The Great Mirror of Same-Sex Love - Prose - 80. Alexander Berkman "The Yegg"

.

from Prison Memoirs of

an Anarchist

Excerpt 01:

I stand in line with a dozen prisoners in the anteroom of the Deputy’s office. Humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls, for the first time in the full light of day, upon my striped clothes. […]

The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, lank figure of the Deputy Warden.

"Hands up!"

The Deputy slowly passes along the line, examining a hand here and there. He separates the men into groups; then, pointing to the one in which I am included, he says in his feminine accents:

"None crippled. Officers, take them, hm, hm, to Number Seven. Turn them over to Mr. Hoods."

"Fall in! Forward, march!" […]

I had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure, nature comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions; one could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the prison gates. But how different is this life! It is full of deceit, sham, and pharisaism – an aggravated counterpart of the outside world. The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy – these find rich soil. […] It sickens me to witness such scenes.

The officers make this apparent to the new inmate: to protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. Yesterday I witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident – a fight between Johnny Davis and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. Johnny, a manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting machine a few feet from my table. Opposite him is Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory has “put him wise,” as he expresses it. My three months’ stay has taught me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips. In this manner I learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task. Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny complained to the overseer, though without accusing Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint, and continued to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent to the dungeon. Yesterday morning he returned to work. The change in the rosy-cheeked boy was startling: pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting step. As he took his place at the machine, I heard him say to the officer:

"Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else."

"Why so?" the guard asked.

"I can't make the task here. I'll make it on another machine, please, Mr. Cosson."

"Why can't you make it here?"

"I'm missing socks."

"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to go to th' hole again, eh?"

"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God, I couldn't. But my socks's missing here."

"Missing, hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't come with no such bluff. Nobody can steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work now, and you'd better make the task, understand ?"

Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved eighteen pairs short. Bradford was "over."

I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny. "Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. “You won't make the task, eh ? Put your coat and cap on."

Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the Deputy, and the inevitable sentence to the dungeon.

"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me God, it isn't."

"It ain't, eh? Whose fault is it; mine?"

Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought the ground, then wandered toward Bradford, who studiously avoided the look.

"I can't squeal," he said, quietly.

“Oh, hell! You ain't got nothin' to squeal. Get your coat and cap."

Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning he came up, his cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. With desperate energy he worked. He toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the growing pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford, who, confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly winking of the left eye.

Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my direction. I smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant I saw Jack's hand slip across the table and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's stockings. The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy from the prostrate Bradford. Both prisoners were taken to the Deputy for trial, with Senior Officer Cosson as the sole witness.

Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open window I saw the overseer return. He entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his mouth. I resolved to speak to him when he passed by.

"Mr. Cosson," I said, with simulated respectfulness, "may I ask you a question?”

"Why, certainly, Burk, I won't eat you. Fire away !"

“What have they done with the boys?”

"Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh ? You see, he started the fight, so he won't have to make the task. Oh, I'm next to him all right. They can't fool me so easy, can they, Burk ?"

"Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see how the fight started ?"

"No. But Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first. That's enough, you know. 'Brad' will be back in the shop to-morrow. I got 'im off easy, see; he's a good worker, always makes more than th' task. He'll jest lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to lose, is there, Burk ?"

"No, not much," I assented. “But, Mr. Cosson, it was all Bradford's fault."

"How so?" the guard demanded.

“He has been stealing Johnny's socks."

"You didn't see him do 't."

"Yes, Mr. Cosson. I saw him this—"

"Look here, Burk. It's all right. Johnny is no good anyway; he's too fresh. You'd better say nothing about it, see? My word goes with the Deputy."

The terrible injustice preys on my mind. Poor Johnny is already the fourth day in the dreaded dungeon. His third time, too, and yet absolutely innocent. My blood boils at the thought of the damnable treatment and the officer's perfidy. […]

Weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of escape. […] often I feel the spirit of Cain stirring within me. But for the hope of escape, I should not be able to bear this abuse and persecution. […] l tax my ingenuity to perfect means of communication with Johnny Davis, my young neighbor. Apparently intent upon our task, we carry on a silent conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional motion of the lips. To facilitate the latter method, I am cultivating the habit of tobacco chewing. The practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging impressions with my newly-acquired assistant, an oldtimer, who introduced himself as "Boston Red." […]

My assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting me in the art of lipless conversation. A large quid of tobacco inflating his left cheek, mouth slightly open and curved, he delights in recounting "ghost stories," under the very eyes of the officers. "Red" is initiating me into the world of "de road," with its free life, so full of interest and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows. An interesting character, indeed, who facetiously pretends to "look down upon the world from the sublime heights of applied cynicism."

"Why, Red, you can talk good English," I admonish him. "Why do you use so much slang? It's rather difficult for me to follow you."

"I'll learn you, pard. See, I should have said 'teach' you, not 'learn.' That's how they talk in school. Have I been there? Sure, boy. Gone through college. Went through it with a bucket of coal," he amplifies, with a sly wink. He turns to expectorate, sweeping the large shop with a quick, watchful eye. Head bent over the work, he continues in low, guttural tones:

"Don't care for your classic language. I can use it all right, all right. But give me the lingo, every time. You see, pard, I'm no [hired] gun. Don't need it in me biz. I'm a yegg."

"What's a yegg, Red?”

"A supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to my kind the term 'tramp'."

"A yegg, then, is a tramp. I am surprised that you should care for the life of a bum."

