Under the wing.

His name was "Jimmy the Painter". I'd heard of him before I even went on the inside. A Genovese crime boss from NY, Jimmy's name rang bells across the criminal underworld. Young punks, like myself at the time, idolized him and his legendary background. Stories of his rackets, his knack for eluding the law until his senior years, and of course the bloody trail he left behind spanning four decades left guys like me in awe. He was The Man behind The Man. A shadowy figure manipulating the scene with brutal grace.

Since my childhood I aspired to be a man like Jimmy. No, really, when most kids at the age of 8 wanted to be cops, firemen, doctors, whatever, I always declared my burning desire to be a gangster. It truly scared the hell out of my family to the point where I saw mental health professionals that, after countless hours of psychotherapy, chalked it up to a fascination brought on by movies and media. I learned to pull the wool over the eyes of anyone at a young age, because although the Hollywood portrayal of the American gangster amused me, my desire was much much more intrinsic. Ever FEEL the need to be somewhere in life but can not quite explain why? Kind of like the concept of kindred spirits only this we'll call kindred belonging. I was thoroughly born bad and knew my fate was to embrace crime. To evolve into it like a pro athlete starts playing ball in adolescence, gradually gaining the skills to make a career out of it.

My first night in a maximum security prison was intimidating. I will never forget the dreadful silence that encompassed the bus as we pulled up to the enormous structure and its walls that would become our future home. There were 6 of us shackled separately. We were all classified "CMC", or Central Monitoring Cases because of the nature of our crimes and criminal history. Yet no matter how hardcore we thought we were, in those moments the pressing reality of what our lives had become burrowed deep into every one of us. There was no escaping it. We sat in silence starring at the giant wall before us, each man contemplating his own personal fears. They were long the minutes. Finally we were ushered to the front of the building, passing several security checkpoints. Automatic gates buzzed and clanged. We were strip searched and made to change from our county jumpsuits to the upstate prison greens that would be our duds for many years to come. The used button up short-sleeved shirt I was given had the initials "QA" written on the tag. The trustee who gave it to me told me it had belonged to a lifer that had recently passed away, now buried in the prison cemetery and forgotten.

After processing, we were all individually placed in our cells scattered among the many cell blocks. I was placed in A-8-6, meaning A block, tier 8, cell 6. The walk to my cell was cinematic. Holding my folded bedding in one hand, my thin Corecraft mattress slung over my other shoulder, I passed one cage after another. Mean looking men stood at their bars watching, sizing me up no doubt. I pretended to be seasoned. Like I had made this walk numerous times to the point where it had become an inconvenience. Inwardly I was gripped by a fear that grew as I began to imagine that my act was transparent. Once I stepped inside my own cage, the cell doors crashed and the guards walked off. Nothing but a small space of concrete and steel surrounded me. I immediately started to read the graffiti on the walls. Various tags claiming this or that set, names of people like "C murder", "Trey Dawg", and "OG Mac10" covered the walls in bold letters. There was even poetry in random spots. Most of it was violent and hate-filled. A couple pieces spoke of sorrow though. A kind of sadness that only becomes expressed when a human being truly experiences spiritual pain. A feeling I would become familiar with in my own time. I did what came natural and tagged my new home. It was an act of tradition that was tacit but felt right. Grabbing the pencil left on the locker by the previous tenet I assume I found an empty space on the ceiling just above the bed. Standing on the steel frame I sketched the words "Feed the Hate". It was the first thing that came to mind and would become a quiet mantra that I never shared verbally, but repeated to myself day after day. Somewhere in my subconscious I understood I would have to live out these words in order to survive. In these moments I was keenly aware that I had to be an instinctual beast. Hate would be my sustenance and my roar.

Hours passed. After cleaning my cell and making my bed I laid in it absorbing everything. Running all kinds of scenarios in my mind. "What if" scenarios that would somehow prepare me for any situation that might come. My self-coaching was interrupted by a shadow passing over my cell as a figure stood at the gate, blocking the sunlight. He was a shifty looking little fellow, resembling a weasel. He introduced himself as Woody and asked for my Rap sheet, a detailed legal history of all my crimes accused and found guilty of. He quickly skimmed over the paperwork and asked me to come to the yard when they ran the evening recreation run. He volunteered to show me around and introduce me to some people. I would later find out that he was sent by some influential members of the Italian American prison community. Apparently my coming was expected from newspaper articles, and some found my case impressive with the victim being a cop.

I went to the yard later that evening apprehensive. At the time I didn't know what to expect, and wasn't sold on the idea of Woody's offer being a noble one. Still I put my game face on and walked the concrete playground with a hundred or so of my peers. Picture the typical movie prison yard scene and you're pretty much close. Basketball courts, metal picnic tables, weightlifting areas (called weight pits), and lots of people cliquing up. Sensory overload for sure. My eyes darted from one thing to the next. Eventually I located my guide and we spun the yard. Spinning the yard is just that: walking the perimeter over and over. It's a common practice in prison. Mostly used for conversation when the need for privacy is essential. He gave me the run down of prison life in a nut shell. Daily schedules, programs, who's who, and who NOT to cross were our main topics. We stopped a few times so that I could be introduced to some "stand up guys", exchanging superficial conversation and keeping it moving. Our final stop was at a table located at the furthest corner of the yard. Several big, obviously Italian by their appearance, guys stared us down and whispered amongst themselves as we approached. We stopped a few feet away and introductions were once again made. I paid little attention to anyone but one old timer that sat at the table, silently measuring me inch by inch, gauging everything I said and acted out. I knew I was in the midst of some bizarre interview of sorts. The old timer was no other than Jimmy the Painter. When he shook my hand he never broke eye contact as he told me he had read all about my case and was glad to meet a crazy mother fucker like myself. I was beyond flattered. Not many will every be able to fully comprehend what a compliment this was. Anyhow, Jimmy asked me to spin and I did. We had a long conversation, and truth be told, I was enthralled. I also caught eye of people watching us. As though this act marked my allegiance to a person and group that you simply did not fuck with. I was proud and energized.

For the next few days I met Jimmy in the yard and we took our walk. He educated me with every syllable he spoke. I was his pupil without it even needing be said. He had taken me under the wing and in an inexplicable way became like a father figure. He loved my company and I loved his status. I knew that I was being groomed to be a soldier, a pawn in the worst way, but I didn't care. I had made my mind up that whatever Jimmy needed done I would do, or die trying.

To be continued...