It seems the ideal for writers these days involves a capture of the human condition. The following story does not. It is mishmash, borrowed, cliche caricature of the prison existence. Do not critique, just read. Next time, I'll have an encapsulation of human truth. Entertain yourself and read on. The stars mark a turning point but you can't choose your own adventure this time.
The Noises of Nighttime
The cold cell was dark. Through the bars eerie noise resounded; a night guard making the rounds, careless and stupid, pausing to scratch his piggy ass, turning his head from the tortures of prison. The Aryans raped the blacks; the blacks raped the Aryans. The Muslims kept to themselves but every once in a while they raped the Italians. Nobody messed with the Mexicans. Cliques, divided into cells—the din every night was muffled but present. Creeping, secret gang warfare continued in darkness.
Richard shivered and stared at the bunk perched above him. It was empty, for the time being, but any day it could be filled with a hulking body. A psychopath waiting to get ‘im a bitch. A grunt of pain reached Richard’s ear and his eyes squeezed tight. He hadn’t slept since he arrived. He was afraid of his dreams, afraid of night cell change and pains in the ass. The air in the cell was stale and suffocating. He knew what it was like to never feel safe, like a roach in a box, tortured by children. Two days had passed in his 10 year sentence. He kept his eyes closed and whimpered.
A guard clanked the bars and yelled, “Wake the fuck up, breakfast time!” Morning grunts filled the cavernous prison. Richard stood next to the bars, back to the walkway as the door slid open. He stepped out, one foot at a time, and lined up with his head down. The queue shuffled along to the canteen. Richard kept his eyes on the floor, avoiding the glares of the murders and thieves that wanted a taste of his freshness. In the grub line they served up some slop: a grey gooey mass of cardboard and sawdust, flavored with salt. The drinks and dry crusts were no better. It filled you up quick and fueled you to work—that was the point. He exited, shuffling his feet as bigger men brushed past. One shoved him down and his food splashed the ground.
“What you gonna do about it?” a voice asked above. Richard crouched on the ground and said nothing. The voice gave a snort and wandered away. Rich waited, shock still, counting to thir-ty marsh-mellow before chancing a move. His gruel had dust in it now.
At every table frowns dared him to sit; at others, leering smiles invited the new bitch with pats on empty seats. He walked to the end and sat by himself on a small plastic stool at a fixed metal table. Richard was a diminutive man, scrawny and white, with thick curly hair. He had dazzling blue eyes that feared contact with others. At least in this place. He played with the slop and pushed it away in disgust. Instead he turned to the bread, which he was sure was impossible to destroy. It made his mouth dry but was still tasty. He started to calm down as the food filled his belly. Suddenly, he was surrounded by men.
On his right was a fat man with a bald, wrinkled head and squinting eyes. He had thick coke bottle glasses. On his left was midget with forearms like calves, a pointed goatee and a tattoo of a nude woman who danced on his neck. In front sat a stick with a shaved head and large protuberant eyes. His face was greasy and his teeth were brown. Richard looked from man to man, fearing the worst.
“Hi,” said the stick, twitching his cheek. “I’m Charlie. These are my buddies Bruno and Maleigh.” He had a sharp, piercing voice, which carried like a rock through the air.
He was a rat, Richard thought. Looked like a rat.
Bruno, the fat one, showed his unusually white teeth. Maleigh reached up and patted Rich on the shoulder.
“What are you in for?” rumbled Bruno.
Richard thought about lying but decided the guys weren’t out to get him.
“I’m in for racketeering.”
“You’re innocent too right?” asked Maleigh in a high mocking voice.
Richard nodded and the group started laughing.
“Bruno here stole too many cars. I smuggled drugs,” said Charlie. He looked like a drug addict. “We’re also innocent.”
“What about you?” Richard asked Maleigh.
“I was a pimp!” he squeaked.
Bruno and Charlie laughed again.
“So racketeering. Were you in the mob or something like that?” Maleigh asked.
“I was a cook. I owned a number of restaurants. Then I got into trouble with the mob. I took out a loan I couldn’t pay back so they converted one of my shops into a headquarters and started to run their,”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, I just asked what you did,” Maleigh said, shaking his head. “A cook huh? Maybe you could help us out in the kitchen.”
“Yeah I could do that,” he agreed.
“Listen,” said Charlie, “we know you’re new here, so let me tell you how things work. It’s a miracle you’re still alive. The rules of prison are dog eat dog, either you beat the shit out of someone on the first day or you become someone’s bitch. You did neither, and everyone wants a piece of you. Think they didn’t notice the minute you walked in? You have bitch written all over. But it seems like we’re in a kind of an…equilibrium.” Charlie flashed his rotting teeth. “Like the three stooges, all trying to get in the door at the same time. Too many gangs, no one can make a move! You’re the lucky lynchpin, you might even slip under the radar. What was your name again?”
