Mama's Boy Behind Bars

by David Goudreault

  You fould take an intereft in the guyf you look after, that’f the real deal, more interefting than your Nordic ffhit. It’f too eafy to fay that it’f gratuitouf violenfe…

  Don’t take it personally, I’m just saying that the fictions are plotted out more elaborately, with an overarching structure guiding it—complicated plots that speak to me as a reader.

  Well, Mr. Jerk, when you figure out what’s going on right under your eyes, and who’s organizing what, you’re going to be up to here in your very own Norwegian intrigue. When there’s a chopper in your own yard, you’re gonna care less about how green your neighbour’s grass is.

  But anyway, you fould read the clafficf inftead of thove dumb Fcandiwevian bookf. The great Frenfh authorv are the bafif of modern thought. Borif Vian, Gilbert Camus, George Fand.

  I know other important men wrote, but those were the ones that came to mind. I recommended them. That’f what you fhould read!

  Paul knocked on the library door. When the Sage let us in, the guard started up his mocking again. So have you read all this?

  Yef, fir, I’ve read fo much that the library of Alexfandria would get loft in my head.

  He gave an admiring laugh, posted himself in the doorway, and let me find my friend.

  The Sage was kind of down, his face greyer than lead. I was sad too, I was hoping he’d argue my side, against the Scandi scribblers. But the Sage wasn’t in a party mood, he wasn’t really in the mood for anything. It was official, he wasn’t going to be released. In different circumstances I’d have been really happy about that. But I knew I’d be free myself before too long, forced to leave him alone with his books. I could only try to comfort him. That’f a fhame, the Fave, you deferved it… You could have brought up your girlv, found a job, lived free… That’f a real fhame!

  It bothered me, seeing him depressed like that. It’s hard to know what to say to someone who’s heard everything. This wasn’t his first freefall. Knowing his daughters were growing up without him on the outside was too hard. He’d once told me he’d been taking antidepressants for eight years, and not recreationally. And he was falling once more. You have to be careful: depressions are like scowls: if the wind changes, you might get stuck like that.

  I wanted to rub his back in a heterosexual and unambiguous manner, just to be kind. But Paul cut me off. No physical contact!

  That fucking Norwegian reader did everything by the book. I was going to have to do my work orally. It would do, I was pretty exceptional at therapy. I’d have made an excellent psychologist, social worker, or hairdresser. Stop, the Fave, pleave don’t cry…

  I could immediately tell he felt better. He held back his tears, stopped his lips from trembling, and lifted his head up like a man.

  There you go, that’f better. It’f juft a delay. You can try again necft year.

  He looked me up and down with a dignity so profound that he could have been diving with Cousteau and solemnly warned me, There won’t be a next time.

  He seemed very determined, which was a good thing. If he chose to do his time right up to the end of his sentence, that was his right. That’f your right!

  The moment was too tense for me, since I was already too tense myself. The therapy could end now, it had been quick and effective and there was nothing else left to say.

  Okay, now I need fome advife!

  Paul had left his post to go and rummage around in the farthest shelf, the French novels section. Bravo! He’d refuse to admit it, but he was taking my advice. The shelf was bursting with the jewels of French literature, and especially Quebec literature. They even had one of Céline’s novels there, if you can believe it.

  Since the library consisted of just four shelves, I interrogated the Sage in a low voice. I’m going to need a book about efcape tactics, camouflave, and foreft furvival. I followed up with an obvious wink, but the Sage didn’t pick up on it. He headed off to the illustrated-book section—the one that cruelly lacked a copy of the Karma Sutra. However, it did have a book of nude paintings. It was the most read book in the place. You have to remember that sculpture and painting were the pornographic mediums of antiquity. They are used once more for their original purpose in prisons.

  The Sage, familiar with all the nooks and crannies of his domain, quickly put his hand on precisely what I wasn’t looking for. A book about the great outdoors. This is all I have. They’re pretty selective about what they let in here.

