by William Poe
Pigtails escorted me to his bottom bunk opposite the dry shower. The bunk was draped by faded blankets that hung from the upper frame. Several men had obviously given this guy their bedding.
“Just a sec,” I said, excusing myself. “I’ve really got to pee.”
While I was relieving myself, a young, dark-haired fellow came up behind me. “That’s the boss, dude. You better do what he says. For a nickel, he’ll get you killed.”
I went back to the pigtailed boss’s bunk. From inside, sitting up on his knees, he pulled back the corner of a blanket and motioned me to join him. As I was crawling in, Boss whipped out his hard ten-incher and wagged it in my face. I dreaded what it might taste like, and wondering how I was going to manage the size, took it in my fist and stroked, hoping to delay the inevitable as long as possible.
Suddenly, the curtains parted. Every criminal in the cell stood around gawking at the scene. They laughed with hideous glee.
“I told you we’d get the next one,” the boss said, tucking his deflating cock into his loose jeans.
“Got an honest-to-god cocksucker here!” one of the cellmates jeered.
The boss knocked me on the mouth and shoved me out of his bunk. I tumbled onto the concrete floor.
“Goddamn queer,” he taunted.
Humiliated, and frightened that one of the other inmates would take over where the boss left off, I ran to the bars at the cell door and wrapped my arms through them. A bloodcurdling scream rose from my lungs. Guards rushed over to see what was happening.
“Get me out of here!” I screamed.
When a guard opened the door, I fell forward, blathering incoherently. The boss had busted my lip. Saliva and blood soaked the front of my shirt. The guard probably thought I’d been shanked.
“What did they do to him?” one of the two guards asked the other as they escorted me down the hall.
“They were fuckin’ around. Hell, he ain’t hurt. That’s just spit and blood on him.”
“That guy in the pigtails probably put him through the initiation,” one of the guards said.
They laughed so hard they almost lost their grip on me.
Next, I was dragged inside a room with no furniture except a metal cot bolted to the floor. The guards told me to strip. They sat me on the cot and left. Streams of water surged from spigots on the wall, so cold it felt like a spray of angry bees digging into my skin.
When the shower ended, someone opened the steel door and tossed me a towel. Then a different guard appeared.
“Put this on,” the man said, handing me an orange jumpsuit. He watched as I struggled to get into it.
“It doesn’t fit,” I complained. The garment was a least two sizes too small, and I wasn’t given underwear. I nearly maimed myself trying to zip it up.
“It’ll have to do,” the guard said. “Ain’t another one come out of the laundry yet.”
“I can’t go back to that cell,” I said as we entered the hallway.
“Then we’ll have to put you with that murderin’ Riddle,” the man said, opening the door of a small cell near the guard station.
Inside, two platforms that served as beds jutted from the wall one above the other. A shower stall in the corner was defined by a mildewed curtain that hung from three hooks fastened to a rusted metal bar. A toilet and sink took up the opposite corner. The place reminded me of isolation tanks such as one might see in an old movie. Instead of bars, the cell door was solid except for a six-inch window with a sliding strip of metal that could only be opened from the outside.
Murderin’ Riddle was a young man. He wore the same type of jumpsuit I’d been given, but his was yellow, and it fit. He sat on the bottom bunk, looking up sympathetically as the cop shoved me through the door and slammed it shut.
“Don’t worry,” Riddle said, extending a rough, weathered hand. “I ain’t like them other guys. That was you screaming earlier, wudn’t it?”
I nodded.
“They sez I’m a murderer. But I ain’t murdered no one.”
Murderer or not, the friendly look on Riddle’s face put me at ease, despite the scars on his face and forearms that told of a violent life. I leaped onto the top bunk and was confronted by chips of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. One corner of the mattress was damp from a leak. I swept off the ceiling dust and covered myself with the scratchy blanket, keeping my feet to one side to avoid the wet spot.
Riddle lay on his bunk and began narrating his story, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity to tell someone.
