A Short Story: "The Barbecue"

The frightening screech of tires jolted me from my reverie. A white Ford Taurus with government plates was ten feet from me. "What are you doing there, Bud?," asked the warden. "I'm throwing these leaves in the woods, sir.," I lied. Why did he have to show up now? If he checks the bag I'll be in serious trouble. And it's beginning to rain. What next? "Well you better make it snappy and pay more attention to where you're going, I almost ran over you." "Yes, sir."

The brown plastic bag I held contained the bottom half of a five gallon joint compound can, where six pieces of raw chicken were nestled under a concoction of garlic, lemon juice and fresh basil. I was on my way to a barbecue, notwithstanding wardens in white Ford's. Cook-outs in prison are not every day occurrences for obvious reasons. You need sharp wits and keen negotiating skills, to acquire the essential ingredients. But most folks love a challenge, including me. It's the American way. And when you're in prison the challenge takes on more importance. The idea of beating your captors is appealing.

People, who are free, take their barbecue for granted. They tire of the aromas stirring the appetite. Most don't realize the desire built into the psyche after years of practice. But in jail-denied this universal right-you crave it. Planning is the key to success. My task was made easier by my job on the landscaping crew affording a permit to roam the prison grounds.

A mile and a half from the bucolic, Ivy League Town of Lewisburg is a United States Government reservation of twelve hundred acres. Formerly a pig farm, the Bureau of Prisons bought it in 1932 and built "The Big House" of movie fame, housing gangsters and other nefarious characters. Over the years a prison camp and intensive confinement center were added to accommodate the "Drug War" cast. Two thirds of the property is still rolling farm land bordered by a creek emptying into the Susquehanna River.

You drive through a wrought iron gate and think you're on the road to "Tara" in "Gone with the Wind". Spruce trees, some as high as fifty feet, line both sides of the tarmac leading to the prison. Behind them a row of sycamores provides back-up. There are oaks, weeping-willows and an occasional birch tree for diversification. These trees are host to a myriad of wild life. Egrets and blue herons can be seen nesting in their branches. At least three pair of hawks makes their home here. The Asian ducks seem out of place next to the indigenous Canadian Geese and Mallards. One section of the property contains lilac trees and in late summer their fragrance is like the perfume that wafts through dining rooms of the more fashionable restaurants.

Dogwoods brighten the landscape just about the time we're all tired of winter. Rabbits, squirrels and woodchucks compete for whatever ground food they can find. Many a day I amused myself watching them forage, like so many urbanites going about the daily routine of earning a living. Most of this beauty is lost on us as we trade off what's important, we think, for something absolutely free. The gift of nature. On a number of occasions I've raced a chipmunk with my tractor as I looked for the next grassy victim, feeling a strange connection to the creature that looked like he wanted to communicate with me.

The lawns stretch over six hundred acres. Wildflowers are everywhere. I'm still learning their names. But there so numerous, I doubt I'll know them all by the time I leave.
A block later there's a cluster of small homes reminiscent of those found under your Christmas tree. They're home to a number of prison employees, who were lured by the cheap rents and convenience of prison labor for household chores. A left turn brings you onto "Gold Coast Road", so named because it fronts the Big Buffalo Creek and contains the largest houses on the reservation. Between the road and the creek is a wood-lot a hundred yards wide in places and a perfect location to hide a grill
Everyone knows the basic barbecue consists of a grill, fuel source and the food.
No fancy gas operated gizmo for me. I was back to basics. Bricks that a tenant had discarded became my pit.
I stacked the bricks three high in the configuration of a box, remembering the technique from my childhood. A metal grill, liberated from a worn out gas model, was placed on top of the brick structure. The area I cleared at the foot of a giant oak tree was a perfect hiding place where I could barbecue unobserved from the road.