  I agreed. Fucking fenforfip! Once more I was going to have to trust my instincts. I took the book, in case I had to hide away in a forest before I could get to my Mafia family in Montreal.

  You need to prepare for every possibility. Once I was out of the prison walls, I could steal a car, but I’d be followed immediately. Or I could hide out in the woods, covering myself in mud like a modern-day Danny Crockett and travel under cover of wood and forest all the way to Montreal. It should take me a day or two from Donnacona if I walked fast.

  I also borrowed books by J. K. Rowling and Robert Galbraith, as well as Camus’s The Stranger, which I’ve never managed to finish. I didn’t think I’d get any further this time, but I wanted to set a good example for Paul.

  While my friend jotted down my borrowings with his trembling hand, nostalgia tied a knot in my throat. I realized that this would be my last visit. In a few days I would have made my escape, as part of the operation of the same name. I did think about including my librarian in my plan of escape, but it would be complicated, and Edith would resent me for jeopardizing our intimacy.

  I promised myself I’d keep an eye out for books being published once I was established. If Vanier or Gérard Godin published a new poetry collection, I’d have one sent to the Sage inside. He’d know it was from me. You can spot the attentive people by their attention to the little things.

  We’ll fee each other foon!

  No, we’ll never see each other again…

  He’d guessed my plans, clever guy. I gave him a final wink with my back turned toward Paul.

  Goodbye…

  Yef, my friend, fee you foon! I wanted to acknowledge his talent for reading between the lines but I wasn’t going to let him advertise my plan. Depressed or not, learn some subtlety, dude! I quickly changed the subject and asked Paul, Have you ever read Doctor Vivago?

  Of course he hadn’t, because Zhivago wasn’t a Norwegian author; I should have known. I chatted to him about French literature all the way back to my cell and then threw myself on my bed to explore my great-outdoors guidebook.

  * * *

  The great outdoors is stupid, almost as stupid as those jerks who like it. It’s all about the equipment. You need such-and-such kind of boots, you should get this type of tent, the best thing is to get in touch with some expert on the national park where you want to go to enjoy nature, and blah blah blah. There was nothing about the wilderness outdoors if you were escaping, and nothing about edible plants just in case you forgot to make yourself a nice little lunch before you set off in your nice little high-end truck dressed in your fancy Gore-Tex outfit to take selfies at the top of a nice little mountain. If I had to hide out in a forest, eating bark, I’d need to know, at a minimum, which trees were poisonous. In a moment of foresight, I told myself I wouldn’t just collect food for the birds now, I might need some myself too.

  Disappointed, I closed the book. Sports literature always has that effect on me. Since Philippe wasn’t there, I slid my hand under my mattress. The shank was still there, wedged against the cement bed base. A well-sharpened weapon is reliable, unlike sports literature. Read the newspapers, it’s well documented.

  * * *

  Stress is stressful. I was getting excited and it was stressing out the people around me. I couldn’t talk to my brothers in arms during the meal, and the black guys were playing their parts so well that they systematically ignored me. Philippe and Gilbert were getting involved in a poker game with
a twenty-buck buy-in. All I had were the crazies.

  I went to interrupt them watching an episode of The Young and the Restless, a series beloved by people with pharmaceutically induced holes in their heads. I guess they can relate to the bubbling of intrigues and emotional liaisons… Just kidding! What they like are the grooming strategies, and the visiting grandchildren, always nicely dressed.

  Pedo the Clown, who was gradually coming back out of his cell, grumbled when I sat down in front of him. I teased him about his hunchback posture, his smell, his crooked teeth, and what I was planning to do to his mother. He didn’t react. I wanted to interact with somebody so I kept pushing it. All he did was get up with a groan and head back to his cell.

  I knew Beanpole and the other newbies less well, so I suggested a game of cards. mathieu said he didn’t mind. I don’t mind… The affirmative catchphrase of personalityless people everywhere. I convinced him, social organizer that I am, to get his ass out of his chair, and I extended the invitation to the whole room. Melon sniggered and headed over to my table.

