The five from last week: I swear, I have no idea where these things come from.
Right here I was going for my grandmother, double and triple checking her key in her front door, muttering "Is it locked? Is it locked? Is it locked?"
See what happens when you let your brain just roam around?
COMPULSIONS
Amy was standing in line at the grocery store in Tonopah when she felt that little sliver of worry in her gut. What had she forgotten? She yanked the list out of her right hand shorts pocket and eyeballed each item she’d put on the conveyor belt. Milk, check. OJ, check. Lunchmeat, yogurt, TP, sunscreen, ice – all there. She flipped the list over: two quarts of 30 weight oil and three flashlight batteries, (D’s).
She’d just have to go back; she didn’t want to stop again. Tahoe was still five hours away and she wanted to be there by dark. These days driving after dark made her jumpy – her depth perception wasn’t what it used to be and the oncoming headlights on the old narrow 95 highway seemed blurred.
Amy started to put stuff back into her basket and heard assorted grunts of exasperation from behind her. Four carts and several large families blocked her retreat. She set the milk and TP back down and sighed. She’d just have to go through twice, pay for this load and then go back.
But then she couldn’t leave the basket on the other side of check out -- no, someone would probably steal it. She’d have to take it out to the car and then come back.
Once she got to the car, she had to rearrange the cooler to fit the milk and OJ in. She dropped the ice bag on the asphalt to break it up so it would settle over all the food. Then she crumpled up the plastic bag, stuck it in the trash, and forgot to go back.
She was just outside Hawthorne on the swooping curves by Walker Lake, the alkaline water tugging at her when she remembered – batteries, three D, alkaline! And there was something else, what was it? It was on the list in her shorts pocket which she tried to dig out, but the pocket was deep and the seat belt was in her way. She un-clicked it and squirmed, wiggling her fingers down into the tight fabric, the car swerved a little. Where the hell was her list?
A big black pick up roared around her, his horn blaring, his fist pumping a digit at her. Another swerve, and he cut in front of her too fast. An eighteen wheeler thundered by them both. It was too much. She pumped the brakes and yanked her car off onto a little access road just ahead, coming to a stop right in front of a pit toilet. This was a good thing as she had to pee so badly -- but first she had to find the list.
Lifting her butt off the seat she still couldn’t wiggle her fingers deep enough into the pocket to find the list. So she wrenched the door open and flung herself out of the car. Finally! She held the list up in triumph and read the back: 2 quarts of 30 weight and three batteries. The wind off the lake snatched the list out of her hand and sent it soaring over the cliff in front of her.
She grabbed the pencil and post it pad she kept on the dash and muttered to herself: 2 quarts of 30 weight, 2 quarts of 30 weight as she sprinted to the toilet.
As she sat on the toilet peeing in a near state of bliss, she began her new list. Was that 3 quarts of 20 weight, or 2 of 30? And what was that other thing?
She could see the lake thru the slats in the door, oh yeah, Alkaline, batteries, three, D.
She put it on the list.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
I actually would like a plan, but what I get is this messy life.
WHAT PLAN?
Lately Jeff was always telling Rosie how disorganized she was.
Her fiancé: Mr. Anal, Mr. Bureaucrat couldn’t even go to the grocery store without meticulous planning. She could have handled a list, but mapping out which aisles to go down in advance was a new level of obsessive-ness.
God forbid something got put in the cart that wasn’t on the list. Sometimes she’d tuck bizarre things in there just to get a reaction out of him. Things like: baby pacifiers, a jar of pickled oysters, hemorrhoid pads, or Fixodent.
Five years ago they would have laughed at her choices but not now. He seemed to be clenching into himself more intensely lately, and she seemed to be purposely flinging herself into bedlam.
It’s true they’d always been an odd couple, being complete opposites, but there was an interesting symmetrical balance that made it work. She loosened his tension and ties, and he gave her a comforting stability to rely on and turn to. It was surprising even to them how well their relationship worked.
Today they’d hit a new low, perpetrated either by the global crises or the full moon. They’d both said unrecoverable words before he’d stalked out the front door to go to the mortgage seminar he’d signed them both up for, and she’d flung the surprise picnic she’d planned into the basket of her bike and pedaled it furiously down to the park.