Richard hesitated before answering.
“Come on, play nice,” said Maleigh.
“Richard. But my friends call me Rich sometimes too, and”
“You don’t have any friends Richard. No one really has friends here. Except maybe us. You wanna be friends?”
Bruno stuck his hand out and pouted his lip.
“What are you going to do to me?” asked Richard.
“We like to have fun.” Charlie said.
Richard was sore all afternoon. He clutched his sides and gasped for air as a new wave of laughter shortened his breath. “No more, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.”
All three of his friends were in stitches.
“Fuck!” Charlie yelled with a smile. “What kinda hand is this?! Don’t give me these hands Richy, I’ll throw you to the Mexicans.”
Rich wiped a tear and hiccupped a giggle. He puffed on a thin, hand-rolled cigarette and dealt the next hand. He was getting used to Charlie’s abuse. Poker games, smoking, and practical jokes. That’s all these guys did between work shifts.
“They call us the Misfits,” Charlie said on the way to the kitchen. “That’s cus we don’t belong to anyone. Not Italian, not racist, not nothing. We’re all alike; we came in unnoticed and stay that way. Plus we have special relationship with the Warden. He lets us do what we want cus we keep down the violence. See, working in the kitchen gives us access to all the incoming food. A lot of times, thanks to connections, that food has extra goodies hidden in it. Smokes, books, gum, flashlights,”
“Condoms,” piped Maleigh.
“Condoms, yeah for the queers, liquor sometimes, almost anything anyone wants, we can get. Then it’s just a matter of serving it up with the grub. We’re distributors. Keeps the inmates calm. ‘Course the Warden knows all about it, he lets it fly cus he gets a bit on the side. Some formerly rich people in the slammer, lot of money to be made.”
“It’s our protection,” said Bruno. “Nobody wants to get on our bad side since we’ll cut ‘em off if they do.”
“We like you Rich,” said Charlie, slapping his back. “Something about you. We think you’re lucky too.”
Bruno and Maleigh nodded agreement.
Rich grinned and turned up his cards to reveal a full house.
“Mother fucker!” screamed Charlie.
Richard’s cell remained single for weeks. After meals he followed Bruno or Charlie to help them pull a new trick. Their favorite was putting grape Jell-O in somebody’s toilet; they’d usually just throw it through bars on their way back from lunch and let it set. When a guy tried to crap it just sat there and stank, on top of the Jello-O; usually the guards punished the inmate for trying to make shit flavored Jell-O. By pulling the pranks all at random they avoided the wrath of any group. Everyone got a laugh.
Richard signed up to work in the kitchen and Charlie put in a good word. A few days after applying the Warden called Richard into his office. A guard stood at the door and cuffed Rich before letting him into the room. The office was dusty but large. The Warden sat at a big wooden desk, covered in pen holders, note pads, paperclips, and folders. At his back was a large plate glass window. He wore sharp, angry look on his face. His nose hid a Hitler moustache and his comb over looked like it took hours to comb.
“So I hear you’re a cook?” he asked. His cadence was clipped and accusatory.
“Yes sir,” replied Richard.
“You wanna work in the kitchen?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well you gotta prove yourself first,” said the Warden. “If you’re good enough you’ll cook for me too. If you aren’t, I’ll throw you in solitary for a week just for asking to work in our kitchen!”
Richard swallowed and nodded. The Warden stood up; he was as tall as Richard. He stepped off the two phonebooks hidden under his desk and was a foot shorter than Richard. The Warden’s suit looked like body armor from all the starch. A silver revolver hung from his belt. He walked to a side table covered with a sheet. He turned to face Richard and pulled off the sheet with dramatic flair. Underneath was a portable skillet, a spatula, a knife, an assortment of ingredients, and a bottle of water.
“COOK!” screamed the Warden.
Richard ambled over and turned on the skillet. He threw some of the butter on a pan and started preparing the chicken. The Warden moved back to his table, stepped onto the phonebooks and watched with his hands behind his back.
Richard closed his eyes and inhaled. The smell of the butter melting with onions and garlic was cleansing. He started to chop and mix, stuffing the chicken and flipping it gracefully with the old plastic spatula. He threw in flairs and flips of his knife as he made a rich sauce to pour in the pan. The chicken was skinned and then seared on the skillet. Smoke blossomed upward and he deftly switched out the meat with the sauce. The Warden stood still and wriggled his moustache. Rich pulled out a plate from under a carrot and garnished it with bit of green from the root of a lettuce. Next to the green he put the juicy chicken, swimming in buttery, savory sauce. It steamed and filled the room with scent of a restraint. The Warden dropped his demeanor and dove in. It was the second best thing he’d ever tasted.
