Макс Коллинз - Shoot the Moon (and more)

Elam, like most thieves (he said), had a straight profession to fall back on, or use as a cover if need be, and his was short-order cook, though he had aspirations toward gourmet-style cooking. (Hopp’s straight profession was piano-tuning, although on no occasion did he reveal any interest in or leaning toward anything at all musical; and all I could think of, when Hopp told us he was a piano-tuner, was that scene in The Godfather where a guy gets strangled with piano wire, which fit Hopp’s image a lot closer than anything musical.)

“Why are you guys in the county jail?” Wheat asked, having finished his Jello and tuned into the conversation. “How come you guys didn’t get sent up the river?”

“Up the river,” Hopp said.

“Normally, yeah, I guess we’d been, ha! sent up the river. But see, any sentence of a year or under is served in the county jail. Had we got a year and a day, it’d been prison.”

I whispered, “Then why’s that black guy here? Didn’t he get more than a year for, uh, doing away with his wife’s boyfriend?”

“Doing away with,” Hopp said.

“The little spade didn’t get nothin’ yet. He’s waiting to go to trial. You wait for trial in county jail. Prison’s after that. So. What are you boys in for?”

I tried to think of a way to change the subject. I didn’t know what a couple of tough guys like Elam and Hopp would think if they found out we were just college kids who’d been railroaded over a harmless prank. If they found out we were just punks, maybe they’d beat us up or rape us or something, and I would much rather just play cards with them.

But Wheat said, cheerfully, “We streaked the police chief’s daughter’s wedding reception.”

And Elam laughed, a loud, uproarious laugh.

And Hopp smiled.

It was the first time I had ever seen Hopp smile, and it would prove to be a less than frequent event.

Elam said, “You guys are okay. That’s about the best damn reason I ever heard of for being in jail.”

“Well,” I admitted, “I guess it does beat beating up your wife and her boyfriend with a putter.”

After lunch, metal tubs of hot water were brought in and set on the metal tables, and some towels too, and we washed and dried the dishes we’d just used. And I enjoyed doing it.

Because finally Wheaty had found something about jail he didn’t like.

“I don’t mind jail,” Wheaty said, “but this washing dishes is punishment.”

Wheat was beginning to get flustered. He was waving his hands around. Some soap suds flicked onto Hopp’s shirt.

Hopp showed his teeth. And he wasn’t smiling, either.

He spoke.

He said, “Settle down.”

Wheat dropped his hands. They clunked on the bottom of the metal tub like stones. Soap suds flicked onto my shirt.

“Kid,” Elam said, using a curled soapy finger to summon Wheat closer.

Wheat, mouth open, eyes white and round, leaned closer.

“Take it from me, kid: don’t bitch.”

“You mean you like washing dishes?” Wheat asked.

“Ha! I love it. You will too.”

And we did, eventually.

What Wheat and I didn’t know, having been in jail for only a few hours, was the boredom factor. You see, the bad thing about being incarcerated is not being stuck inside: most everybody spends the better part of the day inside one building or another, and if it’s a factory or some other place where you work, you aren’t really free to leave or go outside whenever you want, so it’s not so different from jail or prison.

The bad thing about being incarcerated is boredom. Having nothing to do.

A typical day in jail consists of waking up in your cell about six, showering, going down to breakfast at seven, coming back and sitting in the Bull Pen, going down to lunch at twelve-thirty, coming back and sitting in the Bull Pen, going down to supper at five-thirty, coming back and sitting in the Bull Pen, shower again if so inclined, and going to sleep in your cell about eleven.

In the Bull Pen we could play cards or watch television. We could read, but no magazines or newspapers: we had to settle for the hardcover and paperback books available in the jail’s library downstairs. We could have pencils and paper. There was a monopoly game. A radio. We could take naps. We could go to the toilet. And that’s about it.

Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad to you.

Maybe you’re saying, “Well, it sure beats working.”

Try it.

You will find that any slight change from the norm, any minute deviation from the Bull Pen’s boredom, you will jump at. You will find yourself looking forward to doing your daily laundry. You will find yourself hoping the guards will say, “Today you guys can do some mopping downstairs.” You will cling to the moments, after meals, when you are allowed to go down to the basement and use the candy machine and cigarette machine. You will smoke cigarettes, even if you never smoked before, even if cigarette smokes gags the hell out of you, as it does me. You will play ping pong for an hour after lunch, because a ping pong table has been provided for you and you damn well take advantage of it. You will wash your hands twenty-five times in one day. You will drink enough water to make a fish say, “Come on now.” You will find yourself looking forward to the damnedest things, things that, in the normal world, you could never, ever imagine yourself looking forward to.

You will find yourself looking forward to doing dishes.

The next day, after lunch, a guard named Tobin, a sad-looking, middle-aged man who seemed as sorry to be here as we were, peeked through the Bull Pen bars and said, “Kitchen. Somebody to see you.”

I looked up from my cards. We were playing pitch. Wheaty and I were partners. I had bid three and was having trouble making it. I immediately threw the cards in, went over to where the guard was looking in and said, “Fine.”

And then it hit me.

Visitation was allowed twice a week. On Tuesdays and Saturdays. This was Tuesday.

Okay.

Visitation hours were one to three in the afternoon. It was now a little after two.

Okay.

Only immediate family are allowed to visit prisoners. Don’t panic, I told myself. Maybe it’s Mr. Nizer. Maybe they allow lawyers to visit, too.

I said, “Do they allow lawyers to visit?”

“Yeah,” the guard said.

“Is it Mr. Nizer, my lawyer?”

“No,” the guard said.

One down, three to go. Arlene?

“Who... who is it?”

Will the mystery guests please sign in:

“Your parents,” the guard said.

I moaned.

“What d’you say?” the guard asked.

“I moaned,” I said.

“You know where the windows are? I’ll bring ’em over to the one on the right.”

I knew where the windows were. Visitation windows. There were several of them, which opened up so you could talk to your loved ones without bars between you. Personally, I wouldn’t have minded the bars.

Through the bars I watched my parents come into the catwalk.

“Awk,” Wheaty said, from over at the metal table. “It’s your folks!”

“Shush!” Peabody, the accountant, said. “Keep it down!” He was watching one of his soap operas.

Meanwhile, I was entering my own.

I looked out the window at my parents.

My father was wearing a black suit and a black tie. He looked like he was in mourning. My mother was wearing a summery, cheery bright-color dress. She did not look like she was in mourning: she was in mourning. She was crying, sniffling, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky.

I looked through the window and said, “Er, hi, Dad. Mom.”

“Is that all you have to say?” he said.