Rosie intentionally spread her blanket in the direct sun, knowing the exact words Jeff would have to say about the dangers of UV exposure. Well, she wasn’t listening today – she was sick and tired of his lists and charts and damn reasoning. She tried to eat, but was still so upset, she could only manage half a chicken leg. She defiantly popped open the wine and drank almost 2 glasses before falling asleep on her stomach.
She woke up to some man’s hand on her shoulder and panicked. She thrashed over onto her back screaming for Jeff. Rosie almost smacked him in the face before she realized it was him. “Why aren’t you at the seminar?” she gasped.
He was kneeling in the damp grass in his white khakis. “Oh honey,” he said softly. “You’re bright red.”
She pointed to his knees, “You know that stain will never come out.” They looked at each other for a full minute, and then he pulled her to her knees and they both stood. Jeff picked up the picnic stuff and moved everything over to the shade of the big tree behind them. He flipped the blanket out and down, not even smoothing out the wrinkles.
“Any lunch left?” He asked.
“Yeah, but it’s been in the sun,” she said.
“That’s one of the best thermal coolers money can buy.” He smiled.
Two women were sitting on a bench a few trees over. One said, “Look how different they are.” And the other said, “That pair will never last.”
Little did they know.
WHAT PLAN?
Lately Jeff was always telling Rosie how disorganized she was.
Her fiancé: Mr. Anal, Mr. Bureaucrat couldn’t even go to the grocery store without meticulous planning. She could have handled a list, but mapping out which aisles to go down in advance was a new level of obsessive-ness.
God forbid something got put in the cart that wasn’t on the list. Sometimes she’d tuck bizarre things in there just to get a reaction out of him. Things like: baby pacifiers, a jar of pickled oysters, hemorrhoid pads, or Fixodent.
Five years ago they would have laughed at her choices but not now. He seemed to be clenching into himself more intensely lately, and she seemed to be purposely flinging herself into bedlam.
It’s true they’d always been an odd couple, being complete opposites, but there was an interesting symmetrical balance that made it work. She loosened his tension and ties, and he gave her a comforting stability to rely on and turn to. It was surprising even to them how well their relationship worked.
Today they’d hit a new low, perpetrated either by the global crises or the full moon. They’d both said unrecoverable words before he’d stalked out the front door to go to the mortgage seminar he’d signed them both up for, and she’d flung the surprise picnic she’d planned into the basket of her bike and pedaled it furiously down to the park.
Rosie intentionally spread her blanket in the direct sun, knowing the exact words Jeff would have to say about the dangers of UV exposure. Well, she wasn’t listening today – she was sick and tired of his lists and charts and damn reasoning. She tried to eat, but was still so upset, she could only manage half a chicken leg. She defiantly popped open the wine and drank almost 2 glasses before falling asleep on her stomach.
She woke up to some man’s hand on her shoulder and panicked. She thrashed over onto her back screaming for Jeff. Rosie almost smacked him in the face before she realized it was him. “Why aren’t you at the seminar?” she gasped.
He was kneeling in the damp grass in his white khakis. “Oh honey,” he said softly. “You’re bright red.”
She pointed to his knees, “You know that stain will never come out.” They looked at each other for a full minute, and then he pulled her to her knees and they both stood. Jeff picked up the picnic stuff and moved everything over to the shade of the big tree behind them. He flipped the blanket out and down, not even smoothing out the wrinkles.
“Any lunch left?” He asked.
“Yeah, but it’s been in the sun,” she said.
“That’s one of the best thermal coolers money can buy.” He smiled.
Two women were sitting on a bench a few trees over. One said, “Look how different they are.” And the other said, “That pair will never last.”
Little did they know.
Interesting what pops up, when the grid goes dark. What did they do at Stonehenge?
IN THE DARK
Carol sits in front of her computer screen checking her emails, part of her morning ritual. There’s one from her brother, there’s her daily horoscope (silly things but she reads them everyday – sometimes they make her laugh). Spam show up even though she has a filter. Ads for LL Bean, Ugg Australia, Amazon, places she’s bought something from trying to tempt her into buying more.