Finding the charcoal was more difficult. Who barbecues in prison? Then it dawned on me. Every federal holiday the Bureau of Prisons makes sure the guests are treated with the same respect as free people. They oblige us with barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers. They're grilled in two huge pits requiring lots of charcoal. The secret was to acquire some of the unburned coals or to get someone in the kitchen who had access. I used both.
The prison chaplain gave me the idea. She needed charcoal for a church ritual. I'm responsible for the catholic leadership. I was covered. Then I discovered an open pit used by the correction officers at their recreation center. There was bound to be some unused coals around the site. There were. I began accumulating the coals over a period of time to avoid suspicion, eventually filling a large flower pot in a month. The coals were stored in a large pail and aired each day to insure dryness. The food was the only missing ingredient.

Most of us have an appetite for chicken. I'm no exception. The prison serves chicken once a week, either on Monday or Tuesday. I had to find someone in the kitchen willing to smuggle six pieces undetected.
If they were caught the punishment was severe. A few days earlier an inmate was caught taking two blocks of cheese. He was put in solitary confinement for forty-five days, forfeited telephone and commissary privileges for sixty days and lost twenty seven days of good time he accumulated. Some delicate negotiations were called
for.

A willing inmate was contacted after much investigation. The price was steep- a bag of M&M peanuts and a box of white rice- a four dollar street value. Steep by outside conditions for six pieces of chicken, two tomatoes and an onion. But, "if you want to dance, you have to pay the piper". The kitchen is deserted at five in the morning, where my package was waiting.
The next step was getting the food and charcoal to the village. The landscaping crew was working and I needed only to hide the contraband in the truck taking us to the village. When I arrived the chicken and marinate were placed in the container I was carrying when the warden intruded. I stored the concoction in the refrigerator of an empty house until it was time to cook. No one would be looking for housing for awhile, I prayed.

The next day was barbecue time. Try to envision going to a picnic a block from your house, sneaking the food bits at a time. "The Gold Coast Road" is not heavily traveled. But some of the prison personnel use it on their way to the training center. I had imagined walking in front of their cars, not the warden's. The plastic bag saved the day.

The rain was falling, but not in a steady manner. I placed the coals in the pit, doused them with gasoline and struck a match. There was a mini explosion and a smokeless flame engulfed the charcoal. I left the pit and hurried back to my shack to retrieve the chicken parts. Thirty minutes later the coals were red hot despite the rain. My main concern was smoke. Some of the houses on "The Gold Coast Road" are inhabited. The aroma of garlic drenched chicken wafting into someone's window at eight-thirty in the morning would be suspicious. Who, but an inmate would be barbecuing at that time?

I thought I heard my mother's voice commanding me to "wash the pots down by the lake", as I placed the chicken on the hot coals. Or was it the voice of my oldest daughter querying "when's the chicken going to be ready?" It may even have been my youngest daughter with her inquisitive mind asking for the marinade recipe. I was amazed at the power of reminiscence over a barbecue.

My thoughts continued to wander and soon I was on the patio of my second home in Hampton Bays, grilling a chicken on a twelve dollar Hibachi Pot. The creek was transformed into the waterway behind the house. I thought I heard my wife ask "should I make the salad now?" She loved barbecue when she was alive. Then I was thinking about my new wife and cooking on her fancy gas grill while she prepared a delicious accompaniment. Was I ever going to spend relaxing, loving summer afternoons with her grilling the fish we caught in the morning?

My reverie was interrupted by my worst fear. Smoke! As the smoke began to rise I fanned it furiously with my cap. By the time I put the third piece of chicken on the grill, fanning was taking more time than cooking. The aroma created pangs of hunger mixed with the anxiety of being caught. It was too dangerous to proceed. I
removed the uncooked chicken and placed them in the container.The smell of garlic is still on my cap.

I failed and I was disappointed. So were the four crew members waiting for me at the shack with knife and fork ready. All was not lost. I stripped the chicken from the bone and diced it. Then I grilled them on a Presto electric grill with onions, peppers and tomatoes wrapped in a tortilla one of the crew members bought at commissary. The smiles of my crew told me it was the end of a perfect day. But I intend to give the barbecue one more try. And I'll never forget the moments when I thought I was free. Those were worth more than savoring a piece of lemon and garlic barbecued chicken.
###