“This is incredible. Only my mom could cook better than this and that’s with the finest ingredients! And so minimalist. I didn’t give to shit to work with and you cooked up Monet!”
Richard didn’t get the analogy but smiled and bowed anyway.
“Okay then,” the Warden said between mouthfuls of chicken. “You’ll get your kitchen job. But you’re also to cook for me five meals a week. I’ll get the ingredients you want and you’ll make it here in the office. You get three fuck ups. You burn my bread and that counts as one. You do it three times and you’re down in the laundry room with the sodomites. You keep this up and you’ll get extra perks. Like getting to stay in that one-person Marriot instead of down in the cellar with the sodomites. You hear me? The sodomites!”
“Thanks Warden,” said Richard.
A guard led him back to the Marriot.
***
At lunch the next day the Misfits convened and chatted over the din of the inmates. Maleigh made Richard tell the story three times.
“This is perfect,” Bruno said.
“I know,” replied Richard, “isn’t it great? I’ve been here less than two months and I’m already on top.”
Charlie looked a Bruno and sighed.
“No dipshit, this is perfect because you’re close to the Warden now,” said Charlie.
“What do you mean?” asked Richard.
“He means you’re going to kill the Warden, Richard.” said Maleigh.
Richard dropped his fork. “What?!” he whispered, trying to keep his voice down. “Like hell I am. I’m not killing anyone.”
Bruno, Maleigh, and Charlie stood up at once.
“You don’t kill him and you can kiss our protection goodbye. It doesn’t matter how well you can cook, no ones going to look out for you if we tell them not to. You’ll be torn up like a piece of shit in a blender. You’ll be a slave to every gang; they’ll pass you around like a rag doll then sell you to the highest bidder. And guess who controls the currency in this joint!” He was screaming by the end. “You’ll wish your mom had left you in a dumpster.” Charlie and Bruno left the table. Maleigh leaned in and took Richard’s hand.
“There’ll be a small box under the red apples next week. In it you’ll find a vial of powder. See, none of us like the Warden. He’s a big problem, asking too much of a cut from our racket. So you feed the Warden his poison and we’ll keep you safe. If not, it’s your ass.”
Maleigh stared at Richard for a minute. “And just so you know we aren’t fucking with you…” he lifted Richard’s hand to his mouth and bit off the tip of his pinky. Maleigh smeared a bloody kiss on Richard’s cheek and pushed him down to the floor. He walked away without looking back, chewing the flesh. Richard writhed in pain and cried for help but the canteen was empty. It took the guards an hour to find him, still on the floor, shivering from blood loss.
The time in the infirmary were wrought with tortuous doldrums. Richard’s protection was gone unless he did murder. Unless he actually committed a crime. What could he do, prison was dog it dog, just like Charlie said. He needed his friends.
A guard led him back to his room. They walked through the large, cavernous cell-bay. It was a huge room, lined with catwalks and prison cells, all iron and cinderblock, lit by garish florescent lights. Sets of eyes watched from dark places; at times a sneering face would catch light. Richard could feel their hatred. The guard led the way up a staircase and deposited him in his empty cell. He heard whispers of threats. The door slid shut and Richard sat on his bed, cradling his throbbing hand. The guards footsteps faded away. He knew the sleeplessness was back. The noises of nighttime rang louder than ever.
The canteen was more oppressive now than during his first, friendless days of incarceration. Richard walked to the kitchen to cook up on the food, but found the same grey slop already made. His friends were all waiting. Charlie and Bruno smiled at him and filed out. Before leaving the kitchen, Maleigh stopped in front of Richard. He only came up to his waist but Richard cringed in fear.
“How’s your hand Richy?” Maleigh asked.
Richard readopted his muteness.
“Remember what I said. The shipment is early. It’ll be here tomorrow. Convenient right? You’re cooking for him tomorrow right?”
Richard said nothing.
“Listen fucker. You do this, you’re safe. You don’t and your pinky isn’t the only thing you’ll lose.” Maleigh push him aside and went to the canteen. Richard sank to the floor in despair. He decided to wait there, among the onion and potato peels, till everyone had left. He hoped if he stayed out of sight he could avoid the other inmates.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing on the ground?” A guard pointed his nightstick at Richard. “Get of the floor and go outside now or I’ll make you go outside.”
