Джойс Оутс - Prison Noir

Al didn’t remember going to sleep. He didn’t even remember getting on his bunk and covering up; so when he woke he was disoriented. Being careful to move as little as possible, he used the tips of two fingers to create a tiny gap between the blanket and mattress. He peered out from beneath the covers at Martin Monatomic, who sat on the bunk across from him in the same position as earlier, still engrossed in Moby-Dick .

The door at the end of the range opened and closed and the sound of shuffling footsteps drew closer. “Aw, man,” said Al, throwing off the blanket and getting up.

“What?” asked Martin, not bothering to look up.

“It’s the psyche.”

“How do you know that?”

“Footsteps. Hear the limp?”

From the hall came a voice that was thin and high — male but with a definite feminine inflection. “Officer, 301, please.” Keys turned and the chuck-hole opened. “Thank you, you may leave.”

The sound of wolf-whistles and door banging began up and down the corridor, taunts and invitations.

The doctor turned, seemingly unable to let the moment pass, and addressed the general contained melee. “You couldn’t handle this!”

Raucous laughter accompanied an increase in the pounding. Then, as quickly as the noise swelled, it just as quickly tapered off. Appearing to accept the quietness as a minor victory, the psyche smiled as he hunched down to call through the open chuck-hole. “Mr. Webber?”

Al was already positioned on the other side of the hole. “Doctor Fraud?”

The psyche cracked a smile. “Mr. Webber, besides being totally passé, Freud and his psychoanalytic theory, in my humble opinion, are totally ineffective.”

Al watched as the doctor reached behind his angora V-neck sweater vest and pulled out a Montblanc lacquered pen from his shirt pocket. Opening the lavender-colored cover on his notebook-style clipboard, he made a mark on the page and then peered through the chuck-hole at Al. Smiling broadly, he said, “Sometimes, a cigar is only a cigar.”

“Yeah,” countered Al, “and you would know.”

The doctor laughed. “You got me there. Now, what can I do for you?”

“You can tell the warden to get this guy out of my cell.” Al jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

The smile vanished from the doctor’s face. “Mr. Webber, we’ve been through this. You’re going to have to deal with—”

“I ain’t dealin’ with shit. I’ve been in prison twenty-three years, eleven of it in the SHU, and I ain’t never getting out. I’m going to die in here. I ain’t sharing shit with nobody.”

The doctor took a deep breath while making a mark in his notebook. “Look, I can prescribe—”

“I ain’t takin’ no more pills!” Al’s voice hardened. “All you people know how to do is shove pills down our throats.”

The doctor repositioned his glasses and cleared his throat. “If you’ll just try something to take the edge off. .” He was almost pleading. “There are new medications that might help, even more so than last time.”

Al’s voice rose: “You can help me by gettin’ this fucker out of my cell.”

“Mr. Webber, it’s not healthy—”

“I don’t need someone like you telling me what’s healthy,” he barked, and watched as a shade of pink crept up the man’s neck and colored his face.

The doctor capped his pen and closed his notebook. “That’s fine. I’ll tell the warden you want your cellie moved.” Before Al could respond, the doctor stood. “Guard!” he shouted. “I’m finished here.”

The doctor was down the hall and gone before the guard even arrived to lock the chuck-hole.

It seemed as if no time had passed before Al heard the keys in the chuck-hole again. Funny how time was so fluid in the SHU, he thought to himself. Time in the SHU could stretch into the thinnest of streams — tiny amounts seeping by at a snail’s pace. Then, big clumpy chunks seemed to squeeze together, hours passing all at once, no more noticed than a breath.

“Trays!” called the guard unnecessarily. The moment the chuck-hole was opened a sickening stench wafted through the narrow slot and into the cell.

“Meatloaf,” grumbled Al. To him, it smelled as if someone had taken a dog and boiled it in its own offal. He handed a tray to Martin and took the other and sat on his bunk.

As he ate, Al realized the atmosphere inside the cell had changed since the psyche’s visit — a subtle shift in the dynamic. He was more wary of the situation — warier of Martin — and guarded in his conversations.

Martin, on the other hand, had become more extroverted, almost gregarious. He licked some ketchup from his spork and then set it down on the tray. “You know,” he said to Al, “you can tell a lot about a person by how he eats his meatloaf. See, a man who eats it bottom to top, saving the part with the ketchup, the good part, for last — that automatically assumes there’s going to be time to eat it. What could possibly happen in the time it takes to eat a slice of meatloaf?”

When Al chose not to respond, Martin answered his own question. “Something could happen. Like, maybe you’re sittin’ at home, watchin’ the tube after a long day at the shop. You got your beer. You got your meatloaf. You’re about to dig into the good part — the part with the ketchup — when your wife creeps up behind you with an iron skillet. Bam! It’s lights out, Charlie. You’re no longer, and you died missin’ out on the best part of your meatloaf.” Martin paused. “So, what kind of person are you, Al?”

Al ran his fingers over his right brow, much like how a man would stroke his mustache. He couldn’t figure Martin out; didn’t know what to make of this strange intrusion. One minute, Al was barely aware of his presence. The next, he was unnerved by the creepy, implied menace that his new cellie exuded. Al had never been a good judge of character, but Martin had him totally off balance.

Al replied quietly, “I never really thought about it.”

“Well, let’s see.” Martin leaned over to look at Al’s tray. The largest compartment still held a crescent-shaped piece of charred meatloaf with a layer of ketchup on it.

“Oh Al,” he tsked, “you’re gonna want to watch that.”

When the trays were returned and the range was quieting down from the daily routine of hollered conversations, the door at the end of the hall opened and footsteps approached, accompanied by the jangle of keys.

“Lieutenant Rios,” said Al.

A few seconds later there was the turning of a key and the chuck-hole popped open. “Hey, Webber.”

Al got up went over to the hole and hunched down. “L.T., what’s up? How you doin’?”

“I heard you’ve been having some problems down here. You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just that I got a cellie in here and I ain’t supposed to have one. I’ve been down twenty-three years, eleven of it in the SHU, and I deserve some respect.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Rios. “Have I ever disrespected you?”

“No.”

“Have I ever talked greasy to you?”

“No.”

“Have I ever thrown you to crazy?”

“No sir.”

“Right. So—”

“Yeah, but most of those other folks. . they ain’t like you.”

“I understand that you’re not going to get along with everyone, but when you treat people shitty, I have to hear it.”

Al nodded, though he wasn’t sure if Rios was referring to the doctor, a guard, or Martin.

“Just so we’re clear—”

“We’re clear,” said Al.

“All right. Now, what’s up?”

He sighed. “I ain’t supposed to have no cellie. I need this guy out of here.”