Lindsay Hunter - Ugly Girls

When Baby Girl dropped Perry home, Myra’s and Jim’s cars were there, but their bedroom door was closed. Myra probably with a pillow over her head to block the light and Jim probably still in his work pants. He had another shift that night.

Perry got online. Her chat was already blinking, just like she knew it would be.

Hey girlie, missed u

She typed fast, couldn’t wait to bust him. Why you messin with my friend? I saw your text to her

He didn’t answer right away. Jamey is typing . Perry got up for a ginger ale, came back to see that he’d finally spit it out.

U jealous??:p

You checkin up on me?

Aw girlie I’m just innerested in your life , he wrote.

Then: We cant have the same freinds??

It’s spelled friends. And why you so interested in my life? Perry signed off before he could answer. Her face still felt hot, and she didn’t care what his answer was, only that he knew she knew.

MYRA HAD TAKEN HIM by the belt, had led him to their bed. He knew men, other guards, who were just grateful their wives could cook, who confiscated magazines from prisoners and saved them for their breaks, going at themselves in a locked stall, emerging sweaty and red-faced and pretending it was just a difficult dump. He had never had to be one of those men, Myra had always taken care of him in that regard. He was grateful for that, but he was envious of the other men, too. Such cheerful wives. Sandwiches and cookies in Ziplocs, no foamy glasses to clean up at home.

But he’d rather make his own lunch, he supposed, than be a man in a stall.

Phil was at the front desk. “Morning,” he said as Jim walked up. Phil greeted him the same at the start of every night shift, and Jim appreciated it. Made him feel almost normal.

“Morning,” Jim answered, and pushed through the first set of doors. With every door he pushed through, the light changed. Like they used the good bulbs up front and the harsh fluorescents farther in. He didn’t know why anyone bothered pretending prison offered any kind of rehabilitation; even if the food didn’t come powdered or in cans or already ruined, the light was enough to drive any man to violence — an unnatural bluish white light that hummed like a bee under your pillow. And they never turned the lights off. No telling what a man could do with a few seconds and a dark corner. Can’t take that chance. If a light blew out, it was immediate lockdown until it was repaired. The men were just too bored not to be creative.

Ten hours of that light left Jim feeling like an animal. And he got to leave it after that. These men had to stay. Once, a meek, whip-thin drug addict on a three-year stint had come in, and it was clear he had meant to stay under the radar, never asking for seconds, never looking anyone in the eye. Jim had hope for him, had even stopped outside his cell to talk about the weather. The addict talked about feeling the warm rain on his face once he got out. But those lights. After a month the man had to be thrown in solitary for writing CRACK in his own fecal matter on his roommate’s bed.

Jim rounded the corner and saw that O’Toole was also waiting to be buzzed in to the next area. “Morning,” Jim said.

O’Toole snapped his fingers what felt like mere centimeters from Jim’s nose. “Get a cup of coffee, Tipton. It ain’t fucking morning.” Jim grabbed O’Toole’s hand so tight he could hear the surprise pop pop of O’Toole’s knuckles cracking. Happened almost before he could stop himself. Like he had turned the channel and now he was watching some new scene. O’Toole wasn’t a big man, but he’d fight back if it was called for, and the thought made Jim let go.

“What the fuck, Tipton?” O’Toole was panting, his breath warm and moist.

“Just kidding around,” Jim said. He could barely get the words out. Lactic acid was pouring into his muscles. He felt feverish, and sorry, and filled with dread. “Go on ahead,” he told O’Toole, though the man had already turned.

Sometimes Jim thought if he could just take Perry to work, if she could just see what breaking the rules did to a person … but then this shit with O’Toole reminded him that life wasn’t no better on the other side of the bars. He shook his head. Had to stop thinking like that. But it was true. Taking Perry to work would only show her that you’re damned if you do and goddamned if you don’t.

Jim waited at one door for a buzz, crossed through it, waited at another door for a buzz, crossed through that. The buzzing echoed behind him in a long, retreating wail.

Two hours into his shift, five minutes before Jim could take his break, he heard the muffled sounds of a quiet jump in one of the cells. It was the middle of the night, but that was when inmates were the most keyed up, too much silence, too much time to think. Men never screamed or called for help when they were being jumped; that was part of the code. At first he couldn’t tell if it was on the second tier, where he was when he heard it, or below him, or even if it was on the side he was supposed to be patrolling, but he could hear it clear as day: the unmistakable sound of fists and feet and elbows landing in the soft meat of a body, which meant the owner of the body had stopped fighting back.

He couldn’t see O’Toole anywhere, so he shouted the man’s name. “I got it,” O’Toole answered from the far corner, where three other guards were pushing into a cell on O’Toole’s side. The guards and O’Toole started shouting for the men to get down, hands behind their heads, their voices guttural and angry, like rage had taken form and was all mouth.

Some of the inmates on Jim’s side were getting loud, yelling across about what they could and couldn’t see. One of the guards pulled the downed man out by his arms. A blood bib on his sweatshirt, his face all smear. The inmates who could see cheered, the ones who couldn’t yelled, Who down? He dead? The rage was taking Jim now. Men cheering at the pulped man. He felt his nightstick in his hand, suddenly, and he beat the railing with it until his ears rang.

Later, as they were clocking out together, Jim asked O’Toole what the fight was about. “Deck of playing cards,” was his answer. O’Toole wasn’t looking Jim in the face, still frosty over the scuffle they’d had clocking in, and he walked quickly to get ahead of Jim and out to the parking lot. Jim slowed, his legs tired, his whole self tired. He didn’t want to get in that truck and drive home, and he didn’t want to turn around and work another shift. He stood in the parking lot, the sky the pale blue and yellow of a child’s room, the day already warm. O’Toole drove by, didn’t return Jim’s wave. He knew he could have punched O’Toole till his brain was bent if he’d felt just a bit more provoked than he had. It occurred to Jim that it was in a man’s nature to fight, to wound. Playing cards sold for a dollar in the commissary. A single dollar.

THE DENNY’S WAS A SHORT WALK from the trailer, just up one exit. Stay close to the guardrail and try not to look directly at the headlights coming fast, get off at the next exit.

She wanted to see Travis, so she went to see him. Easy as pie , as Myra would say.

It felt strange not to call and ask Baby Girl to drive her. But then again, what did she need Baby Girl for? In the past she’d used Baby Girl’s car to get closer to a boy, but she didn’t even know what she wanted to do with Travis yet. And he didn’t seem like the type to rush to the backseat anyway.

And plus her face burned every time she thought of Baby Girl’s hand on her cheek, mashing her lips into her teeth. She knew Baby Girl was capable of shit like that, of course she knew. But she’d never had to deal with it coming back at her. If it happened again … if it happened again, what?