The Greenhouse Effect
by George J. Smullen
On a Christmas day, the hymn, How Great Thou Art, reverberated off the walls with such great intensity that first shift Sergeant Jerome Wickett, reporting for work in the Adjustment Center, the official name for the hole, threw his coat, gloves, and trooper hat into his locker and slammed the door.
I could hear things happening there most of the time because I was housed in cell Number One. Its official title was Control Cell. Moreover, I could see them much of the time because the Sergeant's desk and the Strip Search line ere within feet of my cage. The institution's shrink put me here because he thought I was either a danger to myself or others. He wasn't too clear in his explanation to me. He never was.
"Oh Lord, my God, when I in awesome wonder...". Norm Johnson, Wickett's associate, and friend ever since they served a tour in Vietnam together, read the sergeant's actions correctly. Wickett, who hated surprises, was stunned by the playing music.
"I kid you not," explained Johnson. "The Deputy Warden gave Chaplain Samuels permission to bring the phonograph in. Spiritual music only. It's in this memo." Johnson pushed the directive toward Wickett, who backed away, as if his touching or reading the note would give him instant cancer.
"If the Bible Thumper wanted to get these stones in the Christmas spirit, why didn't he put on Jingle Bells?" Shaking his head, the sergeant turned his attention to the task at hand. The Whiteshirt in charge, Captain Zimmerman, had ordered Wickett at the shift meeting to give us a Christmas present by holding what the Department of Corrections' Policy and Procedures Manual referred to as a "Personnel strip search." Inmates hated shakedowns on Christmas, and especially in the Greenhouse, which is what we all called the hole. Adjustment Center, my Aunt Ida.
They would have been damned fools if they didn't hold their shakedowns, let me tell you. We were not beyond manufacturing weapons for offensive or defensive maneuvers. My specialty was a Swedish steel-sharp shank made from a toothbrush handle which I honed on my cell's floor.
The guards didn't like Strip Search either. It was the only time when we were allowed out of our cells, minus our handcuffs and leg irons. If we were carrying, we could get at least one of them before the others had time to react. So, they were understandably concerned, not knowing if this was the day one of us would try to kill one of them. That's why we were let out one at a time, butt-naked.
"Who they bringing first?" asked Wickett. "And don't say Allen."
"Allen," answered Johnson. Willie Allen was always first because he had the rep in the Greenhouse, having sent more than a few Blueshirts to the hospital, their bodies resembling high-speed, head-on crash victims who hadn't worn their seat belts. Even with their bones repaired, most never returned. Their nerves could not be healed. Of course, Allen got additional state, plus hole, time for his many assaults, which didn't bother him at all. The Greenhouse was his home.
At that moment, Officer Jimmy Hein joined Wickett and Johnson. Hein had just completed shaking down Willie Allen's cell after Allen had been placed in a holding cage. Hein and Wickett's buddy stood silently on either side of the sergeant, arms crossed against chests, awaiting Willie's arrival, which would take place precisely five feet from where they stood. Strip Shake Area was marked by a painted white line on the floor.
"Sergeant Wickett!"
It was show time, folks. We all looked out our cells after Willie bellowed, which must have sounded like artillery fire to a newcomer. He came into view, shuffling the leg iron mambo. Two rhinoceros-sized Blueshirts, who were escorting him, stopped as Willie's toes reached the line. One moved in front of him and unlocked Willie's belly chain and leg irons which the rhino quickly passed to an officer in a barred sally port. They didn't want us having access to anything that could be used as weapons. He quickly joined his partner. Together, they crossed their arms.
"Sergeant Wickett!" Allen sounded like an avalanche. Willie's eyes locked onto a couple of nearby cons in their cages, hands gripping bars. They knew what was coming. "I gots to axe why you gotta checks this Black man's ass first!"
"Nothing personal, Willie. Face me, please." When I look down from lofty. . "Lift your arms. I need to see your armpits."
"Wickett get his gun off by staring at a Black man's booty, uh-huh!" said the big dude, sneering. His audience cheered. He jiggled. They wriggled. Wickett yawned and looked at his Timex before he spoke. And hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze.
"It's seven-eighteen, too early to play games. I've got to see those pits." Willie made Muscle Beach with his King Kong deltoids and then complied. How great Thou art, how great thou art!
"Put your hands before you at eye level. Palms up." The peach-colored underbellies of the huge nutmeg-tinted paws turned over. "Okay, palms down. Let's see those fingernails."
The sergeant's head tipped back, his eyeballs scrutinizing Willie's nails. "You're going to have to cut them. We don't want any weapons in here, Willie. Now, wiggle your fingers like a piano player." Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in.
"You ain't got that little thing up yet, is you?" questioned Willie after Wickett ordered him to put down his arms. His spectators' rejoicing bellows, combined with Willie's roars of proud indignation, swelled into an immeasurable, symphonic roar.
