“Happened to your clothes?" Hector asked
Duke. “Lice?"
Lice! What kind of world do these people live
in?
“Long story. The old lady'l send me
some." Duke paused. “Maybe."
“I’ll lend you some," Preston said.
Duke shook his head. "They won't let me.
They say I gotta wear this thing, and everybody I meet I gotta explain why I
don't have any clothes."
"They won't let you wear pants?”
Duke smiled weakly. "Therapy."
"Keeps the memory green," Hector
said with a glance back over his shoulder. "Never let you forget what
kinda asshole you been. They made me wear a bag over my head for two days. . .
. Said I was too worried about my image. No big thing."
Preston felt his pulse thundering in his temples. I will not let them make a public
display of me. His fingertips tingled. He recognized the onset of
hyperventilation. He stopped and breathed deeply. A fuzziness was creeping up
his neck.
Hector arrived at a glass door. As he held it
open for them, he noticed Preston 's
complexion, which had turned the color of goat cheese. "Samatter with
you?"
Preston pointed to the tube of ash dangling from Hector's lips. "Can I change my
mind?"
Hector grinned and flipped a pack of
cigarettes from his T-shirt sleeve and shook one loose for Preston . A Camel regular. The nitroglycerine of
smokes. "Survival," he said as he gave Preston a light. "What it's all about."
Preston inhaled deeply, and his outraged alveoli immediately rebelled. He coughed and
sputtered.
"First one's always a bear," Hector
said. "Give it two or three, then it'll grip you good."
The taste was foul, dirty. Preston took another drag. This time he coughed but
once, sharply, and he could feel a soft warmth spreading across his chest. A
third drag. There. Not so bad. "Fifteen years," he said.
"In ten minutes it'll be your buddy
again. You'll need it. Muthafuckas done stole your best friend."
That tone of voice. Dolores Stark, then Chuck,
now Hector. Certitude. No doubts, no questions. In less than three minutes.
Hector had learned all there was to know about him. Or thought he had. And
Hector was just an inmate.
No! We are not all alike. If Faulkner declined
to accept the end of man, I decline to accept the sameness of all men. We are
each blessed with our uniqueness.
Aren't we?
Hector slipped two more Camels into Preston 's pocket and ushered him and Duke through
the door. out into a quadrangle enclosed by the four adobe buildings. It was
large, probably a square acre, and contained a swimming pool; an exercise area
featuring a jungle gym, a set of parallel bars and some free weights; and three
small copses of palm trees that gave shade to painted wooden benches.
As they walked toward one of the other
buildings, Preston asked Hector, "How long’ve you been
here?"
"Here? Forty-one days."
"But I thought—"
"Yeah, but I always fuck up so they have
to keep me longer.''
"Always? You've been in other . . .
places?"
"A couple. Hazelden, St. Mary's,
Smithers, Betty Ford . . . lessee ... oh yeah, and Fair Oaks. I've seen the
U.S. of A."
"Why?" The word had barely slipped
from Preston's lips when he realized that it sounded nosy, critical. Do not
piss this man off! "I'm sorry. I—"
"What's to be sorry?"
Duke. “Lice?"
Lice! What kind of world do these people live
in?
“Long story. The old lady'l send me
some." Duke paused. “Maybe."
“I’ll lend you some," Preston said.
Duke shook his head. "They won't let me.
They say I gotta wear this thing, and everybody I meet I gotta explain why I
don't have any clothes."
"They won't let you wear pants?”
Duke smiled weakly. "Therapy."
"Keeps the memory green," Hector
said with a glance back over his shoulder. "Never let you forget what
kinda asshole you been. They made me wear a bag over my head for two days. . .
. Said I was too worried about my image. No big thing."
Preston felt his pulse thundering in his temples. I will not let them make a public
display of me. His fingertips tingled. He recognized the onset of
hyperventilation. He stopped and breathed deeply. A fuzziness was creeping up
his neck.
Hector arrived at a glass door. As he held it
open for them, he noticed Preston 's
complexion, which had turned the color of goat cheese. "Samatter with
you?"
Preston pointed to the tube of ash dangling from Hector's lips. "Can I change my
mind?"
Hector grinned and flipped a pack of
cigarettes from his T-shirt sleeve and shook one loose for Preston . A Camel regular. The nitroglycerine of
smokes. "Survival," he said as he gave Preston a light. "What it's all about."
Preston inhaled deeply, and his outraged alveoli immediately rebelled. He coughed and
sputtered.
"First one's always a bear," Hector
said. "Give it two or three, then it'll grip you good."
The taste was foul, dirty. Preston took another drag. This time he coughed but
once, sharply, and he could feel a soft warmth spreading across his chest. A
third drag. There. Not so bad. "Fifteen years," he said.
"In ten minutes it'll be your buddy
again. You'll need it. Muthafuckas done stole your best friend."
That tone of voice. Dolores Stark, then Chuck,
now Hector. Certitude. No doubts, no questions. In less than three minutes.
Hector had learned all there was to know about him. Or thought he had. And
Hector was just an inmate.
No! We are not all alike. If Faulkner declined
to accept the end of man, I decline to accept the sameness of all men. We are
each blessed with our uniqueness.
Aren't we?
Hector slipped two more Camels into Preston 's pocket and ushered him and Duke through
the door. out into a quadrangle enclosed by the four adobe buildings. It was
large, probably a square acre, and contained a swimming pool; an exercise area
featuring a jungle gym, a set of parallel bars and some free weights; and three
small copses of palm trees that gave shade to painted wooden benches.
As they walked toward one of the other
buildings, Preston asked Hector, "How long’ve you been
here?"
"Here? Forty-one days."
"But I thought—"
"Yeah, but I always fuck up so they have
to keep me longer.''
"Always? You've been in other . . .
places?"
"A couple. Hazelden, St. Mary's,
Smithers, Betty Ford . . . lessee ... oh yeah, and Fair Oaks. I've seen the
U.S. of A."
"Why?" The word had barely slipped
from Preston's lips when he realized that it sounded nosy, critical. Do not
piss this man off! "I'm sorry. I—"
"What's to be sorry?"
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