Prison Noir

by Joyce Carol Oates

  PART I

  GHOSTS IN THE MACHINE

  SHUFFLE

  BY CHRISTOPHER M. STEPHEN

  Federal Correctional Institution, Oxford (Oxford, Wisconsin)

  Al Webber stood just inside his segregated cell, his pale, doughy skin still beaded with water from his trip to the shower. He was naked but for his boxers and shower shoes, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  He stared partially in disbelief, but mostly in anger, at the man in his cell—an invader of what had been his private domain just fifteen minutes prior.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Al snapped.

  The man, reclined on the cell’s second bunk, replied easily, “I’m your new cellie.”

  “Like hell you are,” Al bristled. “You need to tell them to get you the fuck out of here. Now.” He was infuriated by the intruder’s nonchalance. For almost eleven years, cell 301 in the SHU (special housing unit) at FCI Oxford had been his and his alone.

  Al rapidly scrutinized the newcomer and weighed the odds of taking him. The new man appeared hardened and fit. Crude, chalky tattoos covered his arms and neck, a witness to years spent inside. Two inked teardrops sprang from the corner of his left eye—the sign of a killer depending on whom you asked. The man’s hair, slicked back off his forehead “wise guy” style, was receding and graying at the temples. He appeared to be in his midforties, at least twenty years Al’s junior. There was no way he’d be able to smash the younger man out of his cell.

  As Al turned to address the guard, the heavy door slammed in his face.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “I ain’t supposed to have no cellie!”

  “Yeah, whatever, pops” came the guard’s tired response. Al heard the key turn. “Put your hands by the chuck-hole unless you want to wear those cuffs all night.”

  By policy, Al and the other SHU inmates were handcuffed when traveling to and from their cells. Their cuffs were removed by the guards through the chuck-hole—a slot in the door with a locking steel flap.

  Rather than place his hands by the hole, Al crouched so that he could be better heard through the steel door. “I ain’t puttin’ up with no cellie,” he said firmly. “Warden’s orders.”

  “I’m not going to ask you again, Al,” the guard replied, exasperated.

  Figuring it best to have his hands loose, Al moved his bony wrists to the chuck-hole. Within seconds, his hands were free and the hole was snapped closed and locked.

  Rubbing his wrists, Al rounded his body so that he could see the guard through the small square plexiglass window located in the center of the door. “I ain’t havin’ no cellie! Now get the warden down here.”

  “Fuck you, old man.” The guard turned and walked away.

  Al ineffectually slammed his fist against the door and then spun to face the man on the bunk. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he spat. “You’re outta here tomorrow.”

  The man spoke mildly, seemingly unthreatened by Al’s outburst: “I didn’t ask to be in here.”

  Shaking his head while he kicked off his shower shoes, Al debated whether he should say something else to the insolent bastard, but he decided against it.

  Al despised the BOP’s policy of squeezing two men in a cell in the SHU. The old days were gone, the days when segregation meant single cells—true solitary confinement. As the prisons filled to overflowing and budgets tightened, the feds needed to get the most bang for their bucks. If that meant cramming two grown men into a space designed for one, so be it. But for Al—he could imagine nothing worse. Stuck in a cement box twenty-three hours a day with a jackass he couldn’t stand was torture. And even if Al could stand it, he knew from experience that after a few weeks, every cough, every sniffle, every smacking of the lips . . . was like a direct malicious assault on his peace. He remembered one motherfucker whose breath matched the sickening stench of his feet. Al wasn’t sure what had been worse—when he opened his mouth to talk or took his shoes off. Though nothing would ever compare to the cellie who had been in the habit of shitting five times a day. That, thought Al, had been the worst. It had nearly broken him. Having to go to the bathroom in a closet-sized room while another man sat not six feet away was bad enough, but having to listen to another man shit—even at the farthest corner of the cell with your back turned—was a vile experience.

