The Rat
I’ve been here for about ten years. I came in in 1953 and it’s the spring of 1963 now. I’m in Alcatraz, the Rock. No, I wasn’t part of the riots. I’ve been a good prisoner. I’m part of a new company now. One that involves bars and doors that lock from one side only.
This is the fourth or fifth time I’ve tried to write this all down. Before I’d start and someone would take my papers away, or I’d just get all frustrated with trying to write it all down. I managed to secret it all away this time, though.
The papers are hidden in a Bible I keep in my cell. It’s one of the few things they let me keep without going through it every five or six days. I write a little bit each night between dinner and lights out. I think I’ve written down everything that’s been important to my life.
I don’t know why or if anyone will ever read this. I doubt it. Not until after I die, that is. I got life in prison, not that it’s much of a life. I guess it’s better than having a date with Old Sparky, but not by much. Who knows? There’s talk that the prison might shut down in a few years. That we’d all be moved off to other jails, some of us set out on parole, if we’ve been good and all. I’ve been good. I’m a company man. I don’t cause trouble.
I’m still a company man for the Mob, too. I get word every once in awhile, when someone else gets caught. Ray is still in the midst of it all, keeping New York under a tight control. He’s almost eighty now, but some how he keeps going. I hope I’m that active when I’m eight. Actually, I just hope I make it to eighty.
The new guys that come in tell me how everything’s changed. They say it’s not like I remember. It’s more about drugs now than anything. The hookers and pimps work for themselves. The guns are still big, but gambling isn’t worth the time it takes to make sure the casino brings in enough to skim off of. And there hasn’t really been anything like bootlegging since the Prohibition was repealed. The Mob as I knew it is dying out.
They tell me how young all of the new recruits are. Kids fourteen and fifteen years old selling drugs at their schools. They say that a quarter of Los Angeles is overseen by a twenty-one-year-old hood that got his start in San Diego, running cocaine. I can hardly believe it. When I was out there, he would have still been running messages and pouring drinks.
Things don’t change much in here, though. From the first day in, I’ve been called by my number. Prisoner number 235505 at your service. Most of the inmates call me “Old Man” or “Kid,” depending on how they know of me. Guess it’s not too bad to be somewhat anonymous.
The Mob doesn’t really like people writing down histories of it. They’d rather keep their secrets to themselves and not have any records of what goes on. My conscience just wouldn’t let me sleep with all of this in my head, though. I kept having the dreams and screaming myself awake. The writing helps. I don’t have the dream any longer, not as often at least. I think the last time I had it was when I started writing all of this down, a year and a half ago.
Like I said, the Mob doesn’t really like people writing down their stories, telling what went on. I can’t help it, though. I guess I’m just a rat.