“Welcome to paradise,” Dick says.
“This way, scumbags,” one of the reception marshals says.
Over the next couple of hours, they are processed into the penitentiary. Once dressed in their new red jumpsuits, the reception marshals usher them into a featureless auditorium where the prison warden reads from an orientation script in a barely audible monotone. He informs them they will soon be assigned a job that best matches their professions and skills, and then launches into a litany of prison rules and regulations. As he drones on and on, the Prisoner stares out a large window at a vast yard bordered by numerous unpainted concrete blockhouses connected by concrete sidewalks that meander throughout the yard. Assorted unaccompanied inmates in identical red jumpsuits cross the yard heading to their various blockhouses.
“Please note the band on your wrist,” the warden is saying when the Prisoner mentally rejoins the orientation. “On it, you will find a unique identification number.”
The inmates examine their wristbands.
“This is the number your relatives will use to locate you. It is the number they will use to address mail to you. Memorise this number. It’s your name now. You will also find a number that corresponds to your assigned blockhouse and the cell to which you’ve been assigned.”
One of the reception marshals hands each of the inmates a sheet of paper with tiny writing on both sides.
“You are now being handed a copy of the rules of this institution, on the back of which is a listing of all the penitentiary offices and facilities.”
Two junior marshals escort the Prisoner to Block House K. They lead him down a long corridor to Cell 35. The Prisoner steps into the large cell and sees three bunk beds, four blue metal writing desks, one chrome latrine, and four inmates all gawping at him—two on their bunks, one at a desk, and a noticeably obese one sitting on the latrine with his jumpsuit pulled down around his ankles.
“Which one of these bunks is three-up?” the Prisoner asks.
One of the inmates, a bear of a black man stretched out on a bunk, points at the one above his. The Prisoner moves to his bunk and climbs into it. The inmates exchange glances with each other, then look back at the Prisoner.
“What is this?” asks the Prisoner, “a convention of predators?”
The man on the latrine lifts his hand at him. “Hi, I’m Smythe,” he says with an English working-class accent. “What are you in for?”
“Shut up, fat ass,” the Prisoner snaps. “Don’t talk to me while you’re taking a shit.”
The inmates stand up as one, and an awkward silence descends over the cell broken only by the faraway echoes of footfalls on the hard concrete outside.
“Obviously, our little yellow boy here doesn’t know how to make friends,” the Bear in the bunk below says after a moment.
The Prisoner hops off his bunk and grabs the Bear by the throat.
“I ain’t nobody’s little yellow boy. And I ain’t here to make friends.”
The Bear breaks free of the Prisoner’s grip and jumps out of his bunk, towering head and shoulders over the Prisoner, who drops back into a defensive karate stance, palms open. The Bear swings a fist; the Prisoner grabs his arm and yanks it, throwing the Bear off balance and sending him careening toward the latrine. Smythe leaps off the latrine just as the Bear falls onto it. The Prisoner pounces on the Bear and proceeds to beat the shit out of him, finishing by pushing the Bear’s head into the latrine. He then straightens up and looks around the cell. The other inmates drift back into the corners of the cell, eyes wide, mouths open.
“What are you guys still staring at?” The Prisoner stands feet wide apart, arms akimbo.
The inmates quickly look away and go back to their business. The Bear lies groaning on the floor.
Later, in the yard, the Prisoner sits cross-legged on the ground alone, his back against the wall of his blockhouse, looking bored. Some of the other inmates perform callisthenics in groups. Others mill about gossiping or sharing cigarettes among themselves, glancing every once in a while at the Prisoner and murmuring among themselves.
The Prisoner reaches into his pocket and pulls out the sheet of paper the warden distributed at orientation. He unfolds it and reads through the list of rules and regulations, then he turns it over and browses the other side. Spotting something of interest, he sits up and brings the sheet closer to his face. After a moment, he rocks onto his feet and sprints past the other inmates, who break off what they are doing and follow him with their eyes as he moves down the sidewalk to the Administration Building.