  Al took a deep breath and tried to center his energy. He hadn’t had a cellie in a long time. From time to time they attempted to stick someone in his cell, but Al would raise such a stink—he’d even threaten violence—that the guards would move on to the next cell before Al even had a chance to see the guy’s face. This time they had moved another man into Al’s cell while he showered—it was a dirty move and he’d be damned if he’d put up with it.

  He stepped into his khaki jumpsuit, leaving the top button undone, and reached beneath his mattress for a comb. Barefoot, he stood in front of the stainless steel sink/toilet combo and looked at the spot on the wall where a mirror would normally hang. There were no mirrors in SHU; they supposedly served no purpose. Shaving was allowed only in the shower. Still, Al acted as if he could see his reflection. Beginning with the ends of his waist-length gray hair, he worked upward, using his free hand to clamp just above the strands of hair he combed. He leaned over the sink to get a better look at his thinning locks in the nonexistent mirror before tying it back with the string from a mophead.

  He rested his hands on the edge of the sink and closed his eyes. Attempting to control his rage, he took a moment to choose his words and tone, lips moving with his thoughts. Finally, he turned to face his new cellie.

  “Don’t spit in the sink, don’t piss on the toilet, and you better hope to God you don’t snore because if I ain’t sleepin’, you ain’t sleepin’.”

  Not a word from the other man.

  “You got that?” Al’s voice was full of menace and his blue eyes burned with manic fire.

  The man sighed, “Yeah, pops, I hear you.”

  Al, feeling he’d asserted his territorial dominance, allowed his aggression to fade. He had been out of general population for eleven years, but prison was a closed society and a man’s reputation, good or bad, often preceded him. Now that the matter of who was boss had been sorted out, Al asked the man his name.

  “Martin.”

  “Martin what?”

  “Martin Monatomic.”

  A sour look bunched Al’s already lined face. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

  “It’s Greek.”

  With a dismissive grunt, Al asked, “You a rat?”

  “Nope.”

  Al, his brows knit together, stared at Martin and tried to decide if he was lying. Sitting down on his bunk so the two men were face-to-face, Al said, “Me and you ain’t friends. I don’t like to talk, so don’t talk to me.”

  Seeking the escape of unconsciousness, Al lay on his bunk and covered his head with his blanket before rolling over to face the wall.

  * * *

  The sound of a key turning in the chuck-hole lock snapped Al out of a dream, though he remained on his bunk with his eyes closed. He had been dreaming of the past, a long-ago sentence in another prison. He no longer dreamed about the free world.

  “Breakfast time, pops,” Martin said, stepping off his bunk.

  “I know what time it is. I been doing this since you was on the titty.”

  “Trays!” called a voice from the hall as a brown plastic food tray slid through the open slot. Martin handed it to Al and then took the next one and retreated back to his bunk.

  Still foggy with sleep, Al set his tray on the edge of the sink and unsteadily crouched down by the chuck-hole. “Hey,” he said. “I need to see the warden.”

  “I’m busy here, all right?” came the gruff reply from the guard who was already at the next cell.

  “Look,” said Al, louder, “I want a request form. I’ll write him myself.”

  “You look!” snapped the guard. “The warden knows what’s going on. He’ll get here when he gets here. Now
give it a rest.”

  “It’s fucking pointless,” muttered Al. He rose, knees popping, and retrieved his tray from the sink. Two steps later he was seated on his bunk sporking lukewarm grits into his mouth. Grits and a piece of cake almost every morning. Looking up he noticed Martin staring at him. “What?”

  “You got anything to read?” Martin asked.

  The nerve of some people, Al thought. He waved his hand over the food that remained on his tray. “You mind if I finish eating?”

  “No, finish eating. My bad.”

  Al swallowed a bite of cake. “What do you want to start a book for anyway? You’re gonna be out of here today and you ain’t takin’ one of my books.”

  “I’ll read as much as I can.”

  The old man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pointed to his modest stack of books beneath the foot of his bunk.