Delete, delete. The NY Times she keeps. She’ll scan it later for articles that interest her. She clicks on her bother’s name, leans back in her chair waiting for it to open, and suddenly the screen goes black. She jiggles the mouse, com’on, damnit. Did she hit the wrong key again? Then she notices the silence.
It takes her a minute to realize what is missing, that annoying whirr of the cheap ceiling fan over her desk. She looks up and sees the four blades frozen in mid rotation. The end of each blade curves gently down as if apologizing for their failure to spin. Reaching out to her desk lamp, she hits the switch, on, off, on, off – nothing. Must have blown a circuit breaker. She’ll have to go down into the basement to check which one.
When she walks down the hall to the top of the stairs she hears more silence. The AC duct isn’t wheezing around the filter. She reaches out and flips on the light switch at the top of the stairs and laughs. The powers off, you dummy. Carol glances into her bathroom. Built into the center of the house, with no windows, it’s always night in there. The stark white tub and toilet glow a bit.
She gets to the bottom of the stairs opens the basement door and reaches in to switch on the light. Funny how her hands and arms keep repeating the same automatic motions even though her brain knows it’s fruitless.
The basement is so dark, not one window, she’s always hated it, reminds her of an Edger Allan Poe pit. She’s forgotten the flashlight. Looking up to the top of the stairs, she thinks, there’s one on top of the oak bookcase in her office. Then she remembers a flashlight she left on the dresser down here last month, when she’d had to turn off the power to replace a burnt out plug. The red handled screwdriver and the pliers are probably still right next to it. She’s gotten lax about putting things away.
Carol stands in the doorway for a minute envisioning the exact placement of the dresser on the far wall across the huge room, must be fifty feet away. But she really doesn’t want to go up and down the stairs again. Taking a deep breath she strides out into the room, forgetting how quickly the basement door will slam shut by itself. It sounds like a tomb. God, she really has to get Poe out of her head.
She’s halfway across the room now, knowing this because she’s just slammed her thigh into the big oval table. She feels her way along the edge of it, gasping. Okay, here’s the last chair. Carol sticks her arms straight out in front of her and lurches towards the dresser. Her arms hit the wall before her right foot bangs painfully into the dresser. Standing there in the dark, she clutches the top of it almost sobbing. More deep breaths and then she can grope for the flashlight.
She switches it on, pitifully grateful for the faint light, and here’s the screwdriver and pliers right where she’d left them. Yanking open the metal breaker box, she checks every breaker and they’re all fine, so it must be a power outage. Closing the metal door harder than necessary, she walks across the room to the door.
Leaning her hip firmly into the door handle, Carol flicks off the light and allows herself a moment to remember why she hates the dark.
Five years old and locked in a closet by the babysitter for being a Bad Girl. A fifteen minute time-out that had turned into hours before her parents came home and found the babysitter in their bed with her boyfriend and Carol terrorized in the closet. She’d peed her pants but hadn’t screamed. Good girls didn’t scream.
With the door handle still anchoring her; she lets her self scream now. It was the only good thing for her about the basement. She could scream all she wanted to and nobody could hear her. Maybe one day her five year old would be all screamed out.
Then she opened the basement door and climbed the stairs up into the light to call the power company.
IN THE DARK
Carol sits in front of her computer screen checking her emails, part of her morning ritual. There’s one from her brother, there’s her daily horoscope (silly things but she reads them everyday – sometimes they make her laugh). Spam show up even though she has a filter. Ads for LL Bean, Ugg Australia, Amazon, places she’s bought something from trying to tempt her into buying more.
Delete, delete. The NY Times she keeps. She’ll scan it later for articles that interest her. She clicks on her bother’s name, leans back in her chair waiting for it to open, and suddenly the screen goes black. She jiggles the mouse, com’on, damnit. Did she hit the wrong key again? Then she notices the silence.
It takes her a minute to realize what is missing, that annoying whirr of the cheap ceiling fan over her desk. She looks up and sees the four blades frozen in mid rotation. The end of each blade curves gently down as if apologizing for their failure to spin. Reaching out to her desk lamp, she hits the switch, on, off, on, off – nothing. Must have blown a circuit breaker. She’ll have to go down into the basement to check which one.