The clamor didn't bother Wickettt as he checked under Willie's tongue and alongside his gums, and then ordered the gargantuan to scratch his head hair and finally lift his scrotum before turning around so the officer could check his backside.
The big dude's bulk teetered as he lifted his left foot. Wickett wanted to make sure Willie had nothing taped or glued to his sole. "Now, spread the toes." Willie complied, jumping slightly, after which Wickett inspected the other foot before commanding him to stand.
"Okay," the sergeant ordered, "bend over and give me a great big Merry Christmas smile." Even Wickett had a sense of humor. I liked to die as some dudes started whistling.
"I bets," Willie roared after he bent over, "all you white boys gets stirrings watching a black man's booty!" Some dudes from the other side wolf-howled in protest, but not me. I had no desire to confront him, in or out of the joint, in heaven or in hell. Then I shall bow in humble adoration . . .
"I knows," Willie trumpeted, his hands a megaphone, "who you is!" The protest stopped. Then, he really gave it to them. "Bunch a punks! Let me hear you brother-men! Ain't they a bunch of homo-ass-sissies?" Willie's Amen Section saturated the air with exclamations.
"Tell it like it is, brutha-man!"
"Rat Own, Bro' Allen!"
"That be it, Willie, ma brutha fo evah and evah!" Wickett waited for them to finish, acting as if nothing could faze him. When they stopped, he spoke quietly.
"Is Allen's Cell ready?"
"Ready, Sarge," said Hein. "Turned it upside down. As clean as him."
"Passed my muster too," agreed Johnson who had to inspect each cell before Hein. Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee . . .
"Listen, my bruthas, to Officer Oh-ree-oh!" Johnson, having the same ethnic heritage as Willie, stiffened. Apparently, he didn't like being compared to a chocolate cookie with white innards. Honest to God, I thought right then and there he was going to throw down with the big dude, but Wickett intervened.
"You got to be kidding me, Willie. You know you can't talk to my officers like you talk to me. Now apologize." I could almost hear Willie's thought-gears colliding with one another. I waited for him to come out of a nut roll, but he didn't.
"I'm sorry Officer Johnson, suh," said the big man in a sham voice, wearing a semi-smirk, which seemed to satisfy the sergeant although Johnson, by the looks of him, certainly wasn't happy. The brothers went wild. After they calmed down, Wickett spoke in an unhurried tone.
"After you're shackled, you can return to your house and get dressed." The escorting Blueshirts retrieved the chains and fettered the black bull who sneered as he scuffed away from Strip Shake Area while his entourage whistled, shrieked, and applauded their support. Soon, the heavy steel door of his cell clickety-clacked like a roller coaster before it slammed shut. How great Thou art, how The music stopped.
Twirling about, Wickett cocked his body into one of those karate stances. Nervous time. Anticipation. He welcomed surprises as much as he did the urine-filled Styrofoam cups we sometimes tossed at Blueshirts as they passed by our cells. Expecting action, all I heard was what the others could. The needle went plunk as it re-settled in a groove.
"Dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh! Over the fields we go, laughing all the way . . . ha ha ha ha ha!" In a few moments, we joined in like a bunch of first graders while Wickett's two aides doubled over with silent laughter. The sergeant barely broke a grin.
"You've got to be kidding me. Where did you dip sticks get that?"
"From the prison school," said Hein.
"You said you'd rather hear Jingle Bells, remember?" giggled Johnson. Wickett reminded them where they were and what they had to accomplish.
"Who's next?"
"The super-duper pooper eater," answered his battlefield buddy.
"You got to be kidding me." Johnson shook his head.
"Well, then, let's get going. We only got an eight-hour shift." Johnson, Hein, and the two escorting officers nodded. Newcomb was marched to Strip Shake Area where the rhinos performed their preparation duties.
Newcomb was as blanched as Willie was dark, as little as the former was large. The tiny flake grinned uncontrollably, teeth looking like worm-infested corn. Johnson and Hein took their places on either side of Wickett. "Face me, Newcomb. Why you wearing that smile?"
"I don't know, sir." Oh, Jingle bells, Jingle bells, jingle all the . . . Then, the little dung-scarfer burst out laughing, sounding more like a squeaking mouse, sprinting ahead of a determined alley cat. He couldn't help himself as he pointed toward Johnson and Hein. After Wickett turned to look at his officers, he, himself, went totally out of control, snickering and sputtering, eyes watering, and snot coming out of his nose like a grade school kid after hearing his first froggy joke.
Like a pair of elve's, with arms crossed against their chests, stood Officers Norm Johnson and Jimmy Hein, wearing white beards, red and white Santa caps, and the most God-awful grins I had ever seen in my entire life. The next thing you know, the Greenhouse turned into a nut house as every one of us; the super-dooper pooper eater, big Willie Allen, and even Sergeant Jerome Wickett, merrily sang that tune together.
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Last Updated: January 19, 1996