Should it bother me that I am friends with a killer?
He isn’t a figurative killer, like a killer football player or a killer in the bitcoin market or even a lady-killer. My friend put a shotgun to a man’s chest and pulled the trigger.
Mr. Bricker — whose real name I’m concealing for his privacy — is a bulky guy with a graying hairline framing time-worn gouges in his forehead. He doesn’t seem to ever blink, though his eyelids look heavy. He’s always alert to what is stirring. Prison is shrouded in the prattle of machismo and ill-gotten “street cred.” Among feckless thugs, Mr. Bricker stands out for being different.
At any time, Mr. Bricker is apt to erupt with hurled insults and prescribed behavioral correction. Guard too slow to open a cell door? Mr. Bricker lets loose barks and demands at Volume 11, verbally impaling the officer. Another resident too loud grunting during their workout? A barrage of profanity reverberates throughout this concrete cavern.
And don’t you dare take any liberties in the chow line. That, friends, will get you an invitation to step into an area free of surveillance cameras.
Mr. Bricker works on my cellblock. He maintains discipline on the pod through his “tierman” role, where he dispenses supplies, cleans the common area and, unofficially, keeps the peace. He knows every move of every guard and every resident of this block. His observing is his meditation, and it’s palpable. He is constantly thinking, receiving, plotting. His gray-blue eyes zoom and pan but never reveal.
There are 10 tables up for grabs in our unit’s common area. Mr. Bricker is the daily, sole tenant of his particular table. On it he places a large coffee-stained mug, a stack of Wall Street Journal issues, a yellow bag of freeze-dried instant coffee, legal paperwork and pens and pencils.
Nobody disrupts his table. It is as much unspoken as it is barked that you simply don’t. Should you transgress this boundary, the weight of his verbal bludgeoning is real. The magnitude of an actual bludgeoning would be catastrophic.
The table I frequently occupy is closest to Mr. Bricker’s. Proximity catalyzed our early camaraderie. I overheard bits of his conversations with others, then found an opening for dialogue. He spoke knowingly of legal dealings — not his own, but as an aid to others.
I wanted to befriend him because I knew we shared common ground. I work as a law library assistant and therefore could help him with his legal work.
Over time, with cautious reserve, the razor wire around Mr. Bricker partially dropped. I have offered Mr. Bricker case law from the library, statute research and legal journals.
After a few months of providing him resources, Mr. Bricker offered me recompense. Mr. Bricker has honed his skill of jailhouse cookery. Rarely will he eat from the stainless steel cart that shuttles our three daily meals of state food. So when invited to dine with Mr. Bricker, one does not refuse.
On a Friday, Mr. Bricker prepared a feast, at least by prison standards: chicken wings, fried rice and green salad.
He fed me well. Our deal was that he would allow me to reciprocate the following week. After 35 years of cooking professionally, I had a few recipes up my sleeve.
I proposed fish ’n’ grits for our next dinner, made of the mackerel from the commissary and grits from a 4:15 a.m. breakfast distribution. My fish ’n’ grits tasted like some version of home. The garlic lingered. The spice made my lips feel puffy. For a moment, I brought the outside in.
My previous life teetered according to the whims of reviewers on Yelp or Instagram. But that first time I hosted Mr. Bricker, his praise swept away any negative review I had ever received.
“That was real good, Charlie,” he said, referring to my nickname, with a glint in his eye. I beamed.
I wouldn’t elicit much more emotion or life detail out of Mr. Bricker. His appraisal of cooking — and people — is crystal clear. So when my next cooking venture for him went south, he didn’t mince words. An ill-fated attempt at chicken burritos was not up to his standards.
“Charlie, you really s— the bed on that one,” he said.
Maybe I could dress my performance with excuses, justification and embarrassment. Or I could squeeze new life from what I knew was true — I had to fix my burrito game to meet his standards.
Mr. Bricker is evidence that cooking skills are redeemable, and so are we. There are hard, mean and damaged people. But beneath his rough patina, Mr. Bricker is evidence that hard edges can soften, meanness can become empathy, and damage can become experience.
When angst wears heavy on my face, he is the first to notice. Mr. Bricker saw my woe when I learned of missing my older daughter’s wedding.
“Hey, Charlie. You all right, bud? Something’s got you down?” Without so much as an “It will be all right,” he dropped a bowl of garlic-spiked mashed potatoes in front of me.
Just like that, the stoic dispensed counsel and nourishment, barely lending space to drop his gaze surveilling the room, careful not to show weakness through compassion.
When I go through struggles, Mr. Bricker, the killer, puts his giant paw on my shoulder and offers encouragement while his other paw lands a plate of microwaved comfort to soothe this wallowing pilgrim as I look to find my next better day.
We go back and forth sharing meals with some routine now. On days when the state’s menu proffers “jambalaya,” I know it will be his version of chicken wings instead — a confabulation of potato chips, upcycled chicken, hot sauce and ranch dressing. When we are subjected to “turkey tetrazzini” torture, I am on call for enchiladas drizzled with my “famous” barbecue-cheddar sauce. Food has become compassion for us. Food seals our friendship on many a Friday when life demands we feed each other.
