Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  She stood in front of the heavy metal door in front of her, but it didn’t open. She turned to the guard, but couldn’t hold the large woman’s challenging gaze, and her eyes skittered to the ground.

  “Ransome, do you read?”

  “What?” she asked, glancing up at the guard’s face and away again.

  “I asked you if you read.”

  “Is that a trick question?” asked Reilly, before she could filter herself. She glanced up to chart the response to her impertinence.

  The guard waited without changing her expression. It was scarier than if the guard had worn a mask of anger.

  “Sorry. Yes, I read,” said Reilly, studying the floor.

  “You want to be the wing librarian?” asked the guard.

  “There’s a library here?”

  “Yes. But it’s a mess. No one uses it.”

  “So, I’d have to clean it up?”

  The guard nodded her head. Reilly wondered what the catch was.

  “I already have a job in the chow hall. I do dishes after dinner.”

  “You’d have to do both for a while.”

  “You mean extra duty? Why would I want that?” asked Reilly, wondering why the guard was asking, when she had the authority to just order her to do the work.

  “Most people wouldn’t.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  The guard just stared at her again.

  “Why doesn’t anyone want to be the librarian? What’s the catch?” asked Reilly, trying another approach.

  “Besides having to clean up the library, you lose one of your hours in the yard each day. Plus, you miss half of dinner if you want to take a shower, since you have to be in the library during showers. That’s when it’s open.”

  Reilly didn’t know how to answer.

  “Look, you can check in, too,” said Officer Ferguson, her voice cold with something worse than impatience, and Reilly knew that the guard was done with the conversation. Reilly’s lawyer had told her about checking in, which was a prisoner’s request for protective custody. She’d thought about it off and on ever since she had gotten there. The thing was, she wasn’t sure that she could bear the solitude, though she could care less about the disdain that other prisoners had for inmates that chose checking in over general population. “I’m sure the warden would accept your application, considering your situation.”

  That comment settled it for Reilly. She didn’t want to be isolated, with the guards—and the warden—as her only contacts.

  “I’d get to shower alone?”

  “No. The laundry crew showers at the same time.”

  “Just them? Are they the ones that come into the chow hall after everyone else does?” asked Reilly, understanding the gift that the guard was offering her.

  “Yes.”

  Reilly knew who those women were, and as far as she could tell, most of them were short-timers, just biding their time before being paroled. They kept to themselves and didn’t do anything to get into trouble.

  “I’ll do it. When do I start?” Reilly knew that the guard would expect something in return. She didn’t care.

  “Today, if you want.”

  “Show me where to go.”

  Twist

  REILLY HAD HER ARMS ELBOW deep in hot, gray water, scouring the bottom of one of what seemed to be a never-ending supply of huge pots that had been used to cook dinner. Though she had dish gloves on, her flesh stung from the heat and from the water that ended up sloshing in over the tops of the gloves. Steam from the sink engulfed her, adding to the rivulets of sweat that trailed down the sides of her face. Every so often she wiped some off with her shoulder, but she couldn’t find it in her to pay much mind to her surroundings or what she was doing, other than to just get it done. She attended to her dish duty the way she attended to everything else these days—like an automaton.

  For the past three nights, she had reported to the kitchen after dinner and had taken the station pointed out to her by the woman who ran the place, the woman the guards called Bird. The first two nights she had spent washing the glassware that only the guards and administration got to drink from. The prisoners had plastic cups. This was the first night she had been on pots and pans. Reilly knew that Bird was an inmate by the standard issue clothing, but the guards treated her with respect. And, when it came to the kitchen, Bird was the one in charge.

  The woman was rough in every way, from the wiry gray hair that stuck out around the edges of her hair net to the sandpaper skin of her hands. The riprap gravel texture of her voice when she barked out an expletive-laced command to one of the kitchen crew said that she didn’t put up with any shit. She expected the crew to do what she told them to, when she told them to do it. And they did. Under her command, the kitchen ran well, and the work got done.

  The intermittent sound of Bird barking out orders over the constant clatter of dishes receded into the background as Reilly retreated into her mind and went over the conversation she’d had that afternoon with the guard who the other prisoners called Fergie.

  Reilly had soon stopped wondering why Fergie had singled her out for the job. So much happened in the prison that didn’t seem to make sense that figuring out what motivated the people around her was a waste of time. It was easier to just take things as they came, to try and stay under the radar.

  While she scrubbed the stubborn film from the bottom of a soup pot, Reilly mulled over the work that she’d soon be doing in the library. It didn’t seem like it would end up being much work, since calling it a library was a generous description for the walk-in closet sized space that Fergie had showed to her. It held a dismal but eclectic array of ancient books and out-of-date magazines, arranged in haphazard piles on dusty shelves. An unplugged computer sat on a pile of books in the corner of the room.

  Reilly’s thoughts skidded to a stop when one of the pots she had just washed was tossed, with no warning, back into the sink, causing a tsunami of dishwater to cascade over her. A short burst of laughter echoed off of the bare gray walls in the large room.

