Finally I am taken through a huge, high-ceilinged lobby to a cell on the back wall, cell number eight. I have a cellmate.  “My name is ‘Tank,'” he says.

"Tank?" I repeat.

"Tank."

He looks somewhat like his name. Rusting, not oiled for a long time. He sits Buddha-like on the top bunk. The door clanks shut. The cell is small, 8 feet by 11 feet, contains a desk, chair, a steel-screened opaque window, a sink and open toilet in one corner.

"Hope you don't mind if I use the bottom bunk a while," I say. "I got this bum knee. Operation."

"I always have the upper bunk," my cellmate says. "It’s what I want, upper bunk."

Tank doesn't say much after that. Would say nothing ever, I guess, if not spoken to. 37. Second oldest inmate in here, he says, now that I’m here. He’s half my age. Ponytail, broad face, pig eyes, huge acne scars on the sides of his throat. A big man, inches over 6 feet, about 240 pounds. Looks like a former bodybuilder gone to fat, but retaining the narrow waist and enormous shoulders. T-shaped body.
Tank belches, breaks air, later slurps his food, snores atrociously and constantly, sleeps 20 to 22 hours a day, groans, suffers terribly from acid reflux, belching like death after any food intake. When he turns desperately to find a new position on the upper bunk with its minuscule mattress, it sounds like a giant turning over in "Jack and the Beanstalk."

"Excuse me," he says after every belch, every windbreak. "'Excus’ me... Excus’ me’." He is very stern, very polite. I begin to hope the man will one day forget to say the "Excus’ me." As is, I don't know whether to remain silent, or say "That's okay" or "Forget about it." Not knowing how to respond, sometimes I merely say imperceptibly, "Uh huh."

"Breakfast," Tank says when the light comes on from outside control at 5 a.m.  Tank jumps down from the upper bunk, terrible kaplunk, is efficiently at the door when it is unlocked. He brings the dual servings of juice, oatmeal, milk, bananas on a tray for both of us.
"316 days," Tank says, pointing to the calendar on the desk. Each day has a number on it. "Waiting for my trial."

"Trial," I say.

Tank nods, offers no more.

I volunteer why I’m here. Simple assault.

"That's one count," Tank says. "I got five counts. Only the first one true. The other four -- lies."

I struggle to find a way to sleep. Right side -- sore hip. Left side--

"Assault," Tank says. "Everybody in this module is assault. They don't let us go nowhere else. This is assault. This -- we –- we’re physical harm -- not white-collar crime, that stuff. This is bodily harm.  "My brother’s in prison," Tank says. "My uncle’s in prison. My stepfather was in prison, dope addict. My best friend is doing my fiancé. They got a restraining order out on me about her. She's a liar. Her psychologist will testify to that. If I can get my so-called lawyer to subpoena her. And my dog is dying. Buddy. Buddy’s dying. You see his picture on the mirror?"

"Yes. Nice-looking doggie. Very intelligent eyes."

"That Buddy, you know? He couldn't stand my hollering at Virginia. My fiancé? Or anybody. He’d run out the room, get on my bed, stay there. And I would apologize. I'd come in there later and say, ‘It's all right, Buddy. I'm not mad at you. Never."

"Good dog."

"Only he's 14. 14 years old. Gray startin’ on his chin, chin whiskers, you know? 10 months since I've seen him. That's the worst part. He’s getting old, you know? Dogs don't live too long. 14. That's the worst part. Bein’ here, not seeing Buddy. 10 months. He’s gettin’ old. That's the worst part."

Breakfast at 5 a.m., lunch at 11:30, dinner at 5:30 p.m., no wristwatch, but Tank knows the times. Meal slurped down ravenously. Plain, balanced food. Corn bread, beans, a pear, four slices of bread, cheese slices, baloney. Perfectly balanced and plain. Devoured silently in five minutes, Tank at the desk, me on the edge of my bunk, ducking the top bunk.

"Excuse me," Tank says as the food hits his tortured stomach, enormous belch. Sometimes a belch and windbreak like an echo. "'cuse me’."

