Every once in a while I’ll run into a guy who is so scared to do prison time that he’d rather off himself than be sent to prison. You know, a suicidal idiot. A grown man who is afraid of going to the joint so he makes a conscious decision to end it all, take himself out, breathe his last breath. Never could understand a person who wanted to kill themselves. Personally, I like me. And no matter how bad things get, I’ll never try to do myself in. Are people who attempt to commit suicide weak minded, crazy or are they simply pussies? Or, do they really and truly think they’ll be doing themselves a favor by cutting their wrists or jumping off a three story tier? All I can say is, make me understand. Make me understand why a person would do such a thing. This story is about a jumper. A dude I met in jail that said, “I’ll kill myself before I ever do a day in the pen.”

I met Johnny in Sebastian County. From looking at the guy, he seemed like your average everyday fuckup. Young and in good physical shape, he wouldn’t have had any problem making it on the hoe squad. He was strong as an ox and no doubt could pick cotton with the best of ‘em. Yet for some reason, he was scared to death to go to the ADC (Arkansas Department of Correction). Maybe it was because his cousin had been there before and told him war stories of working out in the field and living in treacherous open barracks. True enough, doing time at Cummins is no joke. But it didn’t help matters that Johnny’s cousin was a prison punk and took black dick up his ass. No wonder he was terrified of prison. To me, Johnny looked tough enough to make it. He looked like a kid that would fight and not let the blacks or anyone else take advantage of him. Therefore, I tried counseling with him telling him not to do anything stupid, that it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Anyway, our first day at Pine Bluff Diagnostic, I could see Johnny was acting all nervous and squirrelly. I’d asked him many times not to freak out. To just chill, hang out with me and I’d show him the ropes of prison and how to do time. I’d already had to take a razor blade away from him back in county and I kept telling him that prison wasn’t going to be as bad as he perceived. Assigned to 5 barracks, what does the uncaring, incompetent prison staff do? They put this suicidal nutcase in a single man cell on the third tier right in the middle of the range. And to worsen matters, the open front, barred cell door on that particular room could be jimmied with a pocket comb. All that meant was, Johnny Jumper could let himself out of his cell any time he wanted. That if and when he wanted to jump, he could jump. That no cop or other inmate would be there to stop him. He knew that. And to tell you the truth, I think it made him happy. Maybe because it gave him a feeling of control in an otherwise uncontrollable environment and situation.

Assigned to a cell on the bottom floor directly below Johnny, I could yell up to him and when he stood on the bars, I could see him through the reflection on the Plexiglas window across the way. Pacing back and forth and talking to himself, I was hoping and praying this asshole was going to be okay. I mean … he’d already seen the prison psych. And she gave him his initial dose of thorazine. You’d think he’d be calm enough to just lay on his bunk and chill. “You alright up there Johnny?” I yelled up at cell 323. “That you Tripper?” came his reply. “Yeah it’s me John. It’s all good. This place ain’t that bad. Right?” “I don’t like it Trip.” came Johnny. “This North Little Rock gang banger threatened to whip me and fuck me in my ass back in the psychiatrist’s office. I can’t take it man! They’re going to get me! I just know they will!” “Calm down, calm down!” I said knowing in my heart this dude was going to jump.

About that time, some inmate on the second tier yelled, “Man down!” and the cops came running from everywhere. Apparently, some fuckhead had taken a state issue Bic razor apart and cut his jugular with the blade. Two nurses came running in pushing a gurney. Ten minutes later Billy Bob Dumbass got wheeled to the infirmary for stitches and a blood transfusion. Soon as the blood spill guys cleaned up all the Type “0″, the guards yelled, “Get ready for chow!” It was time for all good convicts to line up at their doors and march in a line to the kitchen for grub. When the cell doors popped, I immediately came out and looked to the top tier. There stood Johnny. White as a ghost with the strangest expression on his face. Please, please I kept saying to myself. Don’t let this guy go bananas on us! They’re having fried chicken in the chow hall and all I want to do is eat! I’m lightening this just a bit simply because it was an incredible emotional situation that I felt fully responsible for. Taking up for the underdog. Although I didn’t know if I could help this one, and in my heart, I knew he’d already made his decision.

Walking directly to the three sectioned rail in the front of his cell, I watched as Johnny climbed to the third horizontal pipe and looked down. Suddenly, before I could yell the word “No!” Johnny stretched out his arms as if he were an angel about to take flight and jumped head first in a swan dive off the tier. Not more than ten feet from me, Johnny hit the floor with a huge, loud splat. That is a sound a person never forgets. The old convict next to me just kept combing his hair and said, “Goddamn dumbass. When will these guys ever learn? All he did was break his goddamn arms and legs. Look! He’s still breathin’ ain’t he?” And sure enough he was. Breathing but moaning in pain too. With two fractured arms, one a compound fracture, the bone sticking through the skin near his elbow and several broken ribs, Johnny Jumper was still kicking. Once again, in came medical to haul one away.

I didn’t see Johnny again until two weeks later when we were all being hand-cuffed and shackled and put on a van. We were headed to Cummins - of course Johnny didn’t have to wear any cuffs. He had casts on both arms all the way from his wrists to his neck. “Why did you do that shit Johnny?” I asked. “Thought I told you not to do anything stupid?” “Aw Trip, I fucked up.” he said. “At least now I won’t have to pick any cotton. But who’s going to help me wipe my ass?” “Not me mother fucker!” I laughed. Yeah, old Johnny wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box. After that, he never did try to commit suicide again. Soon as we hit the farm they had that boy on so many psychotropic meds he didn’t even know his name. All he did from that day forth was walk around doing the Thorazine shuffle. And that folks … is the story of Johnny Jumper. I’m Tripper. Better Days !

** This is a senstive topic, not only in prison, but in the real world. Things are bad in the world everywhere right now. Keep your heads up and keep the fight going. We are down, but we are not out ladies and gentlemen! If you are feeling suisidal and feel like you need help, click the link below and it will take you to a page with numbers that might help. **