“They can’t pin it on me,” Riddle began. “I don’t care how hard they try. They say I left the party and went home for my gun. Weren’t true. I had that gun right there in my pocket. He drew a knife and I shot him. That’s the way it happened. Weren’t premedicated—think that’s what they tried to call it—but I hadn’t done no drugs. You understand what I’m saying?”
A quiet groan gave Riddle confirmation that I was listening. Actually, I wanted Riddle to be quiet and leave me alone, but I dared not say anything. He continued for what must have been an hour, finally ending his tale with, “Riddle’s not in here for long. Not the Riddle man.”
Satisfied that he had fully explained himself, Riddle fell asleep. Then I almost wished he were still talking. His droning had at least made me drowsy. Now I was kept awake by the relentless murmur of voices coming from the other cells and by guards talking loudly to each other outside the metal door. At some point, though, I passed out.
At six o’clock the next morning, a guard set paper plates on the floor. I was sure he set the food near the toilet deliberately, out of spite.
Riddle lurched for the breakfast. “Better get yours before the mice beat you to it.”
I rolled off the bed just in time to see what Riddle meant. A rodent came out of a hole near the shower and made its way along the wall under Riddle’s bunk.
“My God!” I exclaimed. “What kind of place is this?”
“The Little Rock Ritz,” Riddle said with a twisted smile.
I swallowed some of the grits-like substance on the plate. The slice of toast had the consistency of sandstone. Chalky powdered milk was all we were given to try to wash it down.
When Riddle finished his food, he leaned against the door, shifting his position one way and then another to afford himself various views of the hallway. When he spotted a guard, he begged for food, affecting in a little boy’s voice. “I’ll have more, sir,” he said, probably not realizing who he sounded like. I was sure he’d never read Dickens.
“Aw, man,” Riddle called out plaintively. “You’re not goin’ to sit there eating donuts right in front of me.”
Half of a donut came through the metal window. Riddle received it as if it were steak.
“Thank you, sir,” Riddle said in mock-gracious tones. “I sho’ does thank ya, Mas—” He stopped short of saying massuh.
“Shut up, ya ungrateful niggah,” the guard shouted. Riddle smirked. He didn’t seem to mind the slur as long as he got his sweets.
“How long have you been in this cell?” I asked.
Riddle stayed at the door as he answered. “About six months.” He put his mouth to the window. “Hey, Legion!” he called out. “Legion!”
A gurgling sound rose from down the hallway. The strange noise grew in intensity, expanding from a froglike croak to a banshee howl. I heard a man’s and a woman’s voices, but they appeared to be arising from a single individual.
“Legion! Speak to me,” Riddle again called out.
A disturbing cacophony of sounds blended with the sexually ambiguous howl.
“What the hell is that?” I asked, putting my face next to Riddle’s so I could hear what was happening.
“That’s Legion,” Riddle said.
Riddle backed away to allow me to have a look. The sounds came from a nearby cell with a solid door like ours, but with an even smaller window. Behind the open slit peered two bloodshot, animalistic eyes.
“Legi
on gets disturbed when I call it out,” Riddle explained. He went back to the window and shouted, “I know who you are, Legion.”
Riddle sat on his bunk and took a Gideon Bible from under the mattress. He began reading loudly.
“‘He had his dwelling among tombs. Unclean spirit! No one could bind him, not even with chains. He saw Jesus from afar and worshipped him. Cried out, ‘What have I to do with You, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? Do not torment me.’”
Riddle shook the Bible at the window.
I recalled reading that part of the Bible once and feeling sympathy for the suffering, rebellious creature it described.
Legion’s screaming resumed more violently than before. I wondered how anyone could sustain such a sound that without popping an artery.
“Shut up!” the guard yelled at Riddle. “Quit aggravating that girl.”
“I’s aggravatin’ a demon, Massa,” Riddle mocked.
With the harsh slamming of the window flap, we lost sight of the world beyond our cell. The space became claustrophobically smaller.