"Uh huh," I mutter faintly. How do you respond to incidents occurring 100 times a day? And night.

"Free time," a deputy sheriff says dismally, opening the cell door. 

Locked in the cell is safe to me. Except for Tank, whoever Tank is. But "free-time," an hour in the morning, hour in the afternoon, is dangerous. A relief from monotony, but dangerous.

"Not me," Tank says. "I don't go out there. I'm different. I'm not like them. You -- you're different, too."

"Yeah -- I guess," I say. "I guess so. Hope so."

I welcome, look forward, to each "free-time." But as eagerly welcome the safety, it seems, comparative safety of the cell. 21 and a half of the 24 hours here in the cell. Locked in. But the assaulters are locked out. Except for Tank.

Urinating is difficult. In front of another human being. I attempt to do this only when Tank is asleep, shrouded up there in his sheet on the top bunk, ghost, mummy, asleep most of the time.

"That's how I do my time," Tank says. "I learned to do it. Sleep."

Tank opens up on the second night. It is about his dog, "Buddy.  He's more than human," Tank says. "He's better than any human, anybody. He loves me. He always loves me. He forgives me, never is cruel. Never lies. Not like people. I can't stand lies."

"I know," I say. "I had a dog who was like that, better than anyone. Any human. When I was a kid. She got run over. Changed me. I've never been the same since. Can't love like that again."

"That's right," Tank says.

"Even my mother knew I loved that dog more than anything. She made my dog get out of the car, 50 miles from home. Was car sick. My dog. I begged my mother not to leave her."

"Yeah," Tank says. His voice is different now. Not that tough sound, not cold.

"Only she made it home," I say. "My doggy. 50 miles. Three days. Paws all cut up. I loved her more than any person, any human. Then or now."

"Yeah," Tank says. He is there on the upper bunk. "Dogs don't lie. Buddy never lied."

"People lie," I say.

"Yeah."

"I used to call it 'the people game'," I say. "My grandma would say nice things to the person who was visiting. And then when they were gone, she would tell how worthless that person was. It was mean to do that. A bad game."

"Dogs don't do that," Tank says. "My Buddy -- he's the best. I just hope I can get out, see him, before he dies. He's 14, you know."

"Some dogs live long," I said. "17? 18? Even more."

"You think so?"

"Oh, yeah. You'll get to see Buddy. And he'll be so glad to see you! Won't that be great?"

"Yeah." Tank’s voice is soft now. Tears in his voice. "Well --" he says -- "I might not get out. I hope so, I hope I get out. Soon. But I'm in trouble. It's worse now, after 10 months. They put a restraining order on me. Can’t call my fiancé anymore."

"-- So -- that must be really tough," I say. "10 months here. And now you can’t talk to her."

"Only I got to get it ‘rescinded', the restraining order. Or, even if I get out of here, and they only get me for the first count, and my time here already would pay for that -- even if I get out, I can't go home. Because of that restraining order. That's my only home. I'd be homeless."

"Oh now. That's really tough."

"And my best friend? So-called friend? He's doing Virginia. My fiancé? Right now. I mean I can't blame her so much, she has to do whoever is paying the bills, and he is now. And he visits me here once a week. He's not restrained by that order? He brings money for me, some, so I can buy stuff from the commissary. Thursday nights. Candy bars, tums, stuff like that."

"And Buddy? Buddy is with them?"

"Yeah. They treat him okay, Buddy. Send me pictures. They put him on a new dog food. For old dogs? Trouble with digestion? They did that."

"Buddy will be so glad to see you."

"He will. If I can just get outta this place. My trial’s next month. And they been putting it off, over and over. All this 10 months."

"How come?"

"Well -- I won't cooperate. I'll only cop to that first charge. Not the other four. I did the first one, banged her around a little. But the nosebleed was from her high blood pressure."

"So -- what happens in October? Next month? You said the trial’s next month.”

"Maybe. He wants me, that bastard D.A. wants me to confess to all five counts, says it will only be three years. Plea bargain. Three years! I can’t do that. That's prison. Real prison. I'm afraid of prison. I'll get hurt. And Buddy. Buddy can't wait that long."

