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xmag.com : April 2002: Zen Dolls

During the first two weeks, I had many discussions with jailbirds who thought the worst-case scenario for me would be six months, and most thought I'd do less than 30 days. In addition to reading and writing, I worked out a lot. Push-ups and chin-ups.

I drop off the chin-up bar, turn around, and see this young black man with a huge smile on his face approaching me, and I already know what's up, 'cause it's happened every day since I got here, sometimes two or three times a day. Word travels fast in jail, and the word is out on me. He slaps me a high five, laughs: "You a pimp? This is not real. A white pimp. An old white pimp. How'ya do that?"

Nice not having to worry about a hostile reception from the brothers in jail, but weird since I'm tired, foolish, and cowardly, yet the dudes from H.P. got me bagged as a super O.G. (Old Gangsta).

But I'm down for the test. I explain to all who ask that I'm not dealing with Tenderloin tossups at $30 a pop. Then I lay the price down. This dude who wants to be a player in on The Game jumps back. "Five C-notes. Yo, they'z must be fine stuff."

Steeped in gangster culture and rap's blood-soaked narratives on pimps thumping hos into submission, he assumes I operate by those rules. Pointing at my feet, he swivels lightly on his toes, then kicks his foot in the air and says, "You's gots cool boots for bustin' the bitch in the butt if she gets outta line, right?"

"No," I snap, "there's a better way."

I tell him about Cordelia, the flash-blasting Brit import. She would never tolerate a boot planted on her ass, nor would any Zen Dolls. Make sure Cordelia likes you, I say. Driving to the St. Francis, Cordelia's a little insecure. You tell her she looks stunning tonight, show concern when she talks about her asshole boyfriend (the Zen Dolls always manage to hook up with losers), and have her drink of choice in the car for her when the call is over. ("Zona Iced Tea? That's shit, man.")

"You a pimp? This is not real. A white pimp.
An old white pimp. How'ya do that?"


I continue, posing a problem Cordelia asked me about. She considered a tit job. I gently tell her that's tacky, then good-naturedly snap the top band of her always-exposed neon green thong and tell her she has an ass that could bring down the Mayor or send the Marines into battle.

The dude is with me now, then he gets to the main reason he wants to be a pimp. "You's be gettin' lotta pussy, huh?"

At this point I note that Iceberg Slim, whom most of the gangsters have read, warns against this. Do not dip your stick in her sushi. You are a Pimp Daddy, not a stud muffin. You fuck an escort, she will lose respect for you. And worse, a nightmare ahead: Pimp Daddy's name will be engraved on the knife Cordelia keeps under her fluffy pillow embossed with a likeness of Shakespeare.

Well, I'm exaggerating. I didn't lay the Shakespeare bit on him.

As he he wanders off, I notice Slinky circling around a Hispanic guy whose lips silently mouth "fuck you." The Deputy on duty spots the sparks, rushes over, and hauls Slinky away. He's placed in the hot box--a small holding cell--then transferred to another pod. All disputes are quickly resolved this way.

Lesser infractions generate write-ups, a report entered in the jerk's file along with suitable punishment, usually a couple of hours cleaning the can or mopping the floor. Not a day goes by without write-ups, which include not making your bed, cutting in the chow line, yelling across the pod, turning the TV set on during the day, snoozing in the bunk when you're supposed to be in line for a court appointment, taking the single copy of the Chronicle off the info table to your bunk, using one of the eight telephones without asking, tossing Chee-to bags on the floor, or mouthing off to a Deputy.






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