Rich scrambled up, slipping on peels, and went to the canteen. He sat at an empty table in the corner and peeked to see if anyone noticed. Two tables down he saw a huge skinhead with a swastika tattooed on his neck staring right back. The giant made two fists in front of him, as if holding a stick, then made a swift breaking motion and pointed at Richard. Richard grimaced and looked down. He could hear the whole table laughing.
They walked back in lines to their metal homes. On the way they passed the floor cells, where the sodomites lived.
“You’re mine mother fucker!” A thick black man yelled.
“You got a real sweet ass!” said another voice.
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“I’ll make you my bitch, I’ll sell you for nothing!”
“I’m gonna fuck you up!”
“You ain’t gon’ shit right for a month!”
On and on, the whole prison echoed. Those who weren’t shouting were laughing. Richard felt naked. It didn’t matter that he slipped under the radar at first. Without Charlie, Bruno, and Maleigh, he was a piece of meat for the butchers. In his cell there was no one to talk to. He could still hear the shouts of the prison. Could he go to a guard? Could he tell the Warden? None of his ideas seemed feasible because nobody cared for him. He could ally with a gang, but he’d have to be a bitch first. Each option sang Catch-22. Did the answer sit at the bottom of an apple crate? The noises got under his skin. The shouts were on loop in his ears. They were going to fuck him up; they were going to kill him. He had to kill or be killed. He had to murder. He was trapped like a rat.
The loading dock was empty. Huge crates were stacked on the wet ground in meticulous order. Charlie, Bruno, and Maleigh were nowhere in sight. Richard found the box labeled “Red Apples” and lifted the top. The apples sat on Styrofoam racks, ten layers deep. One by one Rich moved the racks. On the very last rack, in the place of an apple, was a small cardboard box. He picked up the box, put back the apples, and replaced the lid. He hid the box in his shirt and went back to the canteen.
“Howdy Warden,” said Richard, “Fried Shrimp today right?”
“Right. You’ll find what you need over there.” The Warden sat at his desk signing papers.
Richard walked to the skillet, where he found oil, frozen shrimp, a bottle of water, and bread crumbs. He turned the heat up high and poured in most of the oil. It reached a frying temperature quickly. Richard looked back at the Warden. The stack of papers awaiting his signature was huge. Rich opened his shirt and took out the box. It wasn’t sealed. Inside was a tiny glass vial of white, powdery death. He looked at the Warden again. Holding his breath, he empted the vial into the drinking water and put the box back into his shirt. The smell of almonds wafted up from the bottle. The Warden kept signing.
Richard knew that he’d put enough poison into the water to kill a man with one sip. He recapped the bottle and put it aside.
“Hurry up on those shrimp,” said the Warden.
Rich breaded the shrimp and tossed them into the oil. He focused on the bubbles floating put from the crumbs and breathed heavily. The batter turned brown in the scalding hot oil. He though about the rapists in the cells far below. He thought about how he had trusted Charlie and Bruno. He looked at his mangled hand and remembered his pinky. He thought about sleeping, about the fear of a roommate. He thought about what might happen in the shower, in the kitchen, at the laundry, in the hallway. The Ayrans and Blacks and Italians and Mexicans and Muslims and Rednecks and Queers out to get him.
“Fuck this,” he whispered.
"What did you say boy?”
Rich picked up the pan and heaved it at the Warden. The air filled with smoke and screams as the oil burned his flesh. Shrimp hit the walls and oil splashed on the desk and Richard dove at the Warden to yank the silver revolver from his belt. The office door burst open and the Guard ran in with his shotgun. Rich aimed the gun at the guard and fired two shots that exploded over his heart. The Warden writhed in pain on the floor and the guard died in an instant.
Rich ran out the door and down the stairs, into the cavernous prison hall, straight for the kitchen. Alarms came to life and red flashes surrounded him. He held the gun out in front of him, screaming with rage, firing at random shapes and shadows, firing into cells till the gun clicked on empty. Three guards screamed to stop but he ignored the commands as passed the dark cells and the rancorous, shouting inmates. They took aim and fired. Three shotgun blasts roared through the hall but Rich was still flying. His feet left the ground and for the first time he felt safe. He traveled faster than he’d ever gone in his life straight into the warm hold of freedom.
His face hit the floor and it shattered his nose, marring his vision with blood. The thumps on his back started to spread; he felt pain resonate through his body. Slowly inertia was lost and he slid to a wet, crimson halt in front of bars of the sodomite’s cells. He gasped for air and reached for his gun but it had skidded beyond his reach. He was blinded with blood and his mouth filled with blood. He could smell nothing else and his hands were dyed red. He was deaf from the roar of the shotguns. The red turned to black as his senses shut down. The inmates leaned on their bars and watched the cook die.
“Fucking waste,” they all said.
Hah. Hilarious.
