Denis Johnson - The Resuscitation of a Hanged Man

“I did a weird thing,” English said.

“Everybody knows what you did,” Fred said. “But what’s the charge?”

“Attempted murder. Also sea piracy.”

“That won’t last,” Jimmy told him. “You’ll get off with two-to-ten, man — delay, delay, delay, and then some kind of plea bargain on a minor thing, some kind of weapons thing or reduced assault bullshit. But whatever you do, hang on to that piracy beef. That’s a number that gets you in the federal pen, man, where people are civilized. Not that they’ll let it stand.”

“Yeah, the lawyer says they’ll drop it in a while.”

“Of course they will,” Jimmy said. “A fucking ten-foot rowboat. You’re a disgrace to the whole concept.”

“Did you even nick the son-of-a-bitch?” Fred said.

“I shot his hat off,” English said, “or, anyway, I think I did.”

“His hat?”

“Maybe I did, I don’t know.” English sighed. “I don’t think so.”

“Man, when I make bail, I’m gonna get deeply fucked up,” Jimmy said, “and I will make bail. I got friends. I got friends, man. Real friends. People I owe money to.”

“I’m going to church the first thing when I get out,” Gene said. “I’ll give thanks.”

“And then you’ll be off to see your little Jesus-honey just one more time,” Jimmy said, “and the judge’ll nail you.”

“I won’t be getting out, I guess,” English said.

“No way. Two hundred thousand bail? Not hardly,” Jimmy said.

The lights went out. English put his shoes and socks under the bed and unrolled the cuffs of his jeans, which were too long, before lying down. They heard a boy sobbing in the darkness and an old man talking to himself. Jimmy whispered to English, “Do you want me to fuck you up the ass?”

“I keep telling you, I’m not gay,” English said.

“A good top is hard to find,” Jimmy reminded him kindly. “Don’t pass it up.”

Gene liked to read to his fellow prisoners from the Bible, especially passages from Revelation and so on, because he believed these parts would excite them and bring them to Jesus. “You don’t go up to Heaven when you die. That’s a mistake. That’s like Santa Claus. What really happens is, at the end of time you get up out of your grave in the form of a spiritual body. The dead will be resurrected.”

“I’ll be there,” Fred said.

And Jimmy said, “Fucking-A. Me, too.”

Gene took that as some kind of encouragement and started reading to the three of them — English, Fred, and Jimmy — from the mistreated pages of his text: “‘It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.’ Wait, wait — next page, right here: ’For this corruptible must put on incorruption.”

“That’s me, boys. I’m the most corruptible fucker I know,” Jimmy said.

TV hours, in the TV room, were well attended. Fred sat in the front row all by himself by virtue of his willingness, his anxiousness, to fight anybody who didn’t like it. He answered everything that any woman on the television said. “We’ve got to get this deposition filed at once,” a woman said; “I’d like to file your deposition,” Fred said. “I’m going to have to pave this yard over with concrete,” a woman said; “I’d like to pave over your concrete,” Fred replied. “I’m feeling a change coming over me,” a woman said; “I’d like you to feel my change,” Fred said, “I’ll come over you.” All of this was easily tolerated by everyone during TV time because Fred was violent.

And English sensed, toward himself, a certain watchful hesitation on the part of the other men. There was always a vacant chair for him with a good angle on the television, and for the first time in his life he had a nickname: “Superdrag.”

Jimmy said, “The bad boys, the bad boys. We’re all that’s happening now. The country’s being melted down into baby food. There used to be demonstrations, riots, fucking parties, man, orgies, everything was”—he grabbed his crotch— “zany and delightful. Now they don’t eat meat. Hey, I hope they put me away for twenty. Keep me away from these vegetable people. Let me out when the new millennium’s here, a little chaos and shit.”

Fred backed him up: “That’s right. They don’t even eat meat out there anymore.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“I don’t think you understand. They don’t even eat meat,” Fred said.

“I understand,” Jimmy said. “Anyway, I thought I did.”

“If you don’t eat meat, you are meat,” Fred said.

“The millennium will be here by the time you get out, that’s for sure,” Jimmy told English. “It’ll probably be half over, you pitiful fuck.”

“I thought you said I’d get two-to-ten.”

“I was just trying to help you feel not so tortured. I’m like that,” Jimmy explained. “I’m too nice.”

Gene was troubled. “You don’t understand, you don’t, your eyes are closed, you’re blind. The Last Days won’t be fun for people like you, people with lost, ugly souls. There’ll be cities destroyed, dragons throwing the mountains around, the earth swallowing you up, fire and chaos — and Jesus, Jesus is going to be un pleasant —” He was rapidly skimming the pages of Revelation—“ … people howling, everybody getting split apart with swords—”

“Man, some of that for me!” Jimmy said.

“Goddamn right, it’s worth waiting for,” Fred agreed.

“Lock us up till Two Thousand!” English said.

“They’re gonna resurrect me and I’m gonna have a woman hanging off my joint and my lips around the nipple of a bong,” Jimmy predicted, “within fucking minutes. A bong full of Colombian.”

“It isn’t going to work that way,” Gene promised him sadly.

“I’m gonna get up out of the grave and go back to the bank where they took me down,” Fred said. “And I’m gonna go up to the teller’s window and I’m gonna stick a gun in her cute little face and say, Remember me?” To English he said, “You and me will partner up when we get to the streets. We’ll go marauding. We’ll do drag.”

Mrs. Gerald Twinbrook, Sr., gave English’s court-appointed lawyer five hundred dollars to spend on whatever Leonard English wanted while he was in jail. All English wanted was cigarettes. Leanna Sousa came by one day and left several cartons on deposit with his captors.

Leanna managed to visit him by claiming to be his sister. “Well, that’s what you are,” he told her. They faced each other over a low partition down the middle of a long table. The visiting area was the first thing inside the electric lock. It smelled of mimeographing fluid and coffee because it was combined with the office area.

A silence. In her eyes he saw how glad she was to see him. “You’re in jail.”

“Am I somewhat notorious?”

“Plenty.”

“Is that why you came to see me?”

“Don’t be so uncertain of yourself.”

“Are you kidding? I tried to kill Andrew, our Bishop.”

“And you were in drag at the time.”

“Who wouldn’t be uncertain about themselves in a case like this?”

Leanna seemed excited and happy for him. She leaned closer to the partition and said, “I wanted to ask you why you did it.”

“I’m telling you, I’m telling you, I’m telling you,” he said. “God is a universe and a wall. How many false alarms? How many more? How many bum steers?”

“Was there anything behind this but a lot of paranoid mental activity?”

English shrugged with open hands. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Don’t say that like that, Lenny. You’re sounding crazy again. Bishop Andrew had nothing to do with anything, right?”