  Al followed Martin with his eyes as the guy moved toward the end of the bunk and began picking through the volumes. Al watched as Martin passed over a copy of the Koran, the Gita, some westerns . . . three translations of the Bible, a spy novel, some thrillers . . . and Al’s lone Danielle Steel book for those private times.

  “You get lost?” Al asked, though he wasn’t really asking.

  Martin stood up, a thick, tattered book clenched in his hand. “Call me Ishmael,” he quoted.

  “Moby-Dick,” said Al. “Everyone wants to write the great American novel, but they’re too late; it’s been done.” He stared off in thought for a short time. “Gatsby’s a close second, but that’s number one,” he added, pointing at the book with his spork before flicking it onto the tray. He tore off a piece of toilet paper, wiped his mouth with it, and tossed it into the toilet. The cell was so small that he was able to complete the task without leaving his bunk.

  “You got the trays?” he asked Martin. The trays would need to be handed back out through the chuck-hole when the cart returned. Usually, Al fumed until they were collected, cursing the laziness and stupidity of whichever guard was working the unit. He was ever impatient to climb back under the covers and vanish into his only refuge—sleep.

  “Yeah,” replied Martin, “I’ll get ’em.”

  * * *

  With no clock in the cell, Al kept time by the meals that were served. So, when a tiny square of pizza crust coated with a thin layer of red sauce and a sprinkling of a crumbly meat-like substance arrived, he figured it was close to eleven a.m. He sniffed at the undercooked white rice, overcooked green beans, and a soggy oatmeal cookie.

  “They treat us better than we deserve,” moaned Al, inspecting his tray.

  Martin said nothing, lowering his head and shoveling food.

  Al, balancing his tray on his knees, took his time eating. He chewed with his mouth closed and wiped the corners of his mouth with toilet paper after each swallow, as if he was dining in a fine restaurant instead of a seven-by-ten prison cell. He glanced at Martin who was already finished with his lunch. Next to him, Moby-Dick was facedown.

  “Hey!” He pointed to the volume. “Use a fucking bookmark, for fuck’s sake.” Annoyed, he balled up his makeshift napkin and threw it down on his tray. Placing the lid over the top, he set the tray on the floor. In three short steps, he was at the sink, toothbrush in hand. “You past all that homo shit with the native?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” replied Martin. “They’ve already shipped out, killed their first whale—”

  “You know that book was based on a true story, don’t ya?” Al asked, cutting Martin off.

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, well, did you hear that in the end they all turned into murderers and cannibals? In the lifeboats they drew lots to see who would get eaten and who would do the killin’. The captain drew the straw to do the deed and the cabin boy drew the shortest straw.”

  Martin shrugged, picked up Al’s empty food tray off the floor, and placed it in the chuck-hole. “I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  A smile spread across Al’s face. “Well, the cabin boy just happened to be the captain’s nephew.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “When the captain got home with two other survivors, he had to tell his sister that he’d eaten her son. The other two knew, so he had to tell her. There’s always someone who knows what you’ve done.” He muttered the last part more to himself than to Martin.

  “I know what you’ve done.” Martin looked Al dead in the eyes. “You’ve got experience with killing family.”

  Al felt an immediate shift of power in the air as the color drained from his face. “Shut your mouth, you don’t know nothin’ about it.”

  “I know all about it.”

  Al pointed a trembling finger in Martin’s face. “I did what I had to do.”

  “You beat your father to death with an axe handle while he slept.” Martin shook his head, his face screwed up in disgust.

  “The motherfucker was molesting my kid.”

  “But that’s not why you killed him.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You’re the one who was gettin’ fucked and that’s why you killed him. Don’t lie. Not to me and not to yourself. You didn’t kill him for your kid. You did it for you.”

  “I did it for my kid,” Al replied evenly. Saying it out loud made it so and he held on to that for all it was worth.

  “For what he did to you,” Martin challenged.

  “For what he did to my kid,” Al’s voice rose an octave.

  “You’re a liar.”

  Out in the hall, the other convicts, hearing the commotion, began pounding on their doors.

