Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

Then his bunkie went to the hole after another shakedown, word on the yard being that he had some steel and somebody snitched. Rumors wafted back several times that Psycho’s road-dawg Jack was telling people Fuse got him popped. That kind of talk might fade for lack of credibility, or escalate if more instigators jumped on board. Sitting alone late one night in his cell, the bottom bunk now empty, Fuse set up the keyboard, plugged in headphones, and began to play. He ran through all seven songs, but couldn’t really remember actually playing them. He messed around with “LaTisha’s Dance” a few times, but found himself distracted and frustrated. Amanda kept skittering just beyond his grasp, and for the first time in his entire bid, he realized that trying to connect with any part of his world lost beyond time or those fences inevitably left him feeling alone and afraid. He had nobody, no one to call, no one for mail, not a soul who cared whether he lived or died. With Psycho gone, he couldn’t even busy his mind by hating.

The next day he sat with Metal and Reggie in the yard, running through the same seven songs while storm clouds rolled in from the west, a gusty breeze blowing cold, and an odor of rain stirring paint fumes in the air. Short and stocky with a random splay of jet-black hair, Reggie mostly worked the patterns, trying beats by slapping his legs and scatting, his mouthed cymbal-swells spraying spit. They paused to watch the train take one and leave one, even as it ignored that beat-up old black tanker. The killdeer seemed unimpressed by it all, his priorities tending toward family.

“If we have time,” Fuse said, “I’d like to try a Mo song about his daughter, real personal.”

Metal shrugged, honoring his promise to play anything. He’d proven amazingly adept at exploring other genres and styles, no doubt proud of his prowess, though loath to admit he actually reveled in material he considered beneath head-banging and metal shredding. They ran through Mo’s song a few times, and Metal clearly understood what it meant, what it could mean. He found poetry in the images it conjured, grace in the notes, that tentative reluctance of a shy young woman yielding to her own rhythms, the yearning for a father she never met, the longing of a damaged man whose melody can’t be constrained by the razor-wired electric fences.

At some point, two young black guys walked up to them, pants hanging low, dark scowls highlighted by narrowed eyes. “You on that music callout now?” one demanded.

“We all are,” Metal said, setting his guitar in its case.

“That ’pose to be ours,” the other insisted.

“That’s on Doug,” Metal said.

Reggie tilted his head toward Fuse. “He’s been on the list a year.”

They glared for a moment as the killdeer watched warily. “We’ll see,” one said. They turned and walked away.

Reggie snorted his derision. “They wanna start somethin’, I’ll start somethin’.”

“They’ll try anything to get that slot back,” Metal said. “We might need to take a few people and have a talk.”

Reggie added, “With Jack too. He’s still on that bullshit about Fuse. It’s about time to tune his ass up.”

“He’s in my unit,” Metal said. “I’ll tell him shut his fuckin’ mouth — or we got a problem.”

Big drops of rain splattered their instruments. Everybody scrambled to pack up. Lightning flashed in the distance.

“ Attention!” called the speakers. “ All yards are closed!”

Never having been to the music space, Fuse followed Mo to the far end of the rec area, through the breezeway with an open-entry bathroom off to the right, then into the gym where incomers streamed in to grab basketballs and argue about the game that hadn’t even started. A pair of doors in the far corner revealed a large storage area converted to a music room, Metal and Reggie already setting up. Two keyboards way better than the toy Fuse owned, real trap-set drums, amps, guitars, a bass for Mo to cut loose, more effects than Metal could channel on a hundred songs — all this had been waiting for them right here, so close and finally no longer out of reach.

So they played.

Fuse raced to learn all the keyboard programming. Metal tested effects to augment his new styles. Reggie tuned the drum heads and rearranged the toms until he’d placed them just right. Mo bobbed his head, sheer excitement pumping the big old guy. They laughed, got serious, honed the precision of their charts, and drifted through improvs that took them places from which they only reluctantly returned. Fuse embraced the idea of holding back, leaving holes, saving those drop-ins and blues flourishes and major-seventh jazz highlights for only when they desperately needed expressing.

And Fuse finally knew this was how he could do his time. Fourteen-some years — more if the parole board didn’t yet want to let him go — a personal keyboard right in his cell, real musicians gathering each week to listen to each other and sound back, a group of like-minders creating places and spaces where no outsiders could dictate what he dared feel.

When Reggie left to take a leak, Fuse started playing “LaTisha’s Dance.”

Mo went wide-eyed. He opened his mouth, but found no words as Metal quickly joined in on guitar, his chords and gentle slides first shimmering, then syncopating with delicate harmonics. Reggie came back and tried a simple rhythm. Mo shook his head and hit some bass-note beats, a catchy pattern, nodding toward the snare, the cymbals, guiding his percussionist. Reggie picked it up, embellishing with a wood block, a tom-tom backbeat. Mo added a swaying melodic bass line and quickly danced his way into the groove.

They glided through the song three times, each pass more expansive, more nuanced, more playful yet ponderous. Fuse felt a twinge of melancholy, so he dared let it ripple through his fingers. That was for Mo, and Mo understood, appreciation in his eyes. This song called out to LaTisha, and though she never knew her father, they all knew him, now more than ever, and maybe the best his little girl could ever hope would be that others might tell her about him, words or not.

Time eventually ran out, and Reggie bolted to meet someone on the walk. As a music clerk, Mo needed to stay behind to inventory the miscellany. Fuse and Metal headed out with their instruments, following gym stragglers through the breezeway.

Metal stopped to hit the urinal, so Fuse set his keyboard by the sink and grabbed a paper towel to wipe perspiration from his brow—

Bam! Bam!

The side — of his head—

He spun and fell hard, skull slamming into ceramic tile. He reached with his hand, warm blood running through his fingers. He tried to glimpse what was happening.

Feet, several feet, the keyboard picked up—

Bam!

Back of his head, spreading toward the front, his brain screaming. He tried to raise it up, but couldn’t stop the spinning.

Blood all on the floor.

Metal slumped beside the urinal, eyes vacant, arm twitching, shirt drenched red, neck bleeding, hand bleeding, stabs, slashes.

Fuse laid his head in the puddle and drifted.

God it hurt.

LaTisha danced through the tableau, paused to look, then danced away; and Fuse looked for Amanda, her golden curls, those big blue eyes, sweet dimples, the smile of his adorable little four-year-old. . For an instant he could hear her, but then it got hot, too hot, flames roaring, smoke choking him, stealing his breath, smashing him with dark regrets.

You tweakin’ that shit again?! screamed his wife, bursting in through the front door. You’re supposed to watch her — not get high!