A flush suffuses the prison-pallor of the assistant. "You are stoopid as the rest of 'em," he retorts, with considerable heat, and I notice his lips move as in ordinary conversation. But in a moment he has regained composure, and a good-humored twinkle plays about his eyes.

"Sir," he continues, with mock dignity, "to say the least, you are not discriminative in your terminology. No, sir, you are not. Now, lookee here, pard, you're a good boy, but your education has been sadly neglected. Catch on? Don't call me that name again. It's offensive. It's an insult, entirely gratuitous, sir. Indeed, sir, I may say without fear of contradiction, that this insult is quite supervacaneous. Yes, sir, that's me. I ain't no bum, see; no such damn thing. Eliminate the disgraceful epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing yours truly. I am a yagg, y—a— double g, sir, of the honorable clan of yaggmen. Some spell it y—e— double g, but I insist on the a, sir, as grammatically more correct, since the peerless word has no etymologic consanguinity with hen fruit, and should not be confounded by vulgar misspelling."

“What's the difference between a yegg and a bum?"

"All the diff in the world, pard. A bum is a low-down city bloke, whose intellectual horizon, sir, revolves around the back door, with a skinny hand-out as his center of gravity. He hasn't the nerve to forsake his native heath and roam the wide world, a free and independent gentleman. That's the yagg, me boy. He dares to be and do, all bulls notwithstanding. He lives, aye, he lives,—on the world of suckers, thank you, sir. Of them 'tis wisely said in the good Book, 'They shall increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore," or words to that significant effect. A yagg's the salt of the earth, pard.” […]

The fancy lures me with its warming embrace, when suddenly the assistant startles me:

“Say, pard, slept bad last night? You look boozy, me lad."

Surprised at my silence, he admonishes me:

"Young man, keep a stiff upper lip. Just look at me! Permit me to introduce to you, sir, a gentleman who has sounded the sharps and flats of life, and faced the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between York and Frisco. Always acquitted himself with flying colors, sir, merely by being wise and preserving a stiff upper lip; see th' point?"

"What are you driving at, Red?"

"They'se goin' to move me down on your row, now that I'm in this 'ere shop. Dunno how long I shall choose to remain, sir, in this magnificent hosiery establishment, but I see there's a vacant cell next yours, an' I'm goin' to try an' land there. Are you next, me boy? I'm goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to speak, assume benevolent guardianship over you; over you and your morals, yes, sir, for you're my kid now.”

“How, your kid ?" […]

"Really, you—" He holds the unturned stocking suspended over the post, gazing at me with half-closed, cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles with wonder.

In his astonishment he has forgotten his wonted caution, and I warn him of the officer's watchful eye.

"Really, Alex; well, now, damme, I've seen something of this 'ere round globe, some mighty strange sights, too, and there ain't many things to surprise me, lemme tell you. But you do, Alex; yes, me lad, you do. Haven't had such a stunnin' blow since I first met Cigarette Jimmie in Oil City. Innocent? Well, I should snicker. He was, for sure. Never heard a ghost story; was fourteen too. […] Well, damme, if I'd ever believe it. Say, how old are you, Alex?"

"I'm over twenty-two, Red. But what has all this to do with the question I asked you?”

"Everythin', me boy, everythin'. You're twenty-two and don't know what a kid is!” […]

I am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance of a direct answer. Yet I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with him; the face expressive of a deep-felt conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of humorous cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp slang with "classic" English, all disarm my irritation. Besides, his droll chatter helps to while away the tedious hours at work; perhaps I may also glean from this experienced old-timer some useful information regarding my plans of escape. […] "I don't know what you are talking about."

"I know you don't. That's why I'm goin' to chaperon you, kid. In plain English, sir, I shall endeavor to generate within your postliminious comprehension a discriminate conception of the subject at issue, sir, by divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imperspicuity or ambiguity. Moonology, my Marktwainian Innocent, is the truly Christian science of loving your neighbor, provided he be a nice, willing boy. Understand now?"

"How can you love a boy?"

"Are you really so dumb? You are not a ref[orm school] boy, I can see that."

"Red, if you'd drop your stilted language and talk plainly, I'd understand better."

"Thought you liked the classic. But you ain't Iong on lingo neither. How can a self-respecting gentleman explain himself to you? But I'll try. You love a boy as you love the poet-sung heifer, see? Ever read Billy Shakespeare? Know the place, 'He's neither man nor woman; he's punk.' Well, Billy knew. A punk's a boy that'll . . . "

"What!"

"Yes, sir. Give himself to a man. Now we'se talkin' plain. Savvy now, Innocent Abroad?"

"I don't believe what you are telling me, Red.”

"You don't be-lie-ve? What th' devil – damn me soul t' hell, what d' you mean, you don't b'lieve? Gee, look out!"

The look of bewilderment on his face startles me. In his excitement, he had raised his voice almost to a shout, attracting the attention of the guard, who is now hastening toward us.

"Who's talkin' here?” he demands, suspiciously eyeing the knitters. "You, Davis?"

“No, sir."

“Who was, then?”

"Nobody here, Mr. Cosson."

"Yes, they was. I heard hollerin'."

"Oh, that was me," Davis replies, with a quick glance at me. "I hit my elbow against the machine."

"Let me see 't."

The guard scrutinizes the bared arm.

"Wa-a-ll," he says, doubtfully, "it don't look sore."

“It hurt, and I hollered."

The officer turns to my assistant: "Has he been talkin', Reddie?”

"I don't think he was, Cap'n."

Pleased with the title, Cosson smiles at Red, and passes on with a final warning to the boy: "Don't you let me catch you at it again, you hear!”

—Alexander Berkman, [i]

1912