  “Shut your holes, bitches!” snapped Bird to the other women whose laughter stopped as fast as it started. She focused her anger on Reilly. “You’ll clean this right, or you can start scrubbing shitters tomorrow, princess.”

  Without a word, Reilly nodded, wiped the dishwater from her eyes with her arms, and began to scrub again. Bird walked away and Reilly heard her yell something at someone else out in the service line area of the kitchen. A small knot of anger pulled together in her chest. Aside from the overarching cloud of fear and depression that had been her constant companion since the accident, the knot of anger building inside of her was the first sign of emotion aside from sadness and fear she had felt in months.

  She had several seconds to consider it before she sensed someone approach her from behind.

  “I like my women wet,” purred a voice close to her ear. It was the voice that had called after her from the showers, and the humid smell of rank breath that accompanied it, strong enough to be discerned over the stench of dirty dishwater, made Reilly’s stomach turn. She cringed inside when the person behind her reached up and picked something from the front of her hairnet.

  “Yeah, limp cabbage is a definite turn-on,” mumbled Reilly, glancing at the fingers holding something slimy a few inches from her face.

  “Shut up, snatch. I didn’t ask for your opinion,” spit out the voice behind her, and Reilly was smart enough not to turn. She knew it was the braided lady who had been watching her since she had arrived.

  A loud buzzer pierced the air and Reilly’s eyes shot up to the speaker mounted in the corner of the kitchen. The small metal boxes were mounted throughout the facility, and she was beginning to get used to the sound of them going off at intervals during the day. They measured the cadence of the lives inside. They signaled the beginning and end of each day, announced each meal, and warned the inmates of the end of each period of outdoor time. Once, they had signaled the beginning of an annou
ncement by the warden. This time it called the guards to action.

  “All Charlie Guards to Station 12. All Charlie Guards to Station 12.”

  The two bored guards that stood near each door to the kitchen came to life and left the room.

  “Nothing to concern you, ladies,” growled Bird to the room. “Just keep doing your fuckin’ work. I’m not gonna miss my TV shows because you decide to dick around when the guards ain’t here.”

  “Well, well, well,” smirked The Braid, and Reilly felt the woman press up against her from behind. “Now we have an opportunity to get acquainted, since you don’t seem to like to shower with us.”

  “Twist, just do your work,” said Bird from across the room.

  Reilly felt relief with Bird’s words, and she had a name for the woman with the braid at last. If the situation hadn’t been so scary, the cynic in her would have observed how very, very prison the name sounded. But the feel of the wiry woman at her back and the awareness of the very serious situation she was in just made her freeze.

  “Mind your own business, Bird. This is between the little lady and me.”

  “Anything that goes down in this kitchen is my business,” barked Bird, her voice closer. Reilly wondered who would win in a fight, Bird or Twist, and for a fraction of a second, Reilly hoped that the territory skirmish would save her. But the rapid negotiation that followed dashed that hope.

  “You can take your pick of showerheads the rest of the week,” offered Twist, and she didn’t make any move toward going away.

  “Four weeks. No time limit. And a good towel,” countered Bird.

  “Done,” said Twist.

  “Just be finished with her by the time the guards get back,” said Bird, and Reilly’s heart leapt into her throat as she heard the hardened woman walk away.

  The pressure from behind Reilly increased and the rank smell of Twist’s breath made the meal that had been hard enough to stomach in the first place threaten to come back up. Reilly’s hand tightened on the handle of the heavy pot she’d been washing. She tried to calculate the logistics of using it as a weapon if it became necessary. Filled with water, it would be too heavy to lift quickly, let alone swing around.

  “I expected to see you in the showers by now, Movie Star,” purred Twist, trailing her fingers up Reilly’s arm along the exposed flesh between the latex glove and her rolled up sleeve. “I’ve been dying to see those tits in real life. They only show us the edited version of your movies in here.”

  There was now no question about whether the other inmates recognized her, making her skin crawl with the familiarity she heard in Twist’s voice. By the sound of it, at least some of them had seen the one in which she had done her first and last nude scene. She was glad that it was the edited version that didn’t show the full nudity that she had consented to during the rehab scene that had garnered her a second golden statuette. The way that Twist had been leering at her, she didn’t want those visions fueling her imagination.

  “I bet the rest of you is pretty tasty, Movie Star,” said Twist, and Reilly felt a warm tongue slide up her neck. She shuddered with revulsion. “I’ve staked my claim, so you’ll be mine starting tonight.”

  The terror that had been building in Reilly since the moment she had entered the gates of Ral-Rutherford welled up in her and she moved without thought. She whirled upon Twist and pushed her away. Though the woman wasn’t large, she still outweighed Reilly by at least fifty pounds and most of that was muscle, so the motion that provided Reilly with a moment of space was successful only because it was unexpected. Through her fear-shrouded eyes, Reilly saw black fury take possession of Twist’s face. The terror that infused Reilly as she realized the fate that was about to claim her, almost paralyzed her. With nothing to rely on but the talent that she used to make her movies, Reilly did the only thing she knew. She fell into character. The same character that Twist had referred to. Excavating the emotions that she had used to bring a young, gang-influenced drug addict to life on the screen, she became the character, Deuce.

