Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

I wait for my suit in a cheerfully clean, cream-coloured coffee place in a shopping district. It seems surreal that right now I am here and tomorrow I will be incarcerated. I drink my tiny cappuccino, my pinky raised.

I watch the fat tourists going in and out of high-end shops. Small packages. They can only afford wallets, scarves, belts. But they seem happy. When they come out, their eyes are feverish. Fuck it, they’ve got credit cards. They can always take on some extra shifts! You only live once! In contrast, the expensively bored cuntpets of rich men – women who can afford everything – look miserable. Massive parcels. The bigger the unhappiness, the bigger the parcels.

I watch the older ones with stretched, pinched faces – veterans of diets and loneliness. The younger ones trot on legs like needles, expertly not tripping over their fluffy white dogs, one bony hand clutching plastic bags packed with tiny doggie turds, the other hand wrapped around enormous cups full of zero-calorie froth. Many of these women are too skinny to fuck. I cannot imagine myself fucking them.

I order another coffee. There’s a new girl behind the counter. She’s got dark skin, a big ass.

“Oh my god, you look like that actor,” she says.

“My wife said the same thing. That’s how we met.”

She shows her bottom teeth. “Cool.”

I try to jerk off twice in the toilet. I imagine the coffee girl sitting on my face. The sweet, musky smell of her. My tongue in her ass. Her disgusted face as I try to kiss her afterwards. I’m half-erect. I can’t get myself inspired.

Later on, I try on my new Paul Smith wool suit. The colour is called anthracite , which is coal, which means black. It’s a black suit; the suit is black. The sales clerk claps his hands. I’m not irritated by this. I want to clap as well. I look great. I take a picture in the mirror and send it to Henri, my old shopping consultant. He sends back a picture of himself giving a thumbs-up.

I wish I could send a picture to Em. Look, Em. Your man. Such a beautiful man with perfect skin. What a nice body. All of it contoured into this fine suit. A perfect male form, perfectly useless now. Look. All for you.

WHEN WE’RE NOT WORKING WE CAN WATCH TV. WE GET CABLE here. We watch the news. One inmate’s wife was gunned down on the outside. He first found out about it on the news.

We get newspapers. There are computers although there is no Internet. We get board games. The board games are almost as popular as getting high in here.

You can ask for sketchbooks and crayons. It’s good for us. Each request is assessed on its own merits and according to a list of approved items. There are carefully monitored cell inventories. My cell is always impeccable. I don’t abuse my privileges. I don’t get high. I behave when I’m in the shop. I blank, emboss and finish licence plates. I behave during roll call, in the kitchen, cleaning cells, working out at the gym.

I don’t pace here. I’m good at being locked down. If I get anxious, I do sit-ups and push-ups. When I’m not anxious, I read or watch TV. This is how I come across the Tarantino film Kill Bill . I’ve never seen it. It was quite a big deal back when it first came out. I wish I had seen it.

It’s a violent movie. I don’t know why we’re allowed to watch it. Maybe because it’s funny -violent. Heads flying off, swords slicing off arms, ha ha ha. A slapstick of splattering blood. I don’t care for that stuff. Yet I’m drawn to it because of the lead, played by Uma Thurman. The lead is a sweat-soaked, nostril-pumping character named Bride. She kills her former colleagues and her former boss and lover, Bill (played by David Carradine), who tried to kill her in the past.

Before Bill dies, they forgive each other. I laugh out loud when I figure it out. Bride. The granny rapist next to me shouts to “shut the fuck up” and I shut the fuck up because I suddenly don’t feel like laughing at all.

“She was so beautiful in it, wasn’t she?” Em says. “I watched that movie after a difficult breakup and it really helped.”

“You said you’ve never been in love.”

“That’s right. I wasn’t in love. I was just annoyed at having been dumped. That’s all.” She shifts in her chair. Yawns. Raises her arms quickly to stretch, shakes her head at the guard who starts walking up to us. “Everything okay?”

The guard likes her, I can tell. The guard looks like one of those guys in PUA basements. I can tell he’s having trouble getting women. I can picture him sweating discreetly, trying to impress her, listing his accomplishments. He enjoys going to the movies. He peaked in high school.

“Everything’s okay,” she says softly.

(When I first sat down, I watched her closely. I assumed this was her first time in a prison visiting room. I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. I had words of support ready: Just pretend this is a movie . But her face was all indifference behind black-framed glasses. What kind of person isn’t anxious about visiting prison for the first time? At the other end of the room, an inmate lunged at the woman sitting opposite him. The guards shouted, swarmed the table. He didn’t fight the guards. They walked him out of the room. Em took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with her sleeve.)

“Everything’s okay,” I say.

The guard walks away. His body stiffens. He tries to make himself look bigger. She’s not looking at him. She drums on the table with her fingers. Her hard nails are shiny and red. The red matches her outfit. She gives me a quick, forced smile.

I smile back. “You look great.”

“Oh yeah?” she says.

Her hair is dyed dark blond; it’s shoulder-length. It’s hair used to being outside in the sun. Possibly used to having fingers woven through it. I try very hard not to ask. Is someone doing that? Waving his sausage fingers through her hair?

She’s heavier now. The pounds sit on her bones, weighing her down, making her seem hunched. She’s too skinny to handle being this fat.

She’s wearing a bright red dress. She must be wearing it to divert attention from her tired face. The colour does exactly the opposite, making her seem older. It’s an unusual colour to wear in here. Most visitors try to be anonymous. The two of us must look like some weird Halloween decoration. An orange squash and a tomato in the bland, white room.

“You don’t get the Internet here? It was all over the celeb sites. Your girl has retired,” she says.

“Who?”

“$isi. She has a blog now. It’s all about cancer. But it’s all good news, don’t freak out. Her treatment is working. But she’s done with music. Too bad.”

“Too bad,” I say, but I feel immense relief. Almost euphoric relief. As if I’d been forgiven.

“You really okay?” she says after we don’t talk for a while. This is fine, not talking. It’s more than doing something romantic like sitting and holding hands together and talking. If you can be silent together, that’s a good sign.

“I’m really okay. You?”

“Okay too. Really. Busy. Finished making my first audio for a movie. It was stressful. I shouldn’t complain.”

“What’s the film about?”

“Nothing you’d find especially sexy. But it’s about music, so it’s a bit up your alley. I’ll try to remember to mail it to you when it’s done.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“I really am.”

“You don’t need to be proud of me. I’ve got people to be proud of me,” she says a bit too loudly. “Sorry. God. That’s not what I meant.”