m sure a lot of those guys had
seen in awhile and I
distinctly remember looking over at a huge African-
American and marveling
at his mish-mash of home-made tattoos. That
image, along with his
thick New-Yorker accent had added a jolting audio-
visual reminder as to
the reality of my situation. Truth is,
I’d gotten to know
this dude somewhat
already from my “dead time”
spent at the Toronto’s
East Detention Centre
while waiting to get dealt with, and I knew him not
as the menacing character his
appearance would probably leave the average
Street Joe
thinking he was, but as an easy going guy. That was just it though,
no one, save those who’d
actually been “down below”
before to the Pen,
really knew what to
expect. Probably not even this big “tough-guy”.
And perceptions would be
everything where we were going.
For all
I knew he could have been sitting there
scared shitless thinking,
“I’m not white and
I don’t fit in with the Jamaicans or indigenous people
…and I’m not even
Canadian, maybe I’ll get singled out as a loner?”
Who knows? What I did know was that
he had been classified to go to
Collins Bay
where younger offenders with violence on their records are
often sent – a kind of
generalization but a fairly accurate one.
We locked eyes only once while he was
getting off and I gave him a “take
care of yourself” nod
which was returned, his leg-irons snapping tight with
each step as he shuffled out. I never
saw him again.
I’d also
heard that there were few fistfights in “the
pen” unlike
reformatories. If
someone had a ‘beef”
with another inmate there, one was
more likely to be
involved in a ‘piping”
or knifed with a homemade “shiv”.
All I knew for certain was that I planned to do my own time, attend the
“joint”
school, obtain my high school diploma, and get the hell out on day
parole some day. At least that was my
plan. Those were the types
of mind-fucks rattling around in my head as I
inched towards my
predetermined destination. All I really had to go
on were stories -
some bullshit and some
true I’d imagined, but it was all moot, for I’d
find out first hand soon
enough.. All of 150 lbs soaking wet of me.
Thus
the eerie silence that day, each transferee lost in his own private
thoughts, never daring
to look directly at another or even initiate
conversation - not
because he couldn’t or was afraid to - but because he
didn’t want to. The
Goose was a last blast of the real world,
like the calm
before the storm, and
each passenger savoured every moment selfishly.
Even the prisoners who
had been ‘down below’
before and who were now
returning were silent.
The ambience was close to, but not, serene and the
quiet so deafening you could almost
hear each others thoughts.
The Blue–Goose
was no ordinary transfer vehicle either. Only “pen
timers’,
save the odd person going to “The Brook”
a place for the worst of
the worst reformatory
prisoners, could ever really talk about the Blue
–
Goose.
The converted bus of distinct colour was equipped with all the latest
built-in security
features including bullet proof windows and armed coppers
protected by locked,
double steel-meshed partitioning doors.
Each
con was loaded
into the goose
separately shackled and hand-
cuffed and remained that
way until arriving at their assigned institution.
Yup, that sucker had
everything you could contrive for securing prisoners
except maybe seat belts!
I recall a brief fantasy about a potential
lawsuit if
we crashed. Very brief.
Mostly I fantasized about going back in time.
I’d long
since become desensitized to being treated with any humility - or
maybe dulled is a better word - as it
seemed par for the course that part of
one’s so called rehab
was to shred you of any thread of esteem you
may still possess. I never totally
got used to stripping my clothes off in front
of both coppers
and cons every time I
went to court, for random searches, or
whenever transferred nor
the commands “ Bend over and touch your
toes”, “Spread your cheeks”,
‘Run your fingers through your hair”, “Open
your mouth” and my
personal favourite, “Lift your balls”. Each time is like
a raping of your dignity
however it’s part of your “rehabilitation” and any
refusal would land one
in “the hole”-
where you were left indefinitely
alone with your thoughts
and shame and where you reflect on what you’d
done to others.
Bookless, you’d spend days as such under 24 hour lights,
looking at walls until
your very will to continue living wilted. You weren’t
allowed tobacco or a mattress during
the day and wore an asbestos dress
while being fed through a door slot.
Sometimes a school group would pass
through and view you
like a zoo animal. Being the experimental 70’s you
may even have had an all
pink cell where even your shadows were pink 24
hours a day, designed to
calm violent people. Ed’s terrified eyes would
re-visit me then; an
imagined wail from a grieving parent replacing the real
one’s coming from down
a cell nearby. At least I still had my life though.
I can’t
pinpoint exactly when the transformation took place or why.
It seemed like overnight. It was like
one day I was spending my spare time
playing sports, watching
favorite t.v. shows and doing home work and
the next spending days
and “all-nighters”
drinking, smoking weed, or doing
drugs. The break up of
my parents’ marriage may have been a contributor,
along with some peer
pressure, and maybe as I reflect now, a reaction
to being molested while
hitchhiking…or maybe I was just defective..
but whatever the reason,
I somehow found myself spending
many a night drunk or
philosophizing in a chemical induced haze between
cloud hallucinations.
Sometimes I did “beans”
to keep awake and after
awhile almost anything that came my
way. It had been gradual. I’d started
by hanging out with the
“smokers” during a
school suspension and
eventually the stoners
so it was probably inevitable that something had to
give, but hey I was
young and indestructible, besides I could stop anytime I
wanted. Ha. Famous last words.
