Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

Finally his turn to stand arrives, and he does so. Then he walks down the length of the bus, down the narrow aisle between the seats, and steps out into the light of the white morning sun.

There are four lines of boys standing in formation and more boys stepping into place. At the head of the formation a guard watches with his hands clasped behind his back, shouting orders when necessary to get everyone squared away. After everyone is unloaded and in formation, the bus rumbles off.

A cloud of dust floats through the air.

‘My name is Mr Fisk, but you can call me sir,’ the guard at the front of the formation says. ‘Welcome to the East Los Angeles Juvenile-Detention Facility and Reform School. I’m your chief monitor here while you await arraignment and trial. I expect good behavior at all times. There will be no cursing. We will march to all destinations. When I say left, you step with your left foot. When I say right, you step with your right. When I say right face, you turn right. When I say left face, you turn left. When I say attention, you stand straight with your arms at your sides and your heels together. When I say at ease, you may have your feet eighteen inches apart and your hands clasped behind your back, as I’m standing now. You swing your arms at your sides when we march. Your hands will not be in your pockets. Your fingers will be curled, your thumbs pressed against your fists. There will be no fucking around. Is all of that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’

After that they’re marched past a fenced-in recreation yard littered with basketball courts, handball courts, and benches. Marched to a red-brick building with

‘A’ COMPANY

painted in white letters on its side. The windows are covered in wire grates. The dull gray metal doors look like they’d be difficult to swing. Two elderly women stand just to the right of them. They’re both thick in the middle and look as though they must stink of stale cigarettes and mothballs. They have large canvas laundry sacks at their feet.

‘Group. . halt! ’

Mr Fisk turns and faces the boys. ‘You are now a part of Alpha Company and will remain so until you’ve gone through trial and, if convicted, been assigned to one of the resident companies. But for now you don’t need to worry about that. What you need to worry about is this. One of them ladies over there by the door is about to call each of your names. When your name is called, you are to collect two pairs of pants and five shirts and head into the barracks. Just inside, the desk monitor will tell you your room number. The hall monitor will then ensure you get into your room. You are not to leave. Once in your room, you are to change clothes. There will be socks and underwear waiting for you in a chest under your bunk. Your bunk will have your name on it, so unless you’re so stupid you can’t read your own goddamn name there shouldn’t be any confusion. Your chest is the one that isn’t yet padlocked. You will find the padlock inside. You’re to use it. You’re responsible for your facility-issued belongings. Once you change clothes you will wait. The hall monitor will then collect your civilian clothes, with the exception of your shoes, which you will continue to wear.

‘Enjoy your stay.’

Soon enough his name is called. He walks to the two women standing by the door. One of them hands him two pairs of khaki slacks. The other hands him three white T-shirts and two heavily starched khaki shirts with the facility’s initials stenciled on the back in block letters. He walks into the building.

A young man sitting behind a desk says, ‘Name?’

‘Sandy.’

‘Full name.’

‘Sanford Duncan.’

He scans a sheet of paper. ‘Room one-sixteen.’

He walks toward the hallway, where another young man sits, his arms crossed in front of him, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

‘Room?’

‘One-sixteen.’

‘Third door on your left.’

Sandy walks down the hallway to the third door, pushes it open, steps into his room. There are four bunks, two on the left wall, two on the right. Two chests sit on the floor beneath each bunk bed. The walls are white. There’s a small metal desk at the back of the room, and a chair. Above the desk, a single window covered on the outside by a wire grate. A cool breeze blows into the room through the open window. It feels good on his skin, which is hot and covered in nervous sweat. His stomach feels sour as well, like he might have diarrhea, and there’s no toilet in this room. He wonders where a toilet might be. He doesn’t want to ask. He’s afraid to ask.

He reads the name tags on the bunks. The top bunk on the left wall has his name on it, so he tosses his new clothes onto the thin mattress. The other three bunks are covered in thin white sheets and green wool blankets, but his mattress is bare. It’s off-white but lined with blue pinstripes. It’s stained yellow in places with sweat or urine, dark orange salt-crusted lines marking the edges of each island splotch.

He reaches under the bed and pulls out one of the trunks. It’s padlocked, so he replaces it and pulls out the other. This one’s unlocked. He unlatches the lid and opens it. Inside are five pairs of white socks and five pairs of white underpants, as well as a sheet, a pillow, and a neatly folded green blanket. The underpants look like they’re about two sizes too big, but he supposes that’s just the way it is. Next to the clothes, a bible, and on top of that a padlock with the key still in it. A long chain is threaded through the key so that it can be worn around the neck.

Sandy undresses, checking his underwear to make sure there are no skid marks in them. He knows he has to hand them over and doesn’t want to be embarrassed. He once had to spend the night at a schoolmate’s house because their mothers were friends and forgot his underwear there. The boy brought them to class the following Monday and showed everyone that they were stained. Little baby made a shit-shit. If there were skid marks he might find a place to hide them instead of handing them over, but they’re clean, so he folds his clothes neatly and puts on a facility-issued outfit. He tosses the blankets and pillow onto his mattress, and closes his trunk. He locks it and slides it under the bed. Hangs the key around his neck.

Makes his bed.

Then he turns in a circle, lost. Everything around him is alien and he’s alone in this alien place. There are rules and procedures, but he doesn’t yet know what most of them are. Nobody’s thought to tell him. He’s no longer a person. He’s only an object to be moved from one place to another, preferably without incident.

He walks to the desk and opens the drawers and, but for the nub of a pencil and some pencil shavings and a smell that reminds him of school, a sort of waxy crayon smell, finds them empty. He looks out the window.

The sky’s very blue and cloudless. The grass is green but for a few dead patches. He can see the fence that surrounds this place in the distance. He wants more than anything to be on the other side of it. To be anywhere but here, to be any when but now.

He sits at the desk and wonders what’s next.

But nothing much is next.

The hall monitor comes and takes his clothes. He gathers the courage to say he has to use the bathroom and is permitted to. There’s a large bathroom with four toilet stalls, six urinals, and a shower area at the end of the hall. After using the toilet, he heads back to his room. He stays there till later in the afternoon when his roommates return from their classes. School is from eight till three. Everybody awaiting arraignment or trial goes to the same classes regardless of age or grade, but his roommates are all within a year or two of him. He learns their names but immediately forgets them. They sit on their beds and draw in their notebooks, or talk, or read books they checked out from the library. He does nothing until dinnertime, which is six o’clock, at which point they are marched to the cafeteria. They eat chicken and boiled potatoes and peas. They’re marched back to their rooms. At nine o’clock the overhead lights go out. But there are still bright lights outside, illuminating the yard, and of course there’s the light of the moon, which is almost full.