Part 17 (1/2)

Ever the extrovert, he launched into a tirade, ”Okay, it's like this, y'know what'm sayin', chicks be coming in all shapes and sizes, so you got to be able to bend and twist yourself into all kinds of shapes in order to, um, fill that s.p.a.ce fill that s.p.a.ce, ya know what I'm sayin...” And in case we didn't know what he was saying, he began gyrating and grinding.

”Thank you, Chudney,” I said. ”Have a seat.”

Chudney collapsed into a chair, and said, ”Seriously, fellas, I'm gonna hit y'all real hard on my opinions and views on love. You'll see.”

”We all look forward to that,” I said.

But, I had to admit, Chudney's love poem was probably the best thing that came of the next twenty minutes. At his turn to read, he stood up and dramatically recited a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. He had memorized it from the back of a bag of Nestle's chocolate chips.

”What?” Dumayne laughed in disbelief. ”What the f.u.c.k Dumayne laughed in disbelief. ”What the f.u.c.k was was that?” that?”

”Man,” said Chudney, taking his seat, ”you don't know nothing nothing about love, do you?” about love, do you?”

Dumayne looked mortified, suddenly conscious of his ignorance.

”Just trust me, lil' cuz,” said Chudney. ”You make wifey a little card that says, This is how much I love you This is how much I love you, then you put that recipe in there, and when she's reading it, right, you pull out some cookies that you made for her, on a nice plate with flowers and s.h.i.+t. You'll see what happens.”

Dumayne nodded solemnly.

Since he had the floor, and confident that his love poem was the best in cla.s.s, Chudney announced that his life's goal was to be the host of a TV cooking show. He even had a name for it: Thug Sizzle, with your host Chudney Franklin Thug Sizzle, with your host Chudney Franklin. He promised that one day, he would host all of us in his restaurant and that Chef Chudney-wearing a ”big a.s.s chef hat”-would serve us a feast on the house.

Frank, appropriately, asked if even he would be invited.

”Yeah,” said Chudney, ”you and and your wife. Not the dog, though.” your wife. Not the dog, though.”

The Plan A few days later, on a bleak winter afternoon both outside and in the prison, after I weathered a particularly gruesome wave of inmate demands, I spied Chudney waiting patiently at the end of the library counter. A Boston Herald Boston Herald was spread before him, which he glanced at absently. A younger inmate suddenly appeared behind him, leaned in very close, and whispered something into his ear. Chudney nodded slightly, but neither said a word nor changed his expression. The younger inmate vanished. was spread before him, which he glanced at absently. A younger inmate suddenly appeared behind him, leaned in very close, and whispered something into his ear. Chudney nodded slightly, but neither said a word nor changed his expression. The younger inmate vanished.

There was something in that small interaction that left me with the distinct feeling that I didn't know Chudney. And probably never would.

He had come to see me, which was obvious from the distracted way he had been reading the paper. As soon as I was free to talk, I motioned him over.

”I was serious about what I said the other day,” he said.

I didn't know what he was talking about.

”I want to be a...” he looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper, ”I want to be a chef chef, man. I want to have my own TV program. I'm serious about this s.h.i.+t.”

And he was. He stared at me-almost imploring me, it seemed, to take him seriously. But he didn't need to implore. Sure, it was slightly ambitious, but not unfeasible. And kind of clever. He'd create a niche and then fill it: a hood cooking show. He was just the guy for the job. He was charismatic, smart, funny, loved food. He could have a show, why not? He could brand himself on marinara sauces and stuff. Thug Sizzle Thug Sizzle, sure. (Name should probably change, but who knows, maybe not?) And if Plan A didn't pan out, he could at least be a chef or something. It was probably a better career plan than selling cocaine.

On the library counter, he laid out a sheet of paper with the words The Plan The Plan written carefully at the top, and a frightening number of handwritten boxes each containing a word or two, written carefully at the top, and a frightening number of handwritten boxes each containing a word or two, parole, construction halfway house, business degree, culinary school, TV interns.h.i.+p, moms, son, bank, loan, brothers parole, construction halfway house, business degree, culinary school, TV interns.h.i.+p, moms, son, bank, loan, brothers...and on they went. There were probably thirty boxes connected through a battle plan of looping arrows. An even more complicated color-coded legend at the bottom explained this dizzying flowchart.

”Okay,” he said, sensing my confusion, ”forget that for now.”

There was a strange desperation in his actions. He spoke in haste. Folded the sheet in a quick, rapid action, almost ripping it. It was as though he had to finalize and execute The Plan The Plan before daybreak. before daybreak.

When he got out of prison in a few months he wanted to work in construction for a while, make some money, pay some debts, some child support, and generally get on his feet. He had his high school equivalency wrapped up. Soon, he would start taking some business and culinary cla.s.ses. He would intern or work in the mailroom or do whatever he could to get his foot in the door in TV. He would take acting cla.s.ses. He would continue to rise through the ranks in the culinary field. He would do everything he needed to do to achieve his goal: To star in his own cooking show.