When she walks down the hall to the top of the stairs she hears more silence. The AC duct isn’t wheezing around the filter. She reaches out and flips on the light switch at the top of the stairs and laughs. The powers off, you dummy. Carol glances into her bathroom. Built into the center of the house, with no windows, it’s always night in there. The stark white tub and toilet glow a bit.
She gets to the bottom of the stairs opens the basement door and reaches in to switch on the light. Funny how her hands and arms keep repeating the same automatic motions even though her brain knows it’s fruitless.
The basement is so dark, not one window, she’s always hated it, reminds her of an Edger Allan Poe pit. She’s forgotten the flashlight. Looking up to the top of the stairs, she thinks, there’s one on top of the oak bookcase in her office. Then she remembers a flashlight she left on the dresser down here last month, when she’d had to turn off the power to replace a burnt out plug. The red handled screwdriver and the pliers are probably still right next to it. She’s gotten lax about putting things away.
Carol stands in the doorway for a minute envisioning the exact placement of the dresser on the far wall across the huge room, must be fifty feet away. But she really doesn’t want to go up and down the stairs again. Taking a deep breath she strides out into the room, forgetting how quickly the basement door will slam shut by itself. It sounds like a tomb. God, she really has to get Poe out of her head.
She’s halfway across the room now, knowing this because she’s just slammed her thigh into the big oval table. She feels her way along the edge of it, gasping. Okay, here’s the last chair. Carol sticks her arms straight out in front of her and lurches towards the dresser. Her arms hit the wall before her right foot bangs painfully into the dresser. Standing there in the dark, she clutches the top of it almost sobbing. More deep breaths and then she can grope for the flashlight.
She switches it on, pitifully grateful for the faint light, and here’s the screwdriver and pliers right where she’d left them. Yanking open the metal breaker box, she checks every breaker and they’re all fine, so it must be a power outage. Closing the metal door harder than necessary, she walks across the room to the door.
Leaning her hip firmly into the door handle, Carol flicks off the light and allows herself a moment to remember why she hates the dark.
Five years old and locked in a closet by the babysitter for being a Bad Girl. A fifteen minute time-out that had turned into hours before her parents came home and found the babysitter in their bed with her boyfriend and Carol terrorized in the closet. She’d peed her pants but hadn’t screamed. Good girls didn’t scream.
With the door handle still anchoring her; she lets her self scream now. It was the only good thing for her about the basement. She could scream all she wanted to and nobody could hear her. Maybe one day her five year old would be all screamed out.
Then she opened the basement door and climbed the stairs up into the light to call the power company.
Somedays, is it even worth getting out of bed?
WHAT'S WORTH THE RISK?
Richard lay flat on his back in his bed – some part of him knowing it was morning, but unwilling to open his eyes to confirm it. Some days were like that.
Maybe he shouldn’t have watched the late news before turning in, too much gloom and despair to take to bed with him. Snippets of it replayed behind his eyes: Putin’s skinny head, Madoff’s piggy eyes and little pursed mouth saying I’m sorry, who cares?
Wall Street’s melting into the gutters of New York and no one honest enough to say the D word. The latest suicide bomber’s smoking truck; was Richard the only one who saw the broken Beamer emblem on its hood? Bombers driving Beamers, what next?
Richard popped his eyes open and saw a wonderfully ordinary pale blue sky just outside his bedroom window. He arched his back and stretched, his arthritic old knees giving two little pops. Then he sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His right foot landed on Ralph’s tail and the little terrier gave out a yap of annoyance. Richard moved his foot and apologized, “Sorry buddy.”
The he got up and walked into the bathroom to pee. He turned the tap on, washed his hands and scooped cool water on his face three or four times, it felt so good.
He could hear the old Mr. Coffee machine pohp, pohp, pohpping the last bit of his morning coffee into the pot. He wiped his hands and face off and went to get a cup.
The old gray tomcat, Max, sat waiting for him at the back door, he knew the routine. Richard snagged his coffee cup, his glasses, and his book and opened the back door.
Then he and Max went out into the new day.
WHAT'S WORTH THE RISK?
Richard lay flat on his back in his bed – some part of him knowing it was morning, but unwilling to open his eyes to confirm it. Some days were like that.
