Shane Jones - Crystal Eaters

The meeting takes place in the administrative wing, in the feet of the large L that is the prison. It’s been quiet lately, inmates on the upper levels succumbing to the heat and whispering rumors that the city is moving mysteriously toward the village. No one, not the guards, not the prisoners, not the administration, knows what to believe, so they wait and stick to their schedules, which include the meetings.

A table with a coffee urn, Styrofoam cups, a cube of napkins, and a box of donuts is placed against the wall in the meeting room. In the center — eight white plastic chairs with metal legs. The floor is a smooth and slippery cement. One wearing socks could run through the open door of the room, glide to the opposite side, and bump into the guard who stands ready for the meeting, arms crossed high and tight, his expression absurdly serious.

Pants is ushered into the room by a guard who tells him to get up on it . Pants faces the cement block wall so close he smells the crystal fungus of his own breath. He stands in a wide stance with arms reaching for the corners of the ceiling, fingertips pressed into the stucco’s dimples. Behind him, chairs arranged in a circle, the plastic boom of each put into proper place, metal legs scratching the cement, a guards keys jangling as he paces. The donuts are opened. A gravel-voice says, “Nice, donuts.” The urn’s orange tongue is flicked up, coffee rushes along styrofoam, and another voice, this one scary deep says, “Nice, coffee.” A guard states there is a strict two-donut limit. He repeats himself, holding two fingers in the air while pivoting back-and-forth 180 degrees, because Tony, with his massive hand grabs five at once. The guard signals with his eyes to put the extra donuts back but Tony manages in one bite to taste all five.

The other guard squats, and holding McDonovan’s calf with two hands, moves up his leg. His hair is inspected by a two-hand tousle that reminds Pants of Mom checking for lice — bugs they heard about from the city and never would have cared about but a panic ensued. They react to the policies of the city, especially if on television. He curls his big toe so the crystal touches the bottom of his shoe and the shard sinks in, hurts. When he extends the toe, blood and liquid crystal warms his foot, feels real good. When he closes his eyes, the guard’s hands patting his hips ( ten times quickly, what are the chances of that ), he sees a beach with Remy running into waves colored night.

Goon-bodies plop themselves into the chairs. Everyone settles in. Everyone gets ready.

“Turn,” says the guard who is the guard with the gold cross necklace, which appears several times larger than before, the gold cross now covering his chest and stomach.

“You got it, sexy hands,” Pants says with his now usual goofy smile. He wants to make the guard feel uncomfortable and “sexy hands” does the trick.

“Op-en,” says the guard. “Don’t sass me. I said it before, the lord will decide and speak through Sanders.”

“Touch me, hurt me, love me.”

He opens his mouth and it’s so clean that the guard takes a step back and peers up into the mouth. Those who eat black crystal are known to have black worm spirals rotting their inner cheeks. The tongue a block of coal. If the guard could see down McDonovan’s throat he’d see pink fleshy walls draped in sheets of watery fungus, a symptom of a capable body flushing out the black after each use. Pants shuts his mouth, swallows, and the watery fungus washes away. He smiles without showing teeth. Has the smile of his mother.

“Good to go,” the guard says. “Wait and see.”

“That’s what we’re all doing, right?”

“Move.”

“I mean, seriously, we’re all just waiting for something to happen, to end us? That’s what this life is?”

Sitting down, he rests his forearms on his thighs, slightly above the knees, and clasps his hands. He’s dressed in orange pants and an orange top with a flimsy collar and two white buttons. His arms are long and skinny and losing muscle. His legs are thin too, not much below the knees swimming inside the orange material. His chest hurts when he coughs. The lights in the room suck up all space.

The supervisor is a big white guy with a block head and a military crew-cut named Jugba Marzan, commonly known as Jug, who wears high-waist khaki pants and a white button down shirt with the sleeves twisted sloppy at the elbows. He smells like hot dog water and mouth mints.

Not a guy who is completely out of shape, but looks like he played football and juiced and then let it all go. Sad.

Jugba says they will speak in an open and non-judgmental forum. The rules are simple. Everyone needs to say something about their past. Jug is allowed to ask two questions, after which, he will move to the next person.

“You. Say what you want, anything at all, this is a safe place where everyone, everyone right , will keep their opinions to themselves until everyone has had a turn. Things should run smoothly today. I’m under supervision myself,” he looks up at a moving camera in the corner, “and the last thing I need is an incident like we’ve had here before. I’m in control. We’re going to learn.” Jug smoothes the chest of his shirt with two hands. He’s incredibly nervous.

“…”

Everyone wears orange with white sneakers, black Velcro straps replace laces. A man named Crumb — small, mean — pinches the ashy tattooed praying hands on his neck while leaning back in his chair until the front legs hover off the ground, his cheeks puffed with air, his eyes blue and distant. There’s Pete with his forearm tattoos inked in arial black — left arm: Everything I Kill I Fuck, right arm: Everything I Fuck I Kill — who chews watermelon flavored gum and crumples the tent of orange fabric at his crotch with a bouncing finger. Tony sits slumped, his arms larger than most men’s thighs, folded over his chest, his left shirtsleeve rolled up above the bicep revealing a rash of raised skin in the shape of a key. Others sit looking at their shoes waiting for the health meeting to just end.

Jug has donut powder on his face. “All right, gotta play,” he says, chewing his lips.

“…”

Pants shuts down when attempting to externalize emotion. This fact he’s learned from these meetings. Something about family systems or was it family of origin. He stares at Jug. He leans forward. His big toe rubs the bottom of his shoe and his entire foot feels wet, hot, but he can’t get moving. Not here. Not like this. He can’t enter the high because of their faces. The black crystal isn’t strong enough for him to escape this time even though he’s done it before on less. The obligation surrounding him is suffocating. Jug’s question is drawing him out. Reality has a way of breaking you.

“Donut,” says Jug. “Now speak.”

“…”

Two invisible chambers floating in the center of the room are this: Jug asking Pants to talk, his chamber filling up, and the reaction chamber is Pants shuts off, the chamber emptying. They are connected. He knows this. Things learned. Basic Distancer vs. Pursuer. His emotions are hidden under crystals. He wants to flip the chambers and come out with so much hiss and words that Jug will blow back through the wall and dissolve. The black crystal rushes through his veins and creates bumps on his skin. There are no bumps on his skin, Pants just imagines them, but he starts rubbing his arms. He needs to get on the beach. It’s getting stronger, he can feel it.

“Crystal shithead,” says Crumb. “Go and we get this over with.”

“…”

A guard circles holding a club in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He’s eaten three donuts, smells like clean laundry, and has a chicken dinner waiting at home. He’s one of the few guards who doesn’t eat crystal and is against the other guards taking it. He’s friends with the guard who wears the gold cross and together they pray in a room located in the prison used for nothing but praying. The praying room is labeled Praying Room. There’s an oil painting of an illuminated Jesus and a carpeted kneeling bench in royal purple. They really love to pray. The other guards who are hooked on the black crystal dislike them for what they interpret not as personal belief, but a moral judgment on their souls. The guard looks around the room for something to attack.