out of her robe, and she was too unaware of that. She took her hands off the dresser, tightened the terrycloth belt. âI mean, did he hit his head?Why did he just sink? It doesnât make any sense .âShe sat on the edge of the bed, beside him, and apologized for slapping him. She had laid a hand on his shoulder when she apologized, like maybe she really was sorry. âItâs just, not lining up? I donât think he could have hit his head hard enough to knock himself out? I donât under stand this!âThe thought of the motorâs propeller biting into his brother still made Cohenâs stomach weak. Heâd felt that motor strike something that day, and heâd never know what.
His father pushed the door open, âWhatâs going on in here! Jesus Christ, Anne! Stop grilling your sonââ and she ran from the room, pushing passed his father, saying she had to check on supper. But there was a thud, and Cohen walked out into the hall. His mother was on the ground, clutching her foot; a toenail cracked from a badly stubbed toe. She was looking at the heater, like the heater had done it on purpose.
PULL
IN PRISON, THE toast was always burnt, and he hated that. It was like a sponge, sucking his mouth dry. The grit would get on the backs of his teeth, scour gums, agitate his throat. There was juice, to wash it down with, but never enough. The glasses were tiny and the juice was the fake, tangy kind. So heâd save it all for the end: heâd eat the toast, the papery scrambled eggs, then chug all the juice as a palette cleanser. The only drawback to his routine was it meant leaving his glass full, long after everyone else had finished theirs, and that made his juice prey for the scavenger hands of thirsty, impatient inmates. Maybe once a week, someone would walk past him and snake his cup. It was important to let them take it. Most violence happened in the cafeteria. It was equally important to crack a defensive joke: to call the guy an asshole and laugh. Or say, Tastes like shit anyway .
A lot of the tables were on wheels, and it irritated everyone. Someone would sit down, jerk the table, and it could be enough to set the wrong man off. A gangly redheaded man accidentally jostled a table one day, and knocked over Truckâs orange juice. Truck speared his thumb into the guyâs eye. A quick, senseless jab. The man yelped, fell backwards out of his seat, and cracked his head off the concrete floor, hard. Hard enough for his teeth to bang together. Nip his tongue. And that one incident had plagued the man as everyoneâs target for weeks. Surprise kidney punches in the shower, for kicks. A leg out in the cafeteria to trip him, for a gag. Some people were bored in there and never meant any harm by that sort of thing. Other people needed a target for their pent-up anger.
If someone had a dietary restriction, theyâd be called a fag for it. Given a hard time by the rougher crowd. To be lactose intolerant, a celiac, a diabeticâanything that got you served a red tray instead of the standard blue oneâsingled you out. And prison was a place to be transparent. You did not sit alone in the cafeteria, you did not eat from a red tray with a special order, and you sat with your head down next to a man with a blue tray.
If it werenât for the colour-coded trays, Cohen would have lied, faked a gluten allergy, to avoid the toast, and get the yogurt or the gluten-free English muffins instead. Because they were thicker, the gluten-free English muffins took longer to toast, so they wouldnât burn. The one time heâd seen them on a manâs plate, they were a perfect golden blonde.
Heâd thought of Allie the day he craved that gluten-free English muffin. Allie had once bought a new toaster because of a poor gradation between settings on the one they owned: if sheâd use setting 3, it would leave her bread hardly even toasted , and setting 4 made it too
His father pushed the door open, âWhatâs going on in here! Jesus Christ, Anne! Stop grilling your sonââ and she ran from the room, pushing passed his father, saying she had to check on supper. But there was a thud, and Cohen walked out into the hall. His mother was on the ground, clutching her foot; a toenail cracked from a badly stubbed toe. She was looking at the heater, like the heater had done it on purpose.
PULL
IN PRISON, THE toast was always burnt, and he hated that. It was like a sponge, sucking his mouth dry. The grit would get on the backs of his teeth, scour gums, agitate his throat. There was juice, to wash it down with, but never enough. The glasses were tiny and the juice was the fake, tangy kind. So heâd save it all for the end: heâd eat the toast, the papery scrambled eggs, then chug all the juice as a palette cleanser. The only drawback to his routine was it meant leaving his glass full, long after everyone else had finished theirs, and that made his juice prey for the scavenger hands of thirsty, impatient inmates. Maybe once a week, someone would walk past him and snake his cup. It was important to let them take it. Most violence happened in the cafeteria. It was equally important to crack a defensive joke: to call the guy an asshole and laugh. Or say, Tastes like shit anyway .
A lot of the tables were on wheels, and it irritated everyone. Someone would sit down, jerk the table, and it could be enough to set the wrong man off. A gangly redheaded man accidentally jostled a table one day, and knocked over Truckâs orange juice. Truck speared his thumb into the guyâs eye. A quick, senseless jab. The man yelped, fell backwards out of his seat, and cracked his head off the concrete floor, hard. Hard enough for his teeth to bang together. Nip his tongue. And that one incident had plagued the man as everyoneâs target for weeks. Surprise kidney punches in the shower, for kicks. A leg out in the cafeteria to trip him, for a gag. Some people were bored in there and never meant any harm by that sort of thing. Other people needed a target for their pent-up anger.
If someone had a dietary restriction, theyâd be called a fag for it. Given a hard time by the rougher crowd. To be lactose intolerant, a celiac, a diabeticâanything that got you served a red tray instead of the standard blue oneâsingled you out. And prison was a place to be transparent. You did not sit alone in the cafeteria, you did not eat from a red tray with a special order, and you sat with your head down next to a man with a blue tray.
If it werenât for the colour-coded trays, Cohen would have lied, faked a gluten allergy, to avoid the toast, and get the yogurt or the gluten-free English muffins instead. Because they were thicker, the gluten-free English muffins took longer to toast, so they wouldnât burn. The one time heâd seen them on a manâs plate, they were a perfect golden blonde.
Heâd thought of Allie the day he craved that gluten-free English muffin. Allie had once bought a new toaster because of a poor gradation between settings on the one they owned: if sheâd use setting 3, it would leave her bread hardly even toasted , and setting 4 made it too
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