Maybe he shouldn’t have watched the late news before turning in, too much gloom and despair to take to bed with him. Snippets of it replayed behind his eyes: Putin’s skinny head, Madoff’s piggy eyes and little pursed mouth saying I’m sorry, who cares?
Wall Street’s melting into the gutters of New York and no one honest enough to say the D word. The latest suicide bomber’s smoking truck; was Richard the only one who saw the broken Beamer emblem on its hood? Bombers driving Beamers, what next?
Richard popped his eyes open and saw a wonderfully ordinary pale blue sky just outside his bedroom window. He arched his back and stretched, his arthritic old knees giving two little pops. Then he sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His right foot landed on Ralph’s tail and the little terrier gave out a yap of annoyance. Richard moved his foot and apologized, “Sorry buddy.”
The he got up and walked into the bathroom to pee. He turned the tap on, washed his hands and scooped cool water on his face three or four times, it felt so good.
He could hear the old Mr. Coffee machine pohp, pohp, pohpping the last bit of his morning coffee into the pot. He wiped his hands and face off and went to get a cup.
The old gray tomcat, Max, sat waiting for him at the back door, he knew the routine. Richard snagged his coffee cup, his glasses, and his book and opened the back door.
Then he and Max went out into the new day.
I keep asking myself, will I ever be done with this?
NARROW ESCAPE
“It was a narrow escape,” I think. “You could be her,” I say to my self. And the horrifying consequences of me becoming my sister are known only within my head.
Resonating there inside me are a million little pictures that support the word ‘horrifying’, but I could write all day and you’d never see the half of them. I believe that I am not alone in this.
How many other women drag along behind them a toy wagon full of un-shareable memories? Mine is a Radio Flyer red wagon heaped with pictures of my dysfunctional family.
And as the years have passed, I’ve accumulated more wagons and rusted shopping carts to accommodate the mounting memories. That clanking I hear is the chains that join this bizarre train, that screaking protest is their over loaded wheels.
I’ve forgotten exactly when I tied this antiquated train to myself, but the sturdy rope I used is now frayed. I stop for a moment, straighten up, and the rope falls to my feet.
I narrowly escape my childhood – yet again.
NARROW ESCAPE
“It was a narrow escape,” I think. “You could be her,” I say to my self. And the horrifying consequences of me becoming my sister are known only within my head.
Resonating there inside me are a million little pictures that support the word ‘horrifying’, but I could write all day and you’d never see the half of them. I believe that I am not alone in this.
How many other women drag along behind them a toy wagon full of un-shareable memories? Mine is a Radio Flyer red wagon heaped with pictures of my dysfunctional family.
And as the years have passed, I’ve accumulated more wagons and rusted shopping carts to accommodate the mounting memories. That clanking I hear is the chains that join this bizarre train, that screaking protest is their over loaded wheels.
I’ve forgotten exactly when I tied this antiquated train to myself, but the sturdy rope I used is now frayed. I stop for a moment, straighten up, and the rope falls to my feet.
I narrowly escape my childhood – yet again.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
These next five are from last week. I've posted them in the order they were written, as they are all about the same family, a different character's viewpoint/life each day.
A strange, interesting, Fun writing experience. Enjoy!
EXCUSES
It isn’t that Cory doesn’t know right from wrong. God knows his father drummed that into him plenty of times before he left. Of course when the boy got too big to bend over his knee, he’d take that chair out into the far end of the back yard, under that elm, and make him hang onto the ladder back of it while he stripped off his belt.
But he didn’t just whip him for the fun of it, no sir. All the long walk out there and clear through the whole thing he would talk to Cory in the calmest voice explaining what wrong the boy had done and why he must take his licks like a man. Always told him how many lashes he was to get and why, and never raised his voice or cursed either.
Now I believe in that saying, “spare the rod and spoil the child” as much as my husband Bill did, but after awhile I just couldn’t witness it anymore like Bill said I should. Though even if I was in the living room with the vacuum and the radio going full blast; I could still hear every one of those lashes. That’s when I would pray out loud for mercy and forgiveness. Hallelujah!
