Philipp Meyer - American Rust

The paint was fresh and bright white and the steel razors at the tops of the fences reflected the sun and the big windows on the guard towers were spotless. Someone came out to open the gate. Poe watched it close behind him and get farther and farther away. Inside one of the buildings they took the big manila envelope with his wallet and watch and counted the money again in front of him and made him strip. He stood naked facing the wall. There were two guards; both had their batons out. Here it comes, he thought.

“Open your mouth and lift up your tongue. Run your fingers through your hair, all of your hair now. Turn around and pull your ears forward.”

Poe complied.

“Bend all the way over and spread your cheeks wide.”

The men stood at a safe distance. Poe did everything they said.

“You got anything in them boots?”

“In what?”

“Your shoes, boy. You got anything in em?”

“No.”

“Do I have to cut them open to look inside them?”

“Please don't cut up my shoes.”

Poe turned around. One of the guards was feeling around inside his shoes with blue latex gloves. Both guards wore gray uniform shirts and black pants, cheap material; their shirts were pilled from being washed.

“Turn the fuck back around,” said the short guard. “I won't ask you again.”

Poe did.

“Alright. Now bend over three times quickly. All the way down to your toes.”

Poe did.

One of them rapped the baton against the wall.

“Do it quick,” he said. “Doubletime.”

Poe did.

“Nice form,” said one of them.

“What was that for?”

“In case you had a shank up your ass. You put something up there and you bend over too quick it'll cut your guts open from the inside.”

“I don't have anything,” said Poe.

“So keep it in mind for the future. That's a regular part of the drill.”

They gave him his boots back and tossed him an orange jumpsuit that smelled like someone else's sweat.

“I don't have any socks or underwear,” Poe said. The men ignored him. They led him to another room where he was directed to stand in front of a large desk behind which sat a heavy- set black woman. He greeted her and she ignored him. She verified his name.

“Do you feel suicidal?” she said.

“No,” he said.

“Are you a homosexual?”

“No.”

“Do you have any medical conditions or allergies?”

“No.”

“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself?”

“I just told you that,” he said.

She gave him an exasperated look.

“Whatever,” he said. “What about my lawyer?”

She acted like she hadn't heard him. He sat there watching her write. He could feel the anger building up inside him but he kept his head on, it would not help him to let his fire get built up.

The woman put his file aside and began looking at other papers that seemed to have nothing to do with him, then she was writing something in her day planner. He stood in front of her desk with his arms behind his back. He stood for a long time. He shifted from foot to foot; his leg fell asleep. Finally she motioned to one of the guards and Poe was taken into another room where an inmate trustee, a short gray- haired black man in his sixties, handed him a pile of sheets, a towel, and a pillow, and asked his clothing sizes.

When the guards had gone back into the other room, the trustee said, “How much you want for those boots, my man. Timberlands?”

“Red Wings.”

“Well tell me what you want for them.”

“They ain't for sale.”

“Don't test my motherfuckin patience, dawg.”

Poe didn't say anything. The man left and came back and tossed Poe a pair of polyester khaki pants, two pairs of socks and underwear, and a blue denim button- down shirt.

“None of this is the right size,” Poe said.

“You are one stupid- ass fuckin fish, you know that?”

He could have picked the little man up and crushed his skull but for some reason the inmate was not afraid of him. He changed out of the orange jumpsuit and into the new clothes and one of the guards came back and Poe picked up his bundle of sheets and followed him down a long narrow hallway. They passed a guard station with inch- thick Plexiglas, were buzzed through a steel door and into a broad corridor as long as a football field. The corridor was empty except for a pair of guards patrolling and an inmate pushing a mop. The floor was highly polished and the smell of floor wax and solvent overpowering. Following the guard, Poe passed several doors and could see into the cellblocks, he could see men sitting around on chairs and tables, he could hear music blaring. Poe expected the guard to explain where they were going but he didn't.

Finally they reached a door and the guard turned and the door clicked and they entered the cellblock. It was a long wide space with two tiers of cells on each side and a large common area in the center. Several televisions were turned up to maximum volume, blaring Jerry Springer and rap videos. There were tables on which men were playing games of some sort, checkers or maybe chess, some wore the same khakis and blue denim shirts as Poe did but most wore sweatshirts or pants that didn't look state- issued. Immediately the noise died down in the room as people sized him up.

“I like them shoes,” called one of them.

“Look at that pretty- ass motherfuckin fish.”

“Some tight- ass Britney Spears booty down there. I be grabbin on that shit and …” Out of the corner of his eye, Poe could see one of the inmates making an exaggerated humping motion.

“Bullshit nigga,” said another. He called to Poe: “I'ma take care of you, baby. Don't let these other motherfuckers worry you. You too pretty for them.”

There was loud laughter and competing catcalls about what they would do to him.

Poe looked to the guard to say something to quiet the inmates down but he didn't.

“Don't you worry, fish,” said someone, “that punk- ass CO won't say shit to us. Will he. Cause that nigga is next in line after you.”

The corrections officer was staring rigidly ahead. He waved his arm at a group of inmates blocking the stairs but they only stepped out of the way at the very last second. The CO, who was not much older than Poe, didn't make eye contact with any of them.

All the cell doors were open and finally they got to one that wasn't. The guard checked his keyring and found the correct key and turned it. They stood there until Poe figured he was supposed to slide the door open.

The cell was maybe six feet wide and ten long. Two steel bunkbeds were bolted to the wall and took up half the width; opposite the door was a stainless steel toilet without a seat, a sink with a pushbutton faucet. Only one person would be able to stand up at a time inside the cell.

“This like the place you stick new guys or something?”

“What'd you expect?” said the guard.

“Be a little bit bigger for having two beds.”

“You think this is bad,” he said, “most of the time the fish get stuck in the hole a couple weeks for processing. Least you're going right in the general population. Plus your cellmate's in the hole right now so you got it to yourself a few days.”

“Which bunk,” said Poe.

“The one where there isn't anything on it, shitbird.”

Poe took the top one, set his bundle on it.

“Lockdown's in five minutes,” said the guard. “Don't fuckin go nowhere.”

“What about dinner,” said Poe.

“You missed it,” said the man. He shrugged and walked away.

Poe made his bed, looked for things to occupy himself. There was nothing. He drank water from the faucet. He lay down. There was a pressure inside his head, like the motor up there was spinning too fast, the bolts and screws holding him together were about to let go and he'd end up torn to pieces, he'd choke himself, there would be no stopping him. It was a mistake, is what it was. That was it. It was a mistake. He was not supposed to be here. There was no way he was ever supposed to be put in a place like this.