One of the guards inside the Administration Building points out a brown wooden door in the middle of the hall. The Prisoner thanks him and jogs down the corridor. Slowly pulling open the door, he peers inside and sees a well-stocked library with a few reading tables tucked in the corners, and a circulation desk in the middle. He steps inside and looks around, moving up and down the aisles between the stacks, noticing mainly law books.
“Hello?” he calls. His voice echoes back from the windowless concrete walls.
Circling back from the stacks, he spots a bulletin board on the back of the door where he finds a notice that says:
Inmates may help themselves. Books are to be used ONLY in the library and are not to be removed. DO NOT RESHELVE THE BOOKS. —The Administration
The Prisoner moves back to the stacks and spends a few minutes methodically browsing the books. He stops at the psychology section and selects a book that interests him and takes it to one of the reading tables.
At breakfast, the Prisoner sits at a crowded table in the mess hall wholly absorbed in a book. Every now and again he stabs at something on his plate and brings it to his mouth.
Bleeker walks past carrying a tray of porridge and coffee and notices the Prisoner. He returns and squeezes in between two other inmates directly opposite the Prisoner just as a metallic-sounding voice of ambiguous gender blares from the loudspeaker:
Attention: Inmates from Blockhouses A through E: Chow is over.
“Excuse me, guys.” Bleeker spreads his arms and legs to guarantee himself plenty of space at the table.
“Sure thing, Bleek,” says a jittery bespectacled inmate to his right. “I was just leaving.” He picks up his half-empty tray and scampers away.
“How are things going in Records?” asks a Slavic-looking inmate with jutting cheekbones sitting to Bleeker’s left. He wears his jumpsuit unbuttoned to his sternum to show off his hairy blonde chest.
Bleeker tears off a piece of cold toast with his teeth. “It’s a cush job,” he says with his mouth full. “What’ve they got you doing?”
“Kitchen duty.” The Slav pushes away his tray. “I should’a studied computers like you.”
Bleeker shrugs and flashes a mouthful of mush. Looking across the table at the Prisoner, he extends his arm. “Hi, I’m Bleeker.”
The Prisoner lifts his eyes from his book and looks blandly at Bleeker.
“We’ve met.”
The Slav tosses Bleeker a glance, then leans across the table.
“Bleek’s a good one to know, Kid. Works in Records. He’s in tight with the warden.”
The Prisoner looks back at his book and continues reading.
The Slav blinks at the Prisoner, then looks back at Bleeker and shakes his head.
“So… anyway, Bleek, what’s the word about the league?”
“Don’t know yet. Could go either way.” Bleeker stares at the Prisoner between sips of coffee.
“What’s the deal with that anyway?”
“Who knows? Maybe they’re afraid we’ll enjoy ourselves too much.” Bleeker sets down his cup loudly on his tray. “Hey, Koba, you play baseball?”
The Prisoner’s head jerks up from his book.
“Who told you my name?”
Bleeker’s mouth pulls back into a half-smile. “I work in Records, remember?”
Attention: Inmates from Blockhouses F through J: Chow is over.
The Slav grabs his t
ray and gets up from the table.
“Gotta run. See ya, Bleek.”
Bleeker raises a hand as the Slav moves away and drops off his tray on his way out the door. A new batch of inmates files into the nearly empty dining hall.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Bleeker says after a moment.
Koba slaps down his book, making his tray jump.
“What do you want to know? Whether I play baseball?”
“That’s what I asked.” Bleeker’s voice is serene. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Why are you so hostile anyway?”
“Why are you so friendly?”
“Because I like to make friends… Marilyn.”
The colour drains from Koba’s face. He looks around quickly and back at Bleeker. “How do you know about that?”
“I work in Records, remember. But, don’t worry, sweetheart. Your secret’s safe with me. As long as we stay friends.” He touches his finger to his eye.
Koba recovers himself and lifts his book. “Yeah, well, from now on I’ll pick my own friends, thank you. You can tell whomever you want. I don’t care.”