  “Back the fuck off, motherfucker,” she spit out at the advancing Twist, and her own unrecognizable voice enhanced her performance, as she braced herself for the imminent physical confrontation. She could feel every muscle in her body tense, and she prepared herself to spring at the menacing figure.

  “The fuck you say, bitch?” asked Twist. Rage contorted her face, as she paused for a second to assess the unexpected turn of events.

  “You fucking heard me. Back off,” snarled Reilly, bracing her hands on either side of her as she leaned against the steel sink behind her.

  Reilly focused on Twist, the danger in front of her. The circle of women that had formed around them was a remote concern. She didn’t have time to think about what a hyped-up group of women with access to sharp and heavy objects might mean. She’d never seen a riot.

  “Oh, bitch, you gonna figure out your place around here real quick,” threatened Twist as she threw herself at Reilly.

  Reilly trusted the sink behind her to hold her weight as she kicked both feet up as Twist advanced. They landed in the center of Twist’s chest. Then Reilly pistoned her legs back and out, throwing Twist backward.

  A surprised and angry growl erupted from Twist as she fell, and Reilly flew after her without thinking. She landed on Twist with both knees, knocking out what wind Twist still had in her after her abrupt fall onto the concrete and tile floor. Reilly scratched at Twist’s face and tried to punch her, but she couldn’t land a solid blow. An awareness of what she was doing descended upon her, and the energy that had powered her limbs in the last minutes evaporated as she realized that she didn’t have much left with which to attack. At the same time, the slack-jawed and dazed expression that had been on Twist’s face as she gasped for air morphed into a crazed anger. Reilly’s mind clambered to figure out her next move. She didn’t know what else to do. Her adrenaline was depleted and her arms were weakening. Without thinking, she bent low and bit into Twist’s hate-filled face. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and the rubbery pop of her teeth breaking skin echoed in her skull. Growling like a dog, she sat back and watched as blood poured out of the round mark she had left on Twist’s cheek.

  The sight of blood sobered her, and she coughed up the blood that tried to go down her throat. She saw Twist’s eyes narrow, and before she knew what was happening, Twist’s face came flying at her. Reilly’s head flew back as Twist head-butted her. She saw stars as she corrected her fall backward and started to fall forward, stunned.

  With an abrupt yank, someone grabbed her by the shirt, and she was lifted off her knees. Her arms and legs thrashed weakly in the air. Comic in their vibrant color and size, she realized that she still wore the thick yellow dish gloves. Long strands of dark and gray hair were tangled in the rubber fingers. The guard dropped her several feet away from Twist, and her legs, in typical post-adrenaline retreat, threatened to give way as the last ounce of energy fled her body. She wiped her face. The blood that she saw on the glove when she pulled it away made her bile rise and she threw up.

  “What the hell?” cried a guard, stepping with athletic speed out of the way of the vile splash.

  “Okay, ladies, backs against the wall. Move back!” yelled another guard who ushered the circle of prisoners away from the immediate area.

  The half-dozen prisoners retreated. The blackness encircling Reilly’s vision opened up, and she took note of her surroundings.

  “She fucking bit me! The bitch fucking bit me!” Twist screamed as she sat on the floor, legs splayed in front of her, holding the side of her face. Blood dripped down her arm, onto her lap, and splattered onto the white-tiled floor. Reilly’s stomach churned again at the sight.

  “Take them to the infirmary.”

  Reilly was led away on wobbling legs, the tastes of vomit and blood in her mouth.

  In Reilly’s House

  A FEW DAYS LATER, REILLY sat on the uncomfortable chair in her cell after having spent two
days in the infirmary for a concussion resulting from the head-butt Twist had given her. Although the doctor had scared the shit out of her about hepatitis C, Twist had tested negative, which had been a huge relief. Other than that, the stay in the infirmary had been uneventful and almost relaxing. Twist had been stitched up and released, and the separation had been a welcome reprieve for Reilly, who knew that she had made a dangerous enemy. The best thing about her convalescence was the shower that she had been able to take for the first time since arriving, an act that made her feel far more human than the two days of rest.

  Back in her cell, Reilly stared at a blank piece of paper on the desk in front of her and tried to gather her thoughts. It would be her first letter home, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. She rolled a cheap pen between her hands, which were poised as if in prayer in front of her, with her elbows propped up on the cool metal surface of the desk. There was nothing she wanted to tell her parents about her first few days in prison, and her depression was so thick that no words drifted through her mind.

  She glanced at the low metal-frame bed beside her. She longed to curl up on the rough wool blanket that covered the thin mattress and go to sleep. But she knew that the feeling of vulnerability that would keep her from falling asleep would only lead to frustration. Even with the rule that prisoners stay out of each other’s cells, she felt too insecure to let her guard down enough to sleep while the door was locked open. Two of the other women in the infirmary had been shanked in their own cells. She pined for the sterile, safe sick hall, where the mattresses were a little thicker, the blankets were a little softer, and nurses watched over her, so that she didn’t have to worry about being attacked as she slept. She closed her eyes and traced with her finger the edge of the bandage that covered the four stitches she had received just over her eyebrow.