It wasn’t until Bill left and the father’s duty fell to me that things started going so bad. So I guess that you could say it’s partly my fault. Those first few times Cory got into trouble I really did try to discipline him like his daddy would have, but I just couldn’t pick up that belt. So I sat him down here in the kitchen and tried talking to him. He listened at first, but then he started tipping that chair back on its hind legs and chewing on a toothpick, not meeting my eyes.
Pretty soon he wouldn’t even sit down when I told him we had to talk. He’d just lean his elbows on the top of that chair ladder back and kind of grin at me. I have to say I didn’t care for that grin at all. He was eighteen when he ran off for good, and by that time he was much too grown for me to have been able to stop him.
Now you come here and tell me that my Cory has committed some terrible crime and will probably be living out the rest of his life in the state pen. How can you tell me such awful things about my only child? No matter what you say, I know that he is still my sweet boy. You can tell him for me that I will always love him.
You make sure you tell him that from me you hear?
A strange, interesting, Fun writing experience. Enjoy!
EXCUSES
It isn’t that Cory doesn’t know right from wrong. God knows his father drummed that into him plenty of times before he left. Of course when the boy got too big to bend over his knee, he’d take that chair out into the far end of the back yard, under that elm, and make him hang onto the ladder back of it while he stripped off his belt.
But he didn’t just whip him for the fun of it, no sir. All the long walk out there and clear through the whole thing he would talk to Cory in the calmest voice explaining what wrong the boy had done and why he must take his licks like a man. Always told him how many lashes he was to get and why, and never raised his voice or cursed either.
Now I believe in that saying, “spare the rod and spoil the child” as much as my husband Bill did, but after awhile I just couldn’t witness it anymore like Bill said I should. Though even if I was in the living room with the vacuum and the radio going full blast; I could still hear every one of those lashes. That’s when I would pray out loud for mercy and forgiveness. Hallelujah!
It wasn’t until Bill left and the father’s duty fell to me that things started going so bad. So I guess that you could say it’s partly my fault. Those first few times Cory got into trouble I really did try to discipline him like his daddy would have, but I just couldn’t pick up that belt. So I sat him down here in the kitchen and tried talking to him. He listened at first, but then he started tipping that chair back on its hind legs and chewing on a toothpick, not meeting my eyes.
Pretty soon he wouldn’t even sit down when I told him we had to talk. He’d just lean his elbows on the top of that chair ladder back and kind of grin at me. I have to say I didn’t care for that grin at all. He was eighteen when he ran off for good, and by that time he was much too grown for me to have been able to stop him.
Now you come here and tell me that my Cory has committed some terrible crime and will probably be living out the rest of his life in the state pen. How can you tell me such awful things about my only child? No matter what you say, I know that he is still my sweet boy. You can tell him for me that I will always love him.
You make sure you tell him that from me you hear?
FAMILY
Cory sat on the edge of his bunk in the county jail cell, alone, and thankful for it. One bad thing about living a life of crime, as his truant officer had so often told him, was being locked up. But worse than that, as Cory knew from experience, was that you had no say so in who they locked you up with.
He looked at the cell across from his and thought it was a mercy that it was empty. He wouldn’t have to watch some brute take a dump in the toilet in the center of the cell, or feel some pervert’s eyes all over him, or listen to any steady stream of shit coming out of a hard-timer’s mouth.
There were eight more cells in this block and though he couldn’t see the other inmates, he could hear grunts and farts, toilets flushing and an occasional slap of skin on skin that he didn’t want to think about. He sang “Yes, Jesus loves me,” in a whisper to cover over the noises and move his mind to a better place.
The trustee came onto the floor with the chow cart amidst a clatter of keys, doors slamming, jangle of spoons and trays. The wheels of the cart needed several shots of WD-40 to stop their shriek. The cart stopped in front of Cory’s cell and the trustee slapped a metal tray down on the concrete and shoved it with his foot under the bars and into the cell. Didn’t even look up.
Then he pushed the cart on down, not stopping at the next cell door. Cory listened for the shriek of the cart, slap and scrape of the trays and counted them. Two men in the next two cells, and one in the end, one in each of the last two cells on the other side.