“Okay…” Bleeker narrows his eyes at Koba. “Now, about baseball—”
“I give up.” Koba closes the book and pushes it to one side. “All right, yes, I used to play baseball when I was a kid.”
“Little League?”
Koba nods.
“What position?”
“Pitcher. Seven years.”
Bleeker sits up and grins. “A regular Hideo Nomo, right? Would you be interested in playing on our team, once the league gets approved?”
“No, thanks. I don’t play anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. That part of my life is dead now. Baseball died with it.”
Bleeker rakes his fingers through his hair.
“Uh huh… well, there’s always the penitentiary’s Christmas Chorale. That is, if you’re keen on singing. I think they’re doing Handel’s Messiah this year.”
Attention: Inmates from Blockhouses K through O: Chow is over.
“That’s you,” Bleeker says, flashing a smile.
Koba nods, then picks up his tray and moves away from the table.
Smythe and the Bear stroll past Bleeker carrying their trays on their way to the door.
“Hey, Bleek, what’s the chink boy in for?” the Bear says into Bleeker’s ear. Smythe strains to hear the answer.
“Armed robbery and felony murder.”
“You see, Elijah,” Smythe says to the Bear. “What did I tell you?”
“No shit?” Elijah says to Bleeker.
“What’s he doing in our cell?” Smythe asks. “That’s what I want to know.”
“Why?” Bleeker asks.
“He’s one mean mother,” Elijah says.
* * *
Koba mans one of four stations of an old-fashioned PBX switchboard in a cooped-up windowless room, along with three other inmate operators. Between calls, he reads from Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams. His hair has grown back in, cut short in the front and sides and down to his collar, and he sports a few days’ growth of beard.
Just as he starts a new chapter, the door to the room creaks open and a prison runner sweeps inside and hands him a pale blue visitor’s slip. Koba sees the name Tomoko Koba on the slip of paper and returns it to the runner with a curt shake of his head.
* * *
Koba sits on his bunk reading a long letter from his mother while his cellmates play poker around the writing desks, which they have pushed together in the middle of the cell to make a makeshift table. All of them lift their heads at the sound of approaching footsteps that stops outside their cell. A moment later, the sally port grinds open, and a thin, narrow-shouldered, fuzz-faced inmate about Koba’s age with tight brown curls and thick, black horn-rimmed glasses appears in the doorway. Koba peers out at him from behind his letter.
“All right, freak, you’ll sleep on two-down,” the reception marshal behind him says as he shoves him inside.
The young inmate stumbles forward. He looks back at the marshal and pushes up his glasses, which have slipped down his nose.
“Have fun with this one, guys.” The marshal shuts the sally port and walks away whistling “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves.
Elijah narrows his eyes at their new cellmate, leaps to his feet, and runs to the sally port.
“Hey, Screw, wait up.”
Within seconds, the marshal’s face reappears through the bars of the sally port. Elijah jerks a thumb at the young man.
“What gives with this guy?”
The new inmate glances over his shoulder at Elijah, then moves forward timidly. Smythe points at bunk two-down and the shy young man shuffles toward it as the susurre of whispered conversation between Elijah and the marshal fills the cell.
“He’s a what?” Elijah says.
“Like I said… Enjoy yourself, Klein,” the marshal calls out to the new inmate before moving away.
As the echo of the marshal’s footsteps fade into the distance, Elijah steps up to the group ranged around the poker table. “Guess what we’ve got there, boys.” He sniffs at Klein who is climbing into his bunk.
“A Jew?”
“A maricón?”
Klein pulls up his legs and hugs them tight, staring at the others with wide eyes that look enormous through his thick glasses.
Elijah swaggers over to Klein’s bunk and points imperiously at him.
“Not only is this a Jew and a fairy…” Elijah pauses dramatically for effect. Koba sets aside the letter and sits up on his bunk. “…this sad excuse for a piece of excrement is also a convicted child molester.” Elijah punctuates his pronouncement by banging his fist against Klein’s bunk, causing it to shake violently.