"So -- if you don't accept the three years --"

"He, that bastard D.A. says I'll get five or eight. He wants me off the street…

"What’d you do? The assault?" he suddenly asks me.

"Do? To be here? Somebody picked on me. I was half asleep and on painkillers. I ended up hitting him. But the wrong man."

"Pain killers? Half asleep," Tank asked. "But lots of people are on painkillers. Or half asleep. But they don't do assault."

"You're smart," I said. "You know what? You're right. I had a head of steam build up over the years -- of taking it. And then, all at once, it was too much. You're right," I said.

"Take responsibility," Tank said. "That's what I learned. Take responsibility."

"You're smart. I see it. I had that pressure built up. It wasn't the painkillers or anything else."

"Yeah, I learned that. I did charge one, I admit that. That's a year time, I've done my year time, right here. Ouch!"

"What happened?" I asked.

"Hear that pop?"

"Yeah, maybe."

“That's my trick elbow. I brought it down hard on a guy’s head one time, ended that problem -- But now I got a trick elbow. Also my back -- fell off a ladder, broke two vertebrae. No money for a doctor. So they fused on their own, the vertebrae. And now I got sciatica. And my fist? My right fist?"

"Yeah?"

"Arthritis. I slugged a guy. Broke all the knuckles on my right hand. See?"  He hung it down over the bunk so I could see it.

"Wow.”

"Can't close my fist all the way anymore."

"That's rough, man."

"I gained 40 pounds in here. In 10 months? Too much candy on the side, no exercise. Want a Life Saver?"

"Thanks."

"Yeah, I've been to trial before."

"You have?"

"Yeah," Tank said. "Helped the lawyer pick the jury. And I testified. Child molestation."

"Wow."

"Yeah. And the jury came in. 11 to one, for me. Believed me. Then, all 12. Know what I did?"

"What?"

"I broke down and cried. Right there. And my attorney, that public defender?"

"Yeah?"

"She did a little jig right there. Her first big case. And we won. I testified."

"Maybe you should testify this time, too."

"Yeah. If my screwed-up lawyer lets me. What an idiot. So far he's done everything wrong. And my family?"

“Yes.”

"They all deserted me. Won't have anything to do with me."

"But you got Buddy."

"Yes. Buddy. If he'll just stay alive."

"He will. He's got plenty of years left. You'll be together."

"You think so?" Trembling voice.  Tears, quiet sob, on the bunk up there.

We are more alike than different, Tank and me. Both of us had a dog better than people. Both hated the lying, the game, the people game. Both vulnerable, wanting to love the world, people, as much as Buddy. And my own dog lost so long ago.

That night, Thursday night, I went over Tank’s case with him, strategies, how to handle the D.A. And once again, the last time it turned out to be, we talked of Buddy. And Tank cried like a child -- "Maybe I'll never get to see Buddy again."

"You will,” I said. "You will."

The next day, Friday, at 5 a.m., breakfast time, the light came on. Tank and I struggled up to get the food, the deputy opened the door -- "Your lucky day," he said to me. "You're goin’ home. Get your bedding. Hurry up."

"Hey, pal," I said quickly to Tank. "You're the best, man." I touched his shoulder. "You're a good man. You'll get out of here. You'll get to see Buddy."

"Thank you," Hank said. "I hope so."

"Be thinking of you, pal," I said, clutching the huge armful of bedding. "Say hello to Buddy. So long."

Four days and nights over in one minute.

They gave me back my street clothes and a bus and BART ticket to get home, and released me through the three sets of doors until I was out in the pre-dawn fresh air.

The bus driver let me ride even though the pass was for another line. And there was a black man with a briefcase on BART, reading his newspaper. I cherished both of them, wanted to rush up and tell them, because they were good man, I could feel it, safe, sound, good men, and it was so good to feel it.

From BART I walked the mile home as the sun rose. It was beautiful to be out this time of day.

But I didn't feel free yet. Tank wasn't free. There was an old dog, Buddy, waiting out there somewhere. Tank would be lying on the top bunk about now, sleeping to pass the time. Dreaming of Buddy.