away.
¤ ¤ ¤
A bell clangs and the huge room becomes the scene of a massive clutter of random movement that somehow resolves itself into two neat lines of blue-jumpsuited men. We stand heel to toe facing the doorway to the maze of inner hallways. A deputy gives the signal, and the line I’m in begins to move.
“Shoulders against the walls. Keep your hands at your sides. NO TALKING, ASSHOLE!” A crew-cut deputy with a bright red face and neck approaches the line and thrusts his face up into the face of a muscular black man several places in front of me.
The line stops moving. The deputy’s shirt outlines the V-shape from his waist to his armpits and is stretched taut across his back.
“You wanna fuck with me?” The deputy, who’s about five foot eight, looks up at the inmate, who stands at about my height of just over six feet. Both men’s muscles twitch as they stare at each other. The black man’s fingers extend stiffly, as if he’s straining to avoid making a fist.
There’s a restless shuffling from the line; people want to see what is happening but don’t want to make themselves conspicuous. The inmate, still holding the deputy’s gaze, says, “Nope. Don’t wanna fuck with nobody.”
The deputy backs off and says, “Good. That’s good.” Then he hollers, “Let’s move. Next guy that talks misses tonight’s gourmet dinner.” The line moves briskly down the corridor, silent except for the padding of feet and the swishing of sleeves against the dull yellow wall.
¤ ¤ ¤
“Watchoo want, man, the cow turd loaf, or the pigshit sausage?” A huge biker with a beard to his chest and a net over his hair gestures toward two stainless steel pans full of equally unappealing choices. I point to the meatloaf. The biker scoops up a square with his spatula and dumps it on a plate.
“Enjoy.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I tell him, and go to the next counter. Here, I’m given what looks like mashed potatoes and a pile of shriveled peas. I pick an orange from a bowl, and a plastic cup, spoon, and fork from the next cart, and follow the man in front of me to a table.
There are about forty identical tables in the room, each with two rows of seven inmates facing each other. An enormous mural covers one wall—an underwater scene with whales and jellyfish, oddly serene as a backdrop to the roomful of dining criminals. When my table fills up, a trustee appears with two plastic pitchers of pale liquid that he sets down at the end of the table. A sudden clamor goes up: “Juice down.” “Juice down!” “Hey, mothafuckah, juice down.”
I prod the colorless square of alleged meat on my plate. For some reason the idea of eating appeals to me.
The pitcher arrives, nearly empty. I put it up to my face and sniff—Hawaiian Punch.
“Yo, mothafuckah, get yo’ fuckin’ Jew beak outta there. Juice down, man.” It’s the big guy who had the showdown with the guard. Probably still pissed off. I fill my glass and pass the pitcher to my right. Towering over the end of the table is the biker who served my meatloaf. The huge bearded man looks down at me, shaking his head in reproof. When the empty pitchers reach the end of the table, the man places them in a plastic tub on a rolling cart and goes on to the next group, still shaking his head.
¤ ¤ ¤
After dinner, I doze on my bunk, thinking about Mindy and trying to ignore the rumbling in my belly. I can feel the food moving through me in a lump. When it finally gets to be too much, I drop to the floor and walk down the corridor between the rows of bunks, past the open area where the brothers sit on hard benches, and toward the latrine section.
This is my second day as a deceased person, and I haven’t sat on a toilet yet. There are eight stainless steel toilets lining a six-foot-high wall, perpendicular to which are eight urinals. Men sit on each of the toilets, bare to the ankles with their jumpsuits carefully undone and rolled down in such a way as to not
¤ ¤ ¤
A bell clangs and the huge room becomes the scene of a massive clutter of random movement that somehow resolves itself into two neat lines of blue-jumpsuited men. We stand heel to toe facing the doorway to the maze of inner hallways. A deputy gives the signal, and the line I’m in begins to move.
“Shoulders against the walls. Keep your hands at your sides. NO TALKING, ASSHOLE!” A crew-cut deputy with a bright red face and neck approaches the line and thrusts his face up into the face of a muscular black man several places in front of me.
The line stops moving. The deputy’s shirt outlines the V-shape from his waist to his armpits and is stretched taut across his back.
“You wanna fuck with me?” The deputy, who’s about five foot eight, looks up at the inmate, who stands at about my height of just over six feet. Both men’s muscles twitch as they stare at each other. The black man’s fingers extend stiffly, as if he’s straining to avoid making a fist.
There’s a restless shuffling from the line; people want to see what is happening but don’t want to make themselves conspicuous. The inmate, still holding the deputy’s gaze, says, “Nope. Don’t wanna fuck with nobody.”
The deputy backs off and says, “Good. That’s good.” Then he hollers, “Let’s move. Next guy that talks misses tonight’s gourmet dinner.” The line moves briskly down the corridor, silent except for the padding of feet and the swishing of sleeves against the dull yellow wall.
¤ ¤ ¤
“Watchoo want, man, the cow turd loaf, or the pigshit sausage?” A huge biker with a beard to his chest and a net over his hair gestures toward two stainless steel pans full of equally unappealing choices. I point to the meatloaf. The biker scoops up a square with his spatula and dumps it on a plate.
“Enjoy.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I tell him, and go to the next counter. Here, I’m given what looks like mashed potatoes and a pile of shriveled peas. I pick an orange from a bowl, and a plastic cup, spoon, and fork from the next cart, and follow the man in front of me to a table.
There are about forty identical tables in the room, each with two rows of seven inmates facing each other. An enormous mural covers one wall—an underwater scene with whales and jellyfish, oddly serene as a backdrop to the roomful of dining criminals. When my table fills up, a trustee appears with two plastic pitchers of pale liquid that he sets down at the end of the table. A sudden clamor goes up: “Juice down.” “Juice down!” “Hey, mothafuckah, juice down.”
I prod the colorless square of alleged meat on my plate. For some reason the idea of eating appeals to me.
The pitcher arrives, nearly empty. I put it up to my face and sniff—Hawaiian Punch.
“Yo, mothafuckah, get yo’ fuckin’ Jew beak outta there. Juice down, man.” It’s the big guy who had the showdown with the guard. Probably still pissed off. I fill my glass and pass the pitcher to my right. Towering over the end of the table is the biker who served my meatloaf. The huge bearded man looks down at me, shaking his head in reproof. When the empty pitchers reach the end of the table, the man places them in a plastic tub on a rolling cart and goes on to the next group, still shaking his head.
¤ ¤ ¤
After dinner, I doze on my bunk, thinking about Mindy and trying to ignore the rumbling in my belly. I can feel the food moving through me in a lump. When it finally gets to be too much, I drop to the floor and walk down the corridor between the rows of bunks, past the open area where the brothers sit on hard benches, and toward the latrine section.
This is my second day as a deceased person, and I haven’t sat on a toilet yet. There are eight stainless steel toilets lining a six-foot-high wall, perpendicular to which are eight urinals. Men sit on each of the toilets, bare to the ankles with their jumpsuits carefully undone and rolled down in such a way as to not
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