Revenge on a coconut
By Brandon Astor Jones
"I have had a 'call' to literature, of a low order — i.e. humorous. It is nothing to be proud of, but it is my strongest suit ... seriously scribbling to excite the laughter of God's creatures." — Mark Twain (1835-1910)
Reading Mark Twain's words, I am reminded that it is difficult to think of a clean way to tell a dirty story. Readers familiar with my writings will know that I do not very often engage in humour.
That is not because I cannot find things to laugh about — I certainly can. But because I am on death row, most people in the US tend not to want or expect me to have a humane bone in my body, let alone a sense of humour. But what I am about to reveal is about humorous revenge, so it should fit right in with US sensibilities.
Prisoners can be very vengeful. Yet it is only fair to note too that violence is not always the vehicle chosen to effect revenge. That is especially so when a guard is the subject of a prisoner's desire for revenge, when the prisoner is an African-American and the guard is a coconut (a white redneck's black counterpart). In the state of Georgia there are a lot of coconuts.
When I was moved from the prison at Jackson, where death row is located, to the general population of the prison at Reidsville, I witnessed first hand a lot of humorous situations. Some of those played themselves out in one of that prison's many dining rooms.
In one incident there was a certain lieutenant whom we will call Coconut. He spent much of his life trying to stop the constant disappearance of sandwich meats and cheeses that had been literally walking out of the dining room while he was on duty.
Lieutenant Coconut would position himself at the exit door and search every man who left the dining room. Several days later, at lunch time, the lieutenant caught a lunch meat thief. The hungry prisoner must have had at least 10 slices of meat and cheese rolled up in his pocket.
Lieutenant Coconut, having foiled an attempted meat and cheese theft, grew more self confident in his searches and patrols of the dining room.
The next day four of us were sitting at our usual table, near the end of our meal. The silence between us was broken when prisoner (I will call him) number four burst into laughter for no apparent reason. We other three all looked questioningly at number four, who saw the coconut positioning himself at the exit door and said, "I'm goin' to get even with that mother-f****r today!"
"How?"
He immediately produced a photograph from his shirt pocket. It had been taken in a happier and freer time. He and the woman who was once his wife were obviously not posing for the camera. They were in bed. He had on boxer shorts, and it was clear that she had on nothing. They were locked in a passionate embrace.
He placed the photograph on the table in front of his food tray and said, "Help me out y'all. Let's be the last to leave so I'll have time to remember this picture real good!"
There was a sly smile on his face. It became clear to us that prisoner number four was mentally trying to conjure up that blissful time past with his ex-wife. Five minutes later, the look of mission accomplished framed his face.
We got up from the table and headed for the door. One by one the lieutenant searched and patted us down. We all turned around to wait for prisoner number four. Smiling, as four meandered through the door, the lieutenant had seen the bulge and immediately stuck his hand into number four's pocket in an effort to extract what he was certain was lunch meat.
He was, in part, right: it certainly was meat.
"What's this in your pocket?"
"That's me", number four said, with just a trace of a smile.
Lieutenant Coconut's entire body went rigid. He quickly withdrew the probing hand. All four of us struggled to maintain our composure; we knew that even a quiet chuckle would land us in a solitary confinement cell.
Not long after that, the Georgia Department of Corrections decided to remove the pockets from all male prisoners' pants. I wonder why.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-77, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA. Brandon and his friends are trying to raise funds to pay for a lawyer for his appeal. If you can help, please make cheques payable to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account and post to 41 Neutral St, North Sydney NSW 2060, or any Commonwealth Bank, account No. 2127 1003 7638.]