Stanley Elkin - A Bad Man

He was a man in jail for a crime that technically he had not committed. And that made him a victim. Yet he did not feel like a victim, nor even particularly wronged. He did not find himself, as he supposed many here did, waiting expectantly for communiqués from his lawyers. He did not even particularly believe in his appeal, nor in second chances generally. Though he was a man who usually made first moves, there was a vast inertia in him which made it difficult for him to believe in changes, revolutions, upsettings, rectifications, undoings.

“Nothing doing,” he said aloud. It was as hard to get started on himself as it was to learn about the stars. (He wondered what was written about him in those records they kept.) In this prison, in this small cell no bigger than the rooms where he had slept out his childhood, guilt came as hard as righteousness.

When Feldman was not on his cot or in the dining hall, he was at his window watching the exercise yard. There, in the early afternoon, the men came randomly from the different buildings about the enormous yard to walk beneath the guns of the guards. Most moved about talking quietly in small groups, seemingly conspiratorial clusters. But others — even two floors above, Feldman sensed their ruthless energy — might almost have been men splashing naked in lakes. It excited him to watch them. Frequently one would bolt forward in a sudden passionate run. It was pathetic to see him turned by a wall or have to pull abruptly up as he came near the others. Another might stop where he was to jump violently in place for a few moments. One man was constantly winding up in frantic arcs, but nothing came out of his hand when he threw. And certain others would sink abruptly to their knees as though hit by bullets and then roll about on the ground.

The first time this happened Feldman looked instinctively to the guards who, though they had seen all that Feldman had, continued their careless, placid patrols along the walls. They did not seem to regard as important the sudden screams that tore from the throats of a few of the men like great flags of pain. Only later did Feldman realize that the guards never watched the groups at all, but concentrated instead on the seven or eight he had noticed.

They were, like himself, men in street clothes.

“We’re in business,” Feldman said softly. “Now. Now it comes.”

It did.

Two days later when Feldman returned from his noon meal there was a brown paper parcel on his cot. He unwrapped it quickly. Inside was a blue suit like the one he wore but of a vastly cheaper quality. He understood that these were to be his prison clothes. The thick rich wool of the original had been vulgarized into a thin cotton blend, but the color and cut and shape were enough like his own that except for the feel Feldman suspected that even he couldn’t tell them apart.

“The crooks,” he said, “they forged a suit.”

He tried it on. There was no mirror, but he knew something was wrong. He felt oddly unbalanced, almost as if he had just put on new eyeglasses. When he walked across the cell he was aware from how it felt — coming suddenly up against a trouser leg with his thigh, or feeling a shoulder slip slightly from under a plank of cloth, experiencing as he moved in it an almost orchestrated series of tugs, clingings, pulls and slacknesses — that it was not so much a copy of his suit as a clever parody of it.

He handled the pearl-gray buttons on the jacket. They were just too small for the buttonholes, which were just too large. On the sleeves, buttons big as watch crystals were sewn in a crooked line. He shoved one hand into a trouser pocket, blunting his fingers against its incredibly shallow bottom. On the other side the pocket was as deep as a third pants leg.

He found one of Bisch’s pencils and wrote a note to the warden:

I may be a bad man, but I am not a clown .

This he gave to a guard, requesting that it be shown to the warden.

Within an hour he had a reply:

Don’t be ridiculous. Every bad man is a clown. All evil is a joke. And vice versa. Don’t send me notes; we are not pen pals .

The guard came into the cell and confiscated Bisch’s pencils.

“They’re not mine,” Feldman said worriedly. “They’re Bisch’s. He’ll kill me.”

The guard shrugged and took the pencils.

That very night Bisch wanted to write a letter. “Where’s my pencil?” he asked darkly.

“The guard took your pencils,” Feldman said. It was the first conversation they had had since Feldman suggested that they draw straws.

“The guard’s got his own pencil,” Bisch said, grabbing Feldman’s suit. “He gets them from supply.”

It was very quiet. The men in the other cells had stopped talking. Feldman could sense them straining to listen. He thought of himself at the window.

“Where’s my pencil?” Bisch roared.

“Look,” Feldman said. “I’ve got a big department store. How would you like new pencils? A whole bunch of them.” Bisch loosened his hold on Feldman’s collar. He seemed interested. “And maybe a nice pencil box with special drawers?” Feldman said quickly, following up his advantage.

“Crayons?”

“Sure, crayons. Absolutely. Crayons.”

“Scissors?”

“You bet, scissors. Scissors it is.”

“Shit,” Bisch said, “they’d never let me have scissors in here.” He grabbed the suit again.

“No, no,” Feldman said, “these are blunt scissors. For a child.”

“What do you mean for a child?”

“No, not for a child. I don’t mean for a child. But a child could use them. Safety scissors! Look, for God’s sake, don’t touch me. I didn’t take your pencil. I used it for a minute to write a note. We’re cellmates. Guys in the same cell use each other’s pencils. I wrote a note to the warden and he got sore and the guard took them.”

“What’d you say in the note?” Bisch asked. “Was it about me? If it was about me—”

“I swear it wasn’t. Of course not. It was about me. I swear to God.”

“What’d you say?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It was about me.” He pulled Feldman closer to him.

“No,” Feldman said, terrified. “It was about me.”

“What did you say?”

“That I’m not a clown,” he said helplessly.

Suddenly there was laughter. The big hands released Feldman’s suit, and he sank weakly to the cot. All the men in the cellblock were laughing. Some guards had come in. They were laughing too. Bisch, choking, had tears in his eyes. He sat down heavily on the cot and wrapped his big arms around Feldman’s shoulders.

“ That I’m not a clown ,” he sputtered between fits of laughter. Inspired, he let go of Feldman’s shoulders and began to button the buttons of his suit coat. They tumbled out of the wide buttonholes.

“Pleased to meet you,” Bisch said when he had regained control of himself, “I’m your tailor.”

There was a second burst of laughter, like a round of applause.

Feldman slumped backwards, falling against his pillow.

“ALL RIGHT, LIGHTS OUT!”

Feldman lay in the dark with Bisch beside him. The man was still giggling. Feldman moved against the wall.

Bisch stood up and turned Feldman on his back. He leaned down and patted Feldman’s chest and went back to his own cot.

He knows about the homunculus. They’re going to kill me .

Feldman knew he had to get away from them. He was astonished to be contemplating escape. No, he thought. Solitary confinement, he thought. Could he be alone for a year? To stay alive? He’d be Robinson Crusoe. He would wait until Bisch was asleep. He could use his shoe. Heavy blows across the bridge of Bisch’s nose. Against the temples. Under the jaw, on the throat. What am I thinking of? he thought. They’d add to my sentence. Then it would be two years. Every few years they’d get me to do something else. I’d be here forever. That’s what he wants.