Lunchtime
and spares I’d begun hanging out at this guy Dave’s who
lived close by the
school. He had a certain way about him that reeled
people in even if they knew he was
fishing. Dave, coming from a well to do
family, was a breed all
his own. The slick dresser, considered cute to the
chickies,
was always looking for a
party and it became the norm
for a bunch
of us to smoke “J’s”
or have a drink before floating back. Even if Dave’s
mom was home it mattered
not, as she had no control over him and he even
less respect for her it
appeared, as he’d openly mock her.
Eventually
I started accompanying him beyond school hours, and along
with another guy Gino,
became a sort of a clique. We’d often hang out at
Dave’s, the pool hall,
a park, or a party and get ‘buzzed”
together.
Until then, I had more
or less been “toking” and whatnot whenever it
was
around,
but Dave seemed to need something all the time. He
wasn’t content with just weekend
parties and always measured a good time
by how totally “wasted”
he / we got.
Dave introduced us to “rip-offs” too
which were not exclusive to our
clique. In fact, I’d bet every teen in the town
had been “burnt’ at least once,
and the less-than-rocket scientist-types numerous
times. I’d venture to say
that the sub-culture of partiers would have
made up 70% of all local teens
with 90% having been ripped off at least
once. After awhile it got to the
point where nobody trusted anyone so we all had to
get more inventive.
Younger dudes just getting into the scene and
out-of-towners were good
targets, but Dave knew no limits – like the time
he ripped off the leader of
the local gang “The Gripps’ by not
paying back on a “front”. This wasn’t
someone you fucked with – a brown belt kick
boxer with a reputation for
violence - the local icon of badasshood was the
last one you wanted looking
for you.
He had been hiding from the dude for about a month
when somebody got a
hold of Dave and placed him in a car. As he passed
by, his face looked like a
caged animal that knew it was on the way to
slaughter and I more than half
expected to be reading about his fate in the
papers the next day. Instead,
Dave was later partying it up and claiming to be a
new ‘Junior Gripp”.
Apparently he told the ‘Head Gripp”
that he’d been ripped off himself,
didn’t think he would be believed, and that was
why he’d been hiding from
him. The guy not only bought it, but also fronted
him another ¼ pound of
smoke to boot! This was so typical of Dave – he
was like the “Teflon Don”
of our world. Nothing ever seemed to stick to him.
Of course the pot score
and subsequent sales marked the beginnings of a 2
day ‘bender” ending up
at a local sub shop where we devoured our food in
a mad fury of
“munchies”.
Suddenly,
this guy Ed grooved in with a cocky strut, his face telling the tale
as he glared over. It
was at that moment that Dave had slipped the knife
under the table to me.
Dave had ripped off Ed’s friends earlier that year
Almost instinctively,
and definitely without thinking, my palm had naturally
accepted the hand-off.
This was peer pressure gone wild.
‘Hey tough guys, how’s
it going?! The slightly older Ed had mocked.
‘Go fuck your self”
Dave answered while motioning my way.
‘What, you got
something to say Williams?” Ed turned to me.
I don’t know exactly
how the next sequence of events happened, only that
he had landed on me in
my chair and some girl had been screaming
hysterically to call 911
as blood puddled around us.
I ran in panic -
adrenaline and fear winning the moment - and it was then
I realized I was alone
as Ed’s scared face, my concerned parents’,
family members, friends,
the feeling of shame, and the wonder of why??? all
flashed through me like
a bolt of lightening that suddenly sobered my
conscience as I rumbled
blindly away, with Dave nowhere in sight.
“Teflon Dave”
turned out to be more like Teflon Rat
in taking the
stand
against me, claiming we’d consumed few “partyables”
while adding
that I had told him I’d
planned to “get Ed” and that I had been playing with
the knife in a “very aggressive
manner” all night. Oh yea, he also offered
that I was a junior
Gripp too, thereby
wrapping the whole deal up as a nice
convenient gang related
package – the kind the public eats up and the
coppers
beat their chest to. This of course in exchange for no charges
against
my good buddy Dave. Fate
can be cruel however as I heard he o.d.ed
some
years later while hiding
out up north somewhere, alone in a small town.
The coppers
too somehow miraculously missed smelling that usual “odour
of alcohol” that they
never seem to have been a problem “detecting” if
being charged with
intoxicated in a public place or drinking under age, a fact
that could have helped
in my defense. No, I was just a crazed youth gang-
banger.
The rest
of the ride is a blank. I know there were stops at Milhaven,
Joyceville,
Collins Bay and
Kingston
Penitentiaries but I couldn’t tell you
the order or which was which. My last
recollection is of our arrival at my
new address - Warkwarth
Penitentiary. It resembled a cold, lifeless, factory
surrounded by miles of nothing. A
great, big, complex of non-descript
greyish buildings, I
think, surrounded in barb wire fencing, and connected by
concrete pillared
walkways.... and home to a new tenant -18 year old
“
Lifer”
Billy Williams, convicted murderer.
 |
You can change your future anytime
Author T. Williams |