  Martin continued, his voice low despite the ruckus outside the cell. “Come on, Al. It’s just me and you in here. Admit it. You killed him because he hurt you.”

  “I killed him for my kid!” Al roared. He lunged at the door and latched onto the chuck-hole, knocking the empty tray into the hall. “CO!” he screamed through the hole. “CO! Get him out of here. Get this son of a bitch out of my cell! CO!”

  Up and down the range the other convicts howled and banged on their doors, calling out in falsetto, “CO, get him out of my cell,” and, “I did it for my ki-ii-d.” Their laughter, like that of hyenas, carried and bounced off the prison walls.

  Al turned to Martin, his face twisted in panic and rage. “See what you’ve started? You’re the Devil.”

  With a serene smile on his face, Martin replied, “You’re not that lucky.”

  * * *

  Al didn’t remember going to sleep. He didn’t even remember getting on his bunk and covering up; so when he woke he was disoriented. Being careful to move as little as possible, he used the tips of two fingers to create a tiny gap between the blanket and mattress. He peered out from beneath the covers at Martin Monatomic, who sat on the bunk across from him in the same position as earlier, still engrossed in Moby-Dick.

  The door at the end of the range opened and closed and the sound of shuffling footsteps drew closer. “Aw, man,” said Al, throwing off the blanket and getting up.

  “What?” asked Martin, not bothering to look up.

  “It’s the psyche.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Footsteps. Hear the limp?”

  From the hall came a voice that was thin and high—male but with a definite feminine inflection. “Officer, 301, please.” Keys turned and the chuck-hole opened. “Thank you, you may leave.”

  The sound of wolf-whistles and door banging began up and down the corridor, taunts and invitations.

  The doctor turned, seemingly unable to let the moment pass, and addressed the general contained melee. “You couldn’t handle this!”

  Raucous laughter accompanied an increase in the pounding. Then, as quickly as the noise swelled, it just as quickly tapered off. Appearing to accept the quietness as a minor victory, the psyche smiled as he hunched down to call through the open chuck-hole. “Mr. Webber?”

  Al was already positioned on the other side of the hole. “Doctor
Fraud?”

  The psyche cracked a smile. “Mr. Webber, besides being totally passé, Freud and his psychoanalytic theory, in my humble opinion, are totally ineffective.”

  Al watched as the doctor reached behind his angora V-neck sweater vest and pulled out a Montblanc lacquered pen from his shirt pocket. Opening the lavender-colored cover on his notebook-style clipboard, he made a mark on the page and then peered through the chuck-hole at Al. Smiling broadly, he said, “Sometimes, a cigar is only a cigar.”

  “Yeah,” countered Al, “and you would know.”

  The doctor laughed. “You got me there. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “You can tell the warden to get this guy out of my cell.” Al jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  The smile vanished from the doctor’s face. “Mr. Webber, we’ve been through this. You’re going to have to deal with—”

  “I ain’t dealin’ with shit. I’ve been in prison twenty-three years, eleven of it in the SHU, and I ain’t never getting out. I’m going to die in here. I ain’t sharing shit with nobody.”

  The doctor took a deep breath while making a mark in his notebook. “Look, I can prescribe—”

  “I ain’t takin’ no more pills!” Al’s voice hardened. “All you people know how to do is shove pills down our throats.”

  The doctor repositioned his glasses and cleared his throat. “If you’ll just try something to take the edge off . . .” He was almost pleading. “There are new medications that might help, even more so than last time.”

  Al’s voice rose: “You can help me by gettin’ this fucker out of my cell.”

  “Mr. Webber, it’s not healthy—”

  “I don’t need someone like you telling me what’s healthy,” he barked, and watched as a shade of pink crept up the man’s neck and colored his face.

  The doctor capped his pen and closed his notebook. “That’s fine. I’ll tell the warden you want your cellie moved.” Before Al could respond, the doctor stood. “Guard!” he shouted. “I’m finished here.”

  The doctor was down the hall and gone before the guard even arrived to lock the chuck-hole.