Alvarez

I first saw him as I climbed into the patrol wagon. He was sitting well toward the back, all drawn up into a tight knot--head sunk between his shoulders, arms wrapped around his body, knees pressed together and pulled up toward his chin. He was wearing a trench coat several sizes too large that hung in loose folds around him, the bottom dragging on the floor, and a misshapen black felt hat with a wide brim pulled down over his forehead. He was thin--almost skeletal--and of a pale jaundice yellow color. His face was skull-like, with enormous eye sockets. The eyes were large and black brown, glazed and staring straight ahead. He was shivering and as I settled into my seat, he began shaking and shuddering, while his whole body jerked convulsively. Tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. His nose was running, a thin drop of mucus hanging from the tip. He was emitting a strange, almost waillike sound, occasionally groaning, babbling to himself in Spanish interspersed with broken English. The words "I'm sick. I'm sick, I'm sick" were all I could understand. Suddenly, he vomited, regurgitating globs of green bile, falling back afterward onto the seat, moaning.

We were going down to police headquarters to be fingerprinted, photographed, put through the showup, formally booked and charged with our respective crimes, examined and thoroughly frisked, interviewed, sent through a cold shower and finally assigned to a floor and a cell in the city prison to await trial. I couldn't help but speculate about how they expected to get the man through the entire procedure--which is an ordeal when one is in good health--without his collapsing completely.

We were the only prisoners in the wagon. The cop who was sitting guard over us kept making remarks to me about how disgusting it was to see anyone in such a condition. "The poor son of a bitch would be better off dead. I ain't got no sympathy for you guys. Why do you do it? There ain't nothing worse than junk. How come you ain't like him? You're a junkie, too, ain't you? Oh, well--you'll probably get like that later."

The ride downtown seemed interminable and I was glad when we stopped and the cop said. "End of the line, let's go. Come on, no stalling." I was still feeling fairly good and had no trouble stepping down from the wagon, but my companion had to be dragged and cuffed alongside the head before he could manage to stagger and half fall out of the wagon down the stairs, past the newspaper reporters and photographers, into headquarters, where we were separated. At headquarters, things move slowly, and it wasn't until much later in the day that I saw him again.

I was assigned to a temporary cell, where I waited until they called me out to be printed and photographed, after which I was taken upstairs to the showup and then down to the courtroom, where I appeared before a judge who decided what bail was to be set: then over to the city prison.

Sometimes, if a junkie is very sick, or if the detective handling the case is afraid the junkie is apt to get sick in the courtroom (something the judges frown on), arrangements are made for the junkie to have a shot. Such must have happened with the fellow who had ridden down with me, because he was certainly in much better shape when they led him into the bull pen, where we were to wait until assignment to our regular cells. Finally, our names were called and we were led over to the shower room, where we stripped, our clothes left in a pile, each piece closely examined--seams carefully felt for concealed needles or stashes of junk, the shoes banged on the floor and inspected for false heels or soles--while we stood in a shower of cold water or waited, shivering, until the frisk was over. After dressing, we were led before a doctor and given a cursory examination. We were asked how long we had used junk and what kind. The sick man was behind me in line and while talking to the doctor, asked for a fix. He was told. "There will be no fix for you. This is jail, not a sanitarium. You kick--cold turkey."

We were both sent to the eighth floor: they try to keep the junkies all together and his cell was two down from mine.

The cells in the city prison were originally designed to accommodate one, but in the past few years have been used to hold two. Each cell now contains an upper and a lower bunk, a toilet, a small washbasin, a stool or seat that lets down from the wall and a small square metal shelf or ledge that serves as a table. Each prisoner is issued three blankets--not always clean--a sheet, a pillowcase and a towel. The bunks consist of a set of springs. There are no mattresses or pallets and sometimes no pillows: therefore, it is necessary to use at least one of the blankets as a sort of pad over the springs. Before there were two springs in each cell, when it became necessary to put two men together, one or the other was forced to sleep on the floor.

