It's just another day dee-de-dee

The cellblock got real quiet after the tear gas dispersed like some kind of phantasmagorical vapor.
Just before the bars of my cell had clanged shut, 702 had squeezed through and now sat on the floor near the cell door.
702 was 19 years old, but he’d seen a lifetime of incarceration already, having graduated from years of juvenile detention centers and emerging into the adult population.
He lit up a crooked hand rolled cigarette and asked, “What’re you locked, up for Blackburn?”
702 was the kind of kid you never really met in the “real world”, incredibly intelligent but completely uneducated.
He was quiet and intense, handsome, in a furtive sort of way.
“It’s a long story, Seven, let’s just say, I made some enemies amongst state officials. Petty bureaucrats with more power than they can handle.”
“Yeah, but what did you do, is my question.”
“Nothing illegal, Seven. I’m innocent.”
He looked at me through heavy lidded eyes, “I think you’re a con man.”
I didn’t laugh out loud but I smiled inwardly.
Guards were filing in through the front of the cellblock, wearing riot gear and carrying a panoply of weapons.
Zimmerman was the lieutenant.
He stood in front of the tightly bunched group of correction officers.
He was calm and efficient, an anomaly in this setting.
His eyes swept the cellblock and he said, “Gentlemen, you are now on lockdown.”
Moaning and cursing reverberated through the block, echoing like a jet roar through a mountain canyon.
He wiped his brow with a black-gloved hand and continued. “There has been a fight, I need to know who was involved.
Until that issue is resolved, lockdown will be in effect. That means no rec room, no smoking.”
702 reached into his waistband, pulled out a Bic and lit another cigarette.
Zimmerman paced back and forth, like a large house cat, “Anyone want to tell me who was fighting?”
Someone shouted from further down the row of cells, “Yeah, anyone wanna snitch? Step forward!”
Another voice yelled out, “it was the new guys! The new fish! Roll’em out!”
Another party was heard from, “Get the Fuck outta here!”
Inmates began shouting throughout the block; the metallic rattling of fifty sets of cell doors gave an unsyncopated rhythm to the uproar.
“Hey, Blackburn,” said 702, “I got some dope, you wanna get high?”
“Maybe later, Seven Oh Two, thanks.”
I cracked the hot-water tap on my sink and filled a cup.
“You want some coffee, Seven?” I asked.
“No, thanks, Man, I don’t drink coffee.”
“How unusual.” I commented as I spooned in a teaspoon of instant from a bag, added some sugar and stirred the mixture before swallowing the coffee in one long gulp.
The brew helped to clear the taste of tear gas from my mouth and throat.
Zimmerman was coming upstairs, his soft- soled shoes noiseless on the concrete stairway.
He peered through the bars at 702.
“What are you doing in here Roberts?”
702 smiled, “I didn’t have time to get to my house when you locked us down.”
“Unlock 19 and 17!” Shouted Zimmerman in the direction of the control room.
“Go back to your cell, Roberts.” Then to me, “You been fighting today, Blackburn?”
I chuckled. “I’m an old man, Sir. Would I be fighting?”
Zimmerman laughed good-naturedly, “I’ve known some pretty crazy old men here, Mike.”
“I’m not one of them, Sir.”
“Then why are you here?”
I pondered the question. “Because I’m crazy.”
He laughed again and walked down the freeway.