Michael Bunker - WICK

There was that word again, Clay thought. What is “normal”? Seriously? Was it ‘normal’ in the millennia before his great-grandparent’s generation, or in the state that almost a quarter of the world’s population still live in today, where people have no concept of readily available electrical power? No running addiction to fuel? Who gets to define that? He didn’t say this to Todd. He simply shrugged his shoulders and sipped his coffee. It felt good to be back in his body.

“How long are they saying this storm might last?” Clay asked, hoping beyond hope that the nor’easter might blow through quickly and that he could really get back on the road in the morning.

“I don’t know. It looked bad last time I checked. Could be a couple of days,” Todd replied, “why? Where’re you headed?”

“Up near Ithaca. I got out of the city on Wednesday.” He stopped himself. “Or was it Tuesday? Man, are the days just running together for you now?” Todd nodded in agreement. “Anyway, caught a ride up yesterday, and then…”

“… then you got lost in the worst blizzard up here in modern memory? Yep,” Todd grinned, “that sounds about right. You were lucky to make it anywhere out there, man. Counting Sandy and now this storm, they’ll be stacking up bodies like cordwood after this is over.”

“I hope not,” Clay said, narrowing his eyes, uncomfortable with the word picture.

“You can bet on it,” Todd said, nodding his head and indicating ‘outside’ with his coffee cup, “one thing I know is that in this world today, people die when things aren’t running absolutely perfectly. One glitch, people die. Ninety-five degrees in Chicago for five days? They’re hauling bodies to the morgue, man. The worse the disruption, the more bodies pile up.”

And this we call normal? Clay thought, then took a drink of coffee and tried to change the subject. He wasn’t as subtle as he might have hoped.

“What in the world are you doing with a Russian prison here, Todd?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and trying to look innocent.

“I thought we agreed you were going to practice your manners, Clay,” Todd said, with a condescending smirk on his face.

“Ok, Todd. It’s your dacha . I’m just here drinking coffee, trying to warm up.”

Seeing that Clay was not at all satisfied with his evasion, Todd grimaced, took a deep breath and then offered an explanation. “There are a lot of immigrants from the former Soviet Union—you know, Mother Russia, the Ukraine, all of those old republics over there. My little wing of the prison houses juvenile prisoners from the former Soviet bloc who don’t speak much English. It’s as simple as that.”

Clay thought the explanation sounded rehearsed. And something in the back of his mind kicked at the thought that this man still used the term “former Soviet Union.” It had been so long since he had heard that term, even the maps and school textbooks rarely mentioned it at all. And now, out of nowhere, in the midst of the weirdness of his journey, he was hearing it used everywhere. He’d heard it on the television at Veronica’s, then from Clive Darling in his big, expensive truck, and now from Todd. It didn’t sit right, but he didn’t want to irritate his host so he smiled and said, “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Todd, I’m just here for the coffee… and some food?”

Todd smiled back. “Now you’re talking! I’ll take your clothes to the dryers and then get us some grub. Why don’t you go lay down in your cell and I’ll holler at you when it’s all ready?”

“Can we call it my ‘room’ instead of my ‘cell’?” Clay asked, grinning.

“Oh yeah, Clay, whatever makes you happy, bud… now you run on back to your guest room , and hotel manager Todd will get you some supper.”

As soon as Todd was gone from sight, and when he heard the double doors slam shut in that awful way that jail and prison doors always seem to shut, Clay walked back into his cell, lying out onto his bunk, feeling incarcerated again and thinking about closing his eyes and getting some sleep. But the coffee was doing its warm work in him and his mind was busy, though not yet working altogether right. He could still feel the disembodied faces of those young men down the hallway who cried and clawed at the door for freedom. What was their crime? Clay wondered.

He reached into his backpack, shuffled some things around in it, then pulled out his copy of The Poems of C.L Richter and looked at its clean blue cover, already familiar. The caffeine was finally starting to clear his mind somewhat and, stretching his neck to each side to relieve some of the stress, he turned to one of his poems randomly and read…

He closed the book and shook his head. Wow . He’d been in a dark place when he wrote that. He wondered what Cheryl had thought of his glaring indictment of all of their ancestors. This distrust and dislike of modernity had been with him longer than he’d thought. Maybe he was just a Luddite anarchist, like Clive said.

He put the book back into the pack and zipped it closed.

Standing up again he considered for just a moment what it would be like to actually be locked in this cell, and then he laughed, figuring that it would feel kind of like the last six years of his life felt. Wasn’t his Brooklyn apartment his most recent jail? Wasn’t this what he was escaping? Back to comparing physical and metaphorical prisons again. If only I were tired enough to fall asleep .

He walked back out into the hallway, figuring it would be some time before Todd would return. He struggled within himself for a moment, hoping to keep from looking through the door that led down the hall to the others . But the window, crisscrossed with chicken wire, drew him in like a moth to flame.

The faces were still there, and when they saw him appear a struggle broke out, some pushing and shoving, and then he could see that they held up a new sign. He had to strain his eyes again, lean really close to the window and allow his eyes to get used to the extremes of dark and light.

This is not prison. Students! Help we! Dying! Starve!

Another paper was thrust against the window…

No food 1 week since Sandee. Hungered. Help we!

What ? He shook his head, showing the faces that he didn’t understand. How can that be? Todd seemed to be fed well enough. The place had emergency power. Why wouldn’t they be feeding the inmates? Was it a labor problem? Had people stopped coming to work? That could certainly be true. Clay couldn’t imagine anyone making it to work in the past several days.

His mind worked feverishly now as the faces once again begged him. Tear streaked faces, pleading for help. What if they are trapped. What if they are telling the truth? Could it be? He suddenly put his finger on something that had bothered him about the conversation with Todd. He’d never in his life heard of a prison facility for a particular people speaking a specific language. Not in America. Not in 2012. As he watched the faces he noticed that several among them seemed to be pushing the others out of the way. Those faces mouthed the word “No” and “Go” and waved him away, but in a way that was subtle, not aggressive or obvious. He couldn’t decide whether they were afraid for the others, or for him, but he decided he ought to do something .