Each floor is broken up into four sections, alphabetically designated A. B. C. and D. In each section there is what is called a flats, the main-floor row of cells, and a tier, or the row of cells immediately above those on the flats. There are approximately 50 cells to each section. The cells face a sort of well that runs the full length of each row, extending as a far over as catwalk surrounding the entire floor. Panels of small, opaque glass run around the perimeter of each floor: one can see daylight but never a glimpse of the outside. The cells are opened early in the morning, usually shortly after breakfast, which is served on trays and brought to the cells by trustees. Regardless of how one feels, it is required that they gather out on the flats and remain there until it is time for the midday meal, when they return to the cell for an hour, coming out again for what is termed afternoon recreation. This routine never varies and is additional discomfort for addicts who are sick and weak, in most instances unable to stand for long, who must sit with head bowed over a long table flanking the side of the catwalk--if lucky--or end up sitting on the floor. The cells are closed and one can't get back in to lie down until the next lockup.

I had (continued on page 179) Alvarez (continued on page 141) managed to get through my first day without getting sick. I had fixed only a short time before being arrested, so that it wasn't until the following day that the real misery began. I had been put into a cell with a fellow who had been there almost two weeks, who was over the worst of his kicking. Probably the worst thing about kicking a habit cold turkey is being unable to sleep. I have talked to men who have gone three to four weeks without sleep. Nothing is quite so agonizing as lying on a set of springs, frequently broken, that cut into you no matter how you try to pad them, squeaking with each breath you take.

The first night I had slept fitfully, becoming familiar with the night sounds of a prison. The guard passing with flashlight and jingling keys. Snoring, groaning, passing wind, sleep talk, flushing toilets, phone ringing, muffled conversations, closing doors, church chimes, traffic, shouts on the streets below and the constant noise of people sick and unable to sleep, moving and adjusting, seeking a more comfortable position.

My companion in the patrol wagon, whose name I had learned was Alvarez, cried, groaned, stopped the guard, begging to see a doctor, asking for something to ease his pain. He called for Maria, Rita, Lola, then banged against the bars and was told to "Shut up, for Christ's sake." "Lay down, you bastard, there are others trying to sleep." "Come out swinging in the morning, you punk bastard, you ain't any sicker than I am."

When I saw him the following morning, he looked like a zombi. He staggered out of the cell with a blanket wrapped shawl-fashion around his shoulders, his hair hanging down over his forehead and eyes. He was shivering and shaking and racked with dry heaving, unable to vomit anymore, because there was no longer even green bile in his stomach. He kind of collapsed into a heap on the floor, remaining there the entire morning, while prisoners simply stepped over him. Once he managed to get up long enough to wander down toward the end of the flats and call to the guard on duty, asking to see the doctor. The guard told him to get the hell back inside, the doctor wouldn't be around until later.

This occurred on a Saturday. He did see a doctor in the afternoon. The doctor gave him a paper cup full of aspirin--about ten--which he swallowed all at once, afterward setting fire to the paper cup, holding it straight out in front of him, staring intently at the flame, half smiling, mumbling something in Spanish, until the flame burned his fingers and he dropped the charred remains of the cup on the floor, while the smile left his face, replaced by a look of sadness. Other prisoners had gathered around him--sort of watching him in awe--talking among themselves, suggesting he was crazy.

On Sunday, he remained alone in a corner, once again doubled up in a tight knot, sitting on the floor, resting his head on his knees. Several Spanish-speaking prisoners tried talking with him, but he wouldn't answer or would look at them out of tear-filled eyes. He would only say. "I'm sick--I'm sick." Once the guard came down and spoke to him. Alvarez just looked at him, not answering, until the guard walked away. Late in the afternoon, just before lock-up, he soiled and wet himself all over. His cellmate refused to go into the cell with him until the guard ordered a couple of prisoners to take him up to the shower and wash the stink off of him. They put him under an ice-cold shower. He stood there with his arms hanging at his sides, crying. His flesh hung on his body, exposing each bone. They let him out and he groped his way back to the cell, where he fell, exhausted, on his bunk, his whole being racked by sobbing. That night he kept everyone awake, calling for God.

Monday and Friday are always busy, because the prisoners have to make court appearances. On this particular Monday, Alvarez' cellmate had to appear in court during the afternoon session. He was late returning, so that we were all locked in for the night when he got back. He came walking down the line of cells until he reached his own. Suddenly, he yelled, "Jesus Christ--the guy is dead."

Alvarez had died sitting up. When they opened the cell and carried him out to put him on the stretcher, they had to straighten him out. He had died all folded up, his hands and arms wrapped around his legs, which were drawn up so his head could rest on his knees. Once again, he had soiled and wet himself.

He was already dying when I first saw him.