”Five to ten years,” he said. It sounded like a prison sentence.

He had a lot of questions and wondered if I might answer them or help him find the answers. I agreed. This seemed like a worthy project for the library.

He fired off his first question: How is that final step achieved? How is that final step achieved? Meaning: How does one go from having all the right degrees and experience to actually having a show? This was an answer I could give him on the spot. Meaning: How does one go from having all the right degrees and experience to actually having a show? This was an answer I could give him on the spot.

”That's simple,” I said, ”you can't know right now.”

He did not like this answer. It didn't jibe with The Plan The Plan. I explained that he must use his imagination to see how it might might happen-and talk to people who have done it. I told him to use the same imagination he used in cla.s.s to picture a scene: he's working as a TV intern, with a culinary certificate. He's a rookie gofer, but a trusted, hardworking part of the team. When the timing is right, he pitches something to the producer. If it's of value to the producer, the producer will use it. happen-and talk to people who have done it. I told him to use the same imagination he used in cla.s.s to picture a scene: he's working as a TV intern, with a culinary certificate. He's a rookie gofer, but a trusted, hardworking part of the team. When the timing is right, he pitches something to the producer. If it's of value to the producer, the producer will use it. (This is not a favor he's doing for you (This is not a favor he's doing for you, I pointed out, he's doing it because it's in his interest. Don't forget that.) he's doing it because it's in his interest. Don't forget that.) If that segment airs, it goes into his resume as a TV writing credit. It has begun. If that segment airs, it goes into his resume as a TV writing credit. It has begun.

”My point,” I concluded, ”is you can't know for certain now. But put yourself into the scene. You'll be front and center when an opening happens, and you'll seize it. And if it doesn't work out, it's okay. You'll have good experience and can work as a chef or have your own place or something. Always have to have a good Plan B, right?”

”Yes,” he said. He was taking notes. ”That's good, that's good.”

I told him to hold on to The Plan The Plan and to make me a list of what the library could provide him to help prepare this effort. He said he'd get started on it immediately. He'd have me a list within ten minutes. and to make me a list of what the library could provide him to help prepare this effort. He said he'd get started on it immediately. He'd have me a list within ten minutes.

There was one more thing, Chudney said. ”Don't tell no n.o.body.”

I promised him my silence-always a dangerous proposition in prison.

”I'm telling you about The Plan The Plan cause I trust you, man,” he said. ”There's a lot a f.u.c.kin' haters around here, Avi.” cause I trust you, man,” he said. ”There's a lot a f.u.c.kin' haters around here, Avi.”

I gave him my word.

And so he sat down and composed a long list. His writing posture was exactly as I had remembered from the first day in the writing cla.s.s: meditating-pen lying flat on the table-then staring at the ceiling, waiting for the words to precipitate down. It wasn't long before they did. In a flurry, he wrote: 1. degree programs (business, culinary) 2. CORI [Criminal Offender Record Information] issues 3. TV jobs, how do you get them?

4. recipes 5. more recipes 6. information on how to write a resume and a business plan 7. loan info 8. recipes!!!!

When the officer arrived to end the library period, Chudney folded up the paper and whispered, ”we'll call this thing TS-for Thug Sizzle.”

As the officer ushered him out, I shook my head.

”No,” I said, ”let's not call it that.”

I was sticking to my policy of no nicknames.

Dandelion Polenta I created a hardcopy file for Chudney. In it I placed a growing stack of information. Applications for business and culinary cla.s.ses, financial aid and loan papers, information about business plans, licensing for starting a business, tax forms, materials from the Culinary Inst.i.tute of America (CIA) and other culinary schools, with special regard given to schools that didn't exclude ex-cons. It was always in these types of efforts-in the attempt to help an inmate figure out a legitimate life path-that I learned about the obstacles facing people with criminal records. Chudney, for example, was excluded from getting a federal loan for college.

I also threw in reviews of TV shows, bios, Wikipedia entries, and interviews of TV culinary personalities. And of course, I included some recipes. I knew that he liked Italian food, so I put in some recipes from Chef Giovanni Scappin, a teacher at CIA. I also enlisted the inmate librarians to scour the library for cookbooks.

”You having a chick over, Avi?” Fat Kat asked.

”You know it,” I said.

It was a harmless lie. The guys would work harder to find the books if they were aiding in a s.e.xual conquest. And I'd need all the help I could get. It would be strange to find a cookbook in a prison library-but, of course, it was a strange place. After an intrepid search, the inmate library detail turned up two books. One in the Art section and another in Fiction.

”Make something with a good sauce,” Pitts advised me, handing me a Southwestern cookbook.

”Why?”

He grinned. ”So you can feed it directly to her in a spoon at the end of the meal. Drives 'em crazy.”

He moaned and pantomimed this, making me deeply regret having asked the question. He also advised me to wear a ”really soft s.h.i.+rt, makes them want to touch you.”