The Candyman
Hey man, you want a 8 ball?
He held out his hand and inside were 4 or 5 marble-sized, white balls. He had cut the fingertips off of some latex gloves, filled them with something, and offered one to me.
I had just moved into the pod that day. I could tell he was one of those old-timers who didn’t know how to speak at any volume other than 11. Every person in the pod can hear every word he says at all times no matter how far away they try to be.
Ey young! 8 ball?
The bottom eyelid of one his eyes half closes as his eyebrows raise.
“No thanks,” I said, distrustful of all strangers at this point - too naive to know that even in jail, strangers are mostly harmless. Unless you’re a child molester.
I knew it wasn’t drugs. There’s no way he would be so loud and open about it.
“This jail has ears,” I read once in the local newspaper. A quote by a member of the drug taskforce or something. I looked up at the speakers and thought that maybe they doubled as microphones until somebody cleared it up for me.
“Not technology dumbass. That’s too expensive. Fuckin’ snitches. They’re everywhere.”
“So what’s up with this dude peddlin’ 8 balls?”
“That’s dude’s hustle. It’s candy man. You should’ve taken one. First one’s free. Next one’s gonna cost you.”
“Damn.” I like candy.
You could get Jolly Ranchers and Now and Laters from commissary. This guy would take a Now and Later out of the wrapper and microwave it in 10 second intervals until it got soft and pliable. He’d do the same thing with the Jolly Ranchers, but more carefully. There was a fine line between pliable and liquid for those. He would then roll them out into a tube-like shape and twist them together. Mixing and matching colors and flavors and creating all sorts of shapes.
On this particular occasion he had managed to get the Now and Later completely inside a sphere of Jolly Rancher.
A few weeks later I saw a new guy in the pod sucking on one of these fancy pieces of candy - like something out of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
The candyman was sitting at a table watching Soul Train reruns with his stickman and eating pizza. The kind with crust made from several packs of Ramen noodles and wet crackers. Topped with actual pizza sauce they managed to steal from the kitchen, refried beans, summer sausage, pickles, several cups of tub-cheese, and ranch dressing.
I had soup. 1 pack of Ramen noodles. Water. Microwave. Seasoning packet. Belly. You were only allowed to buy 10 food items per week from commissary. I would usually buy 7 soups and 3 sweets to get me through a week. That pizza was easily 15 food items.
I walked over to their table and asked, “how much for a piece of candy?”
He hardly turned his head away from the TV and replied simply, “dolla.”
It’s like he was annoyed that I was even asking. Like he didn’t even consider me to be a worthy buyer.
I walked into my cell, grabbed 2 soups out of my locker and dropped them on the table where he was sitting. He turned to me square-on, took off his headphones, and held out his hand that was fully of shinies and sparklies.
“Pick your poison,” he said. A huge grin appearing on one side of his face.