Under The Lights

Javier Ortiz’s calendar didn’t differentiate between holidays or any other days. All that mattered was the black “X’ he put in the box every time a day passed. That’s what prison was; marking time. Waiting for an exit strategy- release or death. Half the time you didn’t really know what you welcomed.

The Bureau of Prisons showed a modicum of humanity when it came to certain holidays. There were no work details on Christmas. Javier had his choice of church services throughout the day, and a relative feast at 3:30 pm. The “feast” consisted of a ragged, unidentifiable roasted bird- Sparrow? Quail? Stuffing of some form rumored to have sausage in it, and an apple crisp. Javier missed the big spreads his family would put out around Christmas. Compared to the carb-heavy, flavor-devoid salt bombs of every other meal, the “feast” did wonders for morale on the compound, and he was grateful.

Javier remembered one year when they woke up and were treated to a rare white Christmas. Impromptu snowball fights broke out on the compound and rival gangs didn’t put rocks in the snowballs. The warden put his foot down when dozens of snowmen were built. He demanded they all be knocked down because they interfered with the daily counts. (Apparently, some of the guards couldn’t distinguish the snowmen from the inmates.)

Once the initial reverie passed on Christmas Day, Javier grew despondent at the thought of being away from his family. The emotional highs and lows could be dangerous as the day wore on. He opted to spend the rest of the day in his bunk, thinking about the look on his nephew’s face when he opened his Christmas presents. “Soon enough,” he thought to himself. He would see that look again for real.

The Fourth of July was tougher for Javier. The guards organized softball games between rival units. The anticipation (and subsequent wagering) in the weeks that led up to the games was all that the inmates talked about.

Bets covered the spectrum, ranging from which unit would win, who would hit the most home runs, to who would throw the first punch and be sent to the Hole.

Javier was considered a major league prospect a lifetime ago. His exceptional bad judgment as a youth resulted in trading his potential pinstripes for prison khakis.

In prison, he was considered a prized free agent because he was housed in a sequestered unit focused on drug rehabilitation; they never had enough players to field a team.

Bribes in the forms of commissary payments and food stolen from the kitchen that had been repurposed into Mofongo or Tripletas found their way to his cell. He missed his native Puerto Rico. Food was a painful connection that he ached for almost as much as his family.

The Fourth of July meal replicated a “traditional” American barbecue- cheeseburgers, hot dogs, grilled sausage, corn on the cob, and watermelon. Javier would get excited in the chow line until he saw the grayish burger (cheese “disappeared” from the kitchen and became an expensive black market commodity.) The hot dogs had an unexplained metallic green tint and the sausage was burned beyond recognition. With some effort, the corn could be ground and made into fresh tortillas back in his unit.

The softball games were a best of three series and had to be completed before sunset and the evening count. Javier wanted to hit a home run for his nephew so he could brag about it in his weekly call home. He wanted to let him know his old tio still had it, and maybe, just maybe there was still time for another shot at the big leagues.

However, no pitcher gave him anything to hit. Opposing sides of inmates booed and got so raucous that several were escorted from the field.

Javier remained placid. For a few short hours, hardened men were kids again. Racing around the bases, sliding in the dirt, full of promise and abandon. The taunting was mostly good-natured. There was always an “accidental slide” that took out a shortstop or some other incident that incited a bench-clearing confrontation until cooler heads prevailed.

The idea of spending a weekend in the Hole did not appeal to Javier in the least. Not in July with zero air conditioning.

His play in the field was still as smooth as ever. Even with the beaten-down equipment that bore the sweat stains of every inmate who put the glove on before him, he still showed flashes of the brilliant potential that he squandered.

When the sun went down and the field cleared, he returned to his bunk and found a “package” of shucked corn and some spices to make his own tortillas. Payment for his efforts in winning the game.

While hiding his reward package he saw flickering lights in the distance reflected in the small window in his cell. He assumed the red and blue lights were from a late transfer bus that arrived with new inmates. When he climbed on his bunk and looked out the window the size of a piece of paper, he saw a fireworks display off in the distance.

Reflecting on his day in the gravel-strewn softball field as the green, blue, and red lights dazzled and dotted the sky he was mesmerized. Javier saw flashes of something he had buried long ago. There was hope. He could be a firework once again. The reflection from the burst of green light lit up his face, highlighting a seldom shed tear for himself.

There was still time. He just needed the calendar to work in his favor.

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