  He was continuing to play the idiot, unaware that his secret had been exposed, that I’d recognized his voice. Had Big Dick himself chosen him to move into our wing? Did he have a part to play in the boss’s escape? Life is a field of questions where doubt grows.

  I watched him struggle to fit his enormous thighs under the table. I didn’t dare criticize Big Dick, but personally I wouldn’t be able to trust someone who was obese. I don’t feel comfortable around them. Just looking at them makes me feel guilty of a moral crime. Obesity is a socially acceptable form of self-harm. People like that should hide themselves away, it’s unhealthy for everyone.

  * * *

  Considering the setting and the three of us around the table, I suggested an easy game: Asshole. It was straightforward, it could last for hours, and my chances of winning were good. I dealt the cards, slipped myself a pair of twos and set out to humiliate them. But I hadn’t counted on Melon’s deceit. He refused to react to my insults or to my accusations of cheating, he stubbornly insisted on staying President, he attacked me to help mathieu, and kept me in the unpleasant position of asshole the whole time. His smirking was getting on my nerves. I’d had enough of getting finessed. I stood up with dignity and let fly with my rage. Go fuck yourfelf!

  If Fat Melon laughs at me, I can deal, I’m used to it. If the black guys slap their thighs and chuckle at me, I can’t do anything about it. But when pathetic little mathieu thinks he can join in, that’s just too much. I took advantage of the fact that he was still sitting down to raise my knee as high as I could and then I kicked him right in the spine. The shock alone could have shattered his bone marrow. That might have been an excellent result.

  That sly mathieu turned out to be pretty socially awkward. He pretended to be all shy and introverted but then revealed he was a black belt in the art of counter-attack. I’d barely had time to thump him in the back when he leaped up and confidently launched himself at me. It took me by surprise. I was doing some crazy kick-boxing moves and throwing punches in all directions, without ever managing to hit my target. Galvanized by the encouragement of the entire wing, he was enjoying taking it out on my face. Under the rain—the storm—of blows, I fell back over a table and lay there, exposed. Belligerently he took advantage to brutalize my ribs and my balls with his rock-hard knuckles. It was like he was in a trance, the way he was attacking me.

  I longed for my mother.

  The most dangerous men are the ones with nothing to lose, because they have everything to win. mathieu was making his reputation with his punches to my face. Criminals are opportunists, and inmates are professional criminals. They were cheering my assailant on and calling for sacrificial murder. They were glorifying him. Unused to getting all this attention, mathieu was getting in some awesome shots despite his breathlessness. He was catching on to the fact that he’d gained some respect. From now on he’d be entitled to a capital letter at the beginning of his name. Mathieu was hitting me out of sheer joy.

  Paul and Mireille stopped him mid-punch, to the boos of the other inmates. I stood up with difficulty, pointing out to everyone that I hadn’t fallen. Okay, he furprived me, but I didn’t hit the ground, I didn’t fall down!

  The guys were still cheering and applauding their new champion. I wiped my bloody lip and grabbed hold of the table, trying to steady my breathing. And my shaky body. I was beat and injured but still standing; like Gloria Gaynor, I will survive.

  Although I was desperate to go and hide in my cell, I stayed as straight as a reed, rooted to the floor. The bastard had used the element of surprise, okay, but my honour was intact. I hadn’t fallen to the ground. And standing upright in the common area, I reminded them of this. And I wasn’t bleeding that much.

  * * *

  You idiot, you could have wrecked everything.

  It was unusual for Denis to talk to me before dessert. Dinner was turning out to be livelier than usual.

  I’m not going to fcrew anything up.

  The shepherd’s pie tasted of yesterday’s fricassee.

  If we hadn’t covered for you and said it was the new guy who started it, you’d be the one in the hole. And who knows how long you’d have been there. Everything’s all set to start in four days, for fuck’s sake, this is no time for pissing around!

  Denis was really telling me off. Which was nice. You only tell people off if you like them.