“Guess that’s all the entertainment we get this morning,” Riddle said, resigning himself to a long stretch of boredom.
Riddle and I were the same height and about the same weight, both skinny as rails. But Riddle was large-boned and in good shape. He was clean-shaven, while I had a scraggly beard. As I began to ponder how Riddle managed to maintain such a close shave, he took out a mirror and plastic razor from a box stored under his bunk.
“Time to clean up,” Riddle said, placing a stopper in the sink. “Hardly any hot water,” he noted, “but if you soak long enough, it don’t hurt to shave.”
With that, he unzipped the jumpsuit halfway and pulled it off his shoulders, rolling the material down to his waist. He wetted a washrag, lathered it with soap, and held it against his face. I took the opportunity to study his body. Riddle was solid muscle.
“How are old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” Riddle replied. “Why’d you want to know?”
“Might have been better if you shot the guy a year ago.”
“They’d still a’tried me as an adult. Seventeen don’t make no difference in Arkansas.”
I sat on my bunk gazing down at Riddle’s shoulders and watching his muscles flex as he positioned the razor. Riddle turned sideways to angle himself for a neck shave. When he shifted to the other foot, the jumpsuit slipped precariously low. I caught Riddle’s eye in the mirror. He was watching me.
“You make me nervous sittin’ up there like a cock-a-tiel,” Riddle said, emphasizing the first part of the word. He finished shaving and dabbed his face with paper towels. “Shit, man. I ain’t had no partner in here for a long time. How am I supposed to get cleaned up?”
A hell of a long time, I repeated to myself. So, someone had shared the cell with him in the past. I started fantasizing about what they might have done together.
“Clean up like you usually do,” I said. “Don’t mind me.”
Riddle sucked in his stomach and the jumpsuit fell to the floor. A large pole levitated from his body as the garment raked across it. “I usually do somethin’ else in the mornings, if ya know what I mean.”
Without weighing the consequences, I jumped to the floor and unzipped my tight-fitting jumpsuit. Riddle and I sword played with our cocks. The act was spontaneous, a game boys play with each other when they get horny.
“Riddle ain’t used to this,” my cellmate said. “But I ain’t protesting. It’s kinda fun.”
I went to my knees and took in as much of Riddle as I could manage. He made pigtail boss look small. Riddle’s knees began to buckle, and he fell back onto the bunk.
“Want to fuck me?” I whispered.
Riddle stepped from his jumpsuit, laid me on his bunk, and raised my feet so I could press them against the upper bunk.
“Soap it up,” I said.
Riddle urgently lathered his finger and worked it inside me. Then he approached like a jousting knight.
“This ain’t going to hurt, is it?” Riddle asked before going all the way.
“I want it to hurt,” I said, bracing myself.
My words drove Riddle’s passions as he pressed his weight against me. The air grew saturated with the pungent odor of bodies in heat. Luxurious pain consumed me.
Funny how religious experience and sexual release are so closely related. As the pain soared up my spine, I felt relief in believing it was payment for my sins. I was Legion getting his just deserts. The mix of emotions took over my judgment, and I started to scream. Riddle stuffed the edge of his blanket into my mouth.
“Be quiet,” he said. “The guards’ll hear you, and we’ll both be damned.”
Just then, Legion began to howl. The hysterical voice penetrated the metal doors as if it were a spirit gaining access to our cell.
“I am Legion! For we are many!” the ancient demon announced as the din become a ghostly chorale.
Legion! For we are many!
The voices merged to form a unison chant.
I aided Riddle by pushing up hard. His body jerked spasmodically.
Legion’s wail softened and a familiar voice rose above the din. I am the wife you betrayed.
Riddle’s passion raced into my body as liquid fire. He collapsed beside me and used the end of the sheet to wipe himself off.
“Blood of the Lamb,” Riddle laughed, commenting on the stains caused by my torn ass.
The voice of a lonely girl now came from down the hall. It was the whimpering of a woman trying to keep her demons at bay. She was speaking to a guard, insisting on her innocence.