One thing he’d learned in jail was to listen; the other was to keep his mouth shut. First time he was in Juvi, he’d got the ABC’s of both from the eighteen year old toughs who bragged that next time they took a fall they wouldn’t get stuck in kiddie court. They’d go to a real jail and not have to listen to any snot-nosed babies wailing for their mothers. Well, this was Cory’s third time in county and he couldn’t see any glamour in it. Locked up is locked up.
The first time he’d got off because some rookie cop fresh out of training had forgotten to read him his rights, and had bungled the evidence. Tripped on a rock and lost the whole bag of dope down the sewer drain.
Second time, he was on the front side of twenty, still nineteen and scared shitless to do any real time. Lucky for him that judge sounded just like his daddy out under the elm with his belt in his hand, so serious and righteous like the wrath of God. Cory went into some kind of trance and answered just like his daddy’d taught him: take his licks like a man, apologize fervently, and look as humble as he could manage. The judge gave him that same sorrowful, “this hurts me more than it hurts you” look and gave him forty hours of community service and probation. Hallelujah!
Now he was almost twenty-one and a third timer to boot, he didn’t feel so lucky. He was older, not necessarily wiser, but at least knew the game. When the deputy came to get him for his court appearance Cory shuffled along next to him and recited the words every inmate memorizes. “I know my rights. I got a phone call coming and a court appointed lawyer.” The he added, “I have the right to remain silent, remember that.”
All the deputy said was, “I wish you would.”
Cory sat on the edge of his bunk in the county jail cell, alone, and thankful for it. One bad thing about living a life of crime, as his truant officer had so often told him, was being locked up. But worse than that, as Cory knew from experience, was that you had no say so in who they locked you up with.
He looked at the cell across from his and thought it was a mercy that it was empty. He wouldn’t have to watch some brute take a dump in the toilet in the center of the cell, or feel some pervert’s eyes all over him, or listen to any steady stream of shit coming out of a hard-timer’s mouth.
There were eight more cells in this block and though he couldn’t see the other inmates, he could hear grunts and farts, toilets flushing and an occasional slap of skin on skin that he didn’t want to think about. He sang “Yes, Jesus loves me,” in a whisper to cover over the noises and move his mind to a better place.
The trustee came onto the floor with the chow cart amidst a clatter of keys, doors slamming, jangle of spoons and trays. The wheels of the cart needed several shots of WD-40 to stop their shriek. The cart stopped in front of Cory’s cell and the trustee slapped a metal tray down on the concrete and shoved it with his foot under the bars and into the cell. Didn’t even look up.
Then he pushed the cart on down, not stopping at the next cell door. Cory listened for the shriek of the cart, slap and scrape of the trays and counted them. Two men in the next two cells, and one in the end, one in each of the last two cells on the other side.
One thing he’d learned in jail was to listen; the other was to keep his mouth shut. First time he was in Juvi, he’d got the ABC’s of both from the eighteen year old toughs who bragged that next time they took a fall they wouldn’t get stuck in kiddie court. They’d go to a real jail and not have to listen to any snot-nosed babies wailing for their mothers. Well, this was Cory’s third time in county and he couldn’t see any glamour in it. Locked up is locked up.
The first time he’d got off because some rookie cop fresh out of training had forgotten to read him his rights, and had bungled the evidence. Tripped on a rock and lost the whole bag of dope down the sewer drain.
Second time, he was on the front side of twenty, still nineteen and scared shitless to do any real time. Lucky for him that judge sounded just like his daddy out under the elm with his belt in his hand, so serious and righteous like the wrath of God. Cory went into some kind of trance and answered just like his daddy’d taught him: take his licks like a man, apologize fervently, and look as humble as he could manage. The judge gave him that same sorrowful, “this hurts me more than it hurts you” look and gave him forty hours of community service and probation. Hallelujah!
Now he was almost twenty-one and a third timer to boot, he didn’t feel so lucky. He was older, not necessarily wiser, but at least knew the game. When the deputy came to get him for his court appearance Cory shuffled along next to him and recited the words every inmate memorizes. “I know my rights. I got a phone call coming and a court appointed lawyer.” The he added, “I have the right to remain silent, remember that.”
All the deputy said was, “I wish you would.”
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