  So keep quiet until the last minute, no more messing around, we need you. Even Big Dick was worried.

  Don’t worry, guyv, I’ll be difcreet. The dried blood in my sinuses and my swollen lips were stopping me from fully enjoying the meal. I’m not going to eat my pudding, do you want my pudding, Denif? Big Dick?

  Apparently none of my colleagues had a sweet tooth.

  * * *

  Alone at our table, I sat patiently and let my digestion do its thing. I’d just been worming things out of Paul. He was still trying to teach me about literature, crushing my balls with his thing about signifier and signified. I just wanted to signify to him that he was insignificant. But I held back; I’m less impulsive than the psychiatrists claim.

  I let him babble on about semantics before asking him about my love. She had no known partner and no crush, not even Tony. The question surprised him. No, he didn’t know whether she’d kept my paper roses. Yes, she was very professional. Yes, this week she was working the evening shift. He wouldn’t tell me anything else, and anyway, I shouldn’t be asking questions about the correctional officers. My dear Paul, I’m not interrogating you about a correctional officer but about my love. There’s a subtle difference!

  I sat and waited for her, all alone with my empty tray. In the end I gave in and ate the pudding. I was licking out the bowl when I heard the metallic clang of the massive steel door. This noise was followed by the electronic opening mechanism and the creaking of the hinges. The heavy door of the wing took forever to open partway, before letting through my queen in the glow of garish neon.

  How could I have doubted her beauty? There is no worse blind man than one who pokes his own eyes out. In my hatred of the guards, I’d once put her in the same category as Fat Mireille. And here she was, exhausted but radiant. And upset too; she headed right for me with her hand held out. I kept my head high, showing off my injuries, proud as a kid getting his cast signed in the schoolyard. Women like injured men. It turns on their internal nurse. They all have an internal nurse; it comes with the uterus.

  She put her hand on my forehead, or rather on the bump hiding my forehead. Gently. She looked at my split lip and then my eyebrow.

  My ribv hurt too. I didn’t dare tell her about my balls—she might start worrying about our future.

  But what happened?

  I sighed a bit to arouse her. I got attacked, totally blindfided. I didn’t do anything.

  Compassion and desire were competing in her doe
eyes. So why did it happen?

  I’d prefer it if we could talk in private, in the offife.

  Jocelyn showed up next, but he was less tender than Edith. My lady love explained the situation to him, hoping for a chance to spend time with me. She asked him to keep his eye on the gang of crazies. He agreed, knowing full well that after dinner the vast majority of them would be knocked out by meds, whether prescribed or not. Not forgetting the fact that the black guys had managed to smuggle in a long cylinder of hashish via Louis-Honoré’s sister. Two shipments actually: those Montreal North girls are very open. Open-minded, I mean, obviously.

  Our visiting room had more holes than a pair of fishnets. On the outside, those guys are all about the coke and cognac. Inside it’s all hash and Klonopin. That shows an incredible ability to adapt.

  * * *

  Limping slightly, I followed my love to the office. I realized that my physical injuries were less painful than my frustrated desires. I’d had enough of this back-and-forth, push-me-pull-you nonsense, without ever actually getting any. And that was on top of all the worry and chaos of the last few months. This game of impossible love, all the waiting, was burning up my soul. She loved me, all the signs had shown up one after another. From our “relationship of trust” to her wearing her hair loose, via physical contact. And just a minute earlier she’d been stroking my head. Hypnotized by her enormous pelvis, which could have birthed an entire Amish colony, I promised myself I’d kiss her when I went into the office.

  As I walked in, I kissed her. I did warn you. She shut the door behind us, I pressed her up against the wall, my hands on her hips. She squeaked in surprise but let me do it, girls are like that. My lips were palpitating with desire. I glued them on hers, stuck my tongue in and gave it a passionate wriggle. She didn’t squeak again, but she didn’t let me do it. I didn’t even have enough time to get my tongue in her cheek before she caressed my testicles with her knee, hard. Hmmpf. Twice. Hmmmmmmmpf.