“You ain’t innocent,” the guard responded. “You stabbed your boyfriend like he was a slab of meat.”
“But I am innocent,” the girl insisted. “He beat me to an inch of my life!”
The guard slammed shut the metal window on the girl’s cell. The clack resounded through the hallway.
Riddle went to the shower to wash out the sheet and to clean himself better. “Damn,” he said, “you’re one crazy fuck.”
I sat on the clammy concrete floor. The area around me grew red as the weight of my body forced blood from my anus. Riddle put on his jumpsuit. He reached out a hand to help me up.
“No,” I said, pushing him away. “Pain is all I know of redemption.”
“What the hell you talking about?” Riddle said, easily irritated now after his violent orgasm. “You need to get in the shower, too. I don’t want no doctor at the infirmary accusin’ me of raping you or somethin’. I got enough troubles.”
I did as he asked, relishing the stab of pain caused by the lye-based soap.
When I came out of the shower, Riddle had curled up on his bunk facing the wall.
From the hallway, voices rose in unison: I am Legion, for we are many.
CHAPTER 45
On Monday morning, the door to the cell opened and I felt a nightstick poke me in the back. “Get up,” a guard demanded. “Arraignment time.”
The man led me to the front desk to sign out. On the way, we passed Legion’s cell. A chill ran up my spine as I looked at the closed metal shutter. I expected it to fly open at any second and for that strange pair of eyes to follow me down the hall.
I joined a train of men, handcuffed and shackled. Most were rough-looking characters with Bible-ink tattoos and scarred faces. Thirteen manacled men marched toward the courthouse. We weren’t allowed to wear coats and the sharp wind blowing across the Arkansas River ripped through our flimsy jumpsuits. Upon our arrival, a guard herded us into the cramped quarters of a waiting room. Soon, a heavyset man was unshackled and led away.
Hours passed as one by one, our numbers diminished. No one had returned, and I wondered if perhaps I would be seeing a lenient judge who had released them all. Finally, a guard loosened my handcuffs and led me into the courtroom, where sunlight streaming through the windows momentarily blinded me. The guard took a seat at a mahogany table next to the public defender who had been as
signed to me. I was startled to see familiar faces seated in the front row. Connie was there, her expression frozen in a mask of disapproval. Derek held onto the pew in front of him as if he might kneel at any moment and offer a prayer. Vivian stood up when our eyes met, but she quickly collapsed under the burden of her grief.
The judge listened to the charges. I was in such a fog that I barely comprehended what was going on. Was this an inquisition? Was I being charged with apostasy?
“How do you plead?” the judge asked.
“Innocent,” I responded.
The public defender looked at me with alarm and began explaining to the judge that I had rented a van for another party, and though they kept the vehicle longer than originally intended, my credit card should have covered the additional expense. The problem was that the rental company entered the number incorrectly and the amount wasn’t authorized. The clerk at the rental company reported the vehicle stolen.
The judge made no comment as he set a trial date. An officer led me back to jail. On the way across the street, I heard a slurred voice.
“Bubby!” the voice called. It was Vivian, walking arm in arm with Connie and Derek.
“Tell them you’re guilty, and you can come home, now,” Vivian said. “That lawyer told us.”
“Guilty?” I said. “Woman, what have you to do with me?”
Vivian pretended not to hear, looking quizzically at Connie, who said, “We’ll try to get you out on bail until the court date.”
The guard yanked my bound hands and thrust me into the street when the walk sign came on. He motioned for the family to keep their distance.
“You’ll have to communicate with him through the lawyer,” the guard said. “Ya’ll just stay here until we get to the other side.”
“Bubby!” Vivian called again.
I spent the next day in a stupor, barely nibbling the bland jailhouse food, and oblivious to the presence of Riddle, who wasn’t interested in talking anyway. He had stopped needling Legion. All day, he retreated to his bunk and pored over his Gideon Bible, seeking atonement, I figured, for having had sex with me.