The other inmates react with visible disgust, slamming down their cards and pushing away from the table.
“Bloody hell,” Smythe says. “What in God’s name is he doing here? Child molestation is not a federal offence.”
“According to my reliable and official source,” Elijah says, pointing at the sally port, “it is when it happens on a transcontinental flight.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Smythe spits in Klein’s direction. Elijah sinks to his knees and peers into Klein’s bunk, hungrily eyeing the trembling young man.
“Yes, he is indeed a freak, an abomination in the sight of the Lord God Almighty. And we, my friends, shall be the instruments of His justice.” He swings around and looks at the others. “The question is, what shall we do with him? That is, what shall we do to him, and in what order?” He looks back at Klein and reaches out to touch his knee.
Klein jerks his leg away from Elijah. “Leave me alone, please. It isn’t true.”
Elijah leaps forward and grabs Klein’s ear, and Koba drops out of his bunk and swoops in behind Elijah.
“Let go of him.”
Elijah glares at Koba over his shoulder, still holding on to Klein’s ear.
“Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said? Don’t you know what this piece of garbage is?”
“I said, let go of him.” Koba drops back into an attack pose, his arms raised and spring-loaded. “Now, motherfucker.”
Elijah hesitates a moment, then frowns and releases Klein.
“Man, you don’t know what you’re doing. You ain’t gonna get you any poontang for a long-ass time, not with what you’ve done. Might as well bang some scum as long as you got it.” He points at Klein. “Just look at this bitch, all trembling in the corner. She’s gonna be good for a whole lotta action.”
Koba shoves Elijah away from Klein’s bunk.
“Listen, all of you, I will kill anyone who so much as breathes on this guy.”
Klein breaks down and sobs loudly.
“I thought he wasn’t here to make friends,” one of the inmates says.
“I reckon he wants the fairy all for
himself,” Smythe says. “I heard from Bleeker that he’s not exactly the straightest plank on the floor.”
Koba walks over to Smythe; the rest of the inmates scoot away and give him plenty of room.
“Smythe,” Koba says, “You’re a pig.”
Smythe looks at the floor. Sweat trickles down his forehead and down the sides of his pustule-covered face. Koba lunges forward and swipes an open hand within inches of Smythe’s nose. Smythe screams and falls backwards off his chair, then scrambles away into a corner. Koba looks at the others.
“Would anyone else like to discuss this? One at a time, or all at once, it doesn’t matter to me.”
The others shake their heads or look away.
Koba returns to Klein’s bunk and stares at him deadpan. Klein has pulled himself together and is wiping his face with the edge of his sheet. After a moment, Koba sits on the edge of the bunk and extends his hand.
“Are you all right?”
Klein looks at Koba’s hand for a beat, then shakes it. “I’ve been better.”
Koba casts a quick backwards glance at the others, who have returned to their card game, occasionally exchanging angry looks among themselves. He looks back at Klein and flashes a sad smile.
“Thanks for that, by the way. I’m Albert… Albert Klein.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m—” Koba hesitates and looks down just as the overhead lights flash and the loudspeaker crackles to life.
Lights out! This is lights out! The amplified voice echoes off the walls of the blockhouse.
“We can talk later,” Koba says. He pats Klein’s leg just as the lights switch off and they are left in semi-darkness. He looks up as the others climb into their respective bunks then looks back at Klein. “Get some rest.”
* * *
Tomoko sits alone in the darkness of her living room, dressed in a powder blue nightgown and watching an old 8mm movie of a young boy playing baseball projected on a blank wall. Tears stream down her face as the boy hits a line drive and the shaky camera follows along the sideline as he sprints toward first base. The shortstop scoops up the ball and shoots it to the first baseman. The young boy slides into first as the ball hits the tip of the first baseman’s glove and bounces into the sideline. The young boy leaps to his feet and races to second base. The camera swings around to show the crowd in the bleachers going crazy.
The Death of Baseball Page 41
