by Ryan Schow
“Shut up,” the geezer’s buddy hisses.
The surfer stiffens. I remember my jailor taking Bailey. I remember him shooting Quentin like he was a rabid dog in the street. Whatever this guy does, however he carries himself, I refuse to lose sight of the fact that he’s a kidnapper and a killer.
“Shut up or what?” I ask.
All three of them look at me and then the surfer says, “They’re right. We can’t talk about this. About him.”
The day passes and it is the slowest day in recorded history. My back hurts where I’ve been shot, my face still hurts and now all my muscles and bones are aching, too. Plus there’s a knot on my head where I was head-butted, but who’s counting? The point is, I’d kill for a proper bed right about now! Oh, and did I tell you my stomach is damn near empty? Yeah. It is. And the peach…let’s just say my almost upset stomach is going to need a place to evacuate and I’m not looking forward to blowing out my business in the company of others.
Groaning, I turn over, try to sleep.
I wake in perfect darkness to the sounds of crying. It’s not a heavy sobbing, rather it’s just a soft whimpering. I can’t tell if it’s a child or Bailey. Now my mind is turning and I start to weigh the options of calling out her name. If I can do so loud enough for her to hear, but low enough that I won’t wake my cell mates, or alert the jailor—whom I’m now referring to as The Warden—then maybe I can make contact.
“Bailey,” I whisper. Nothing. The sobbing continues. Again, “Bailey.”
The sniffling stops as the person crying realizes I’m awake.
“Bailey,” I say again.
“Nick?” the voice comes back.
“Shhh,” I say, my heart leaping with excitement. I hear shuffling and hands going to what I imagine is another cage of sorts.
“I can’t see you,” she whispers, loud enough that I can hear her, but so low I have to strain to understand.
“I’m in a cage next door. You?”
I hear her deflate. “You’re trapped, too?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Got pepper-sprayed in the face trying to get you out.”
“And now you’re here,” she says, defeated.
“Yep.”
“Good job. Really,” she says, sarcastic, “that’s fantastic.”
“Has he hurt you?”
“Define hurt.”
“Are you injured?”
“Only my pride, my dignity and my head where that fat bitch practically brained me.”
“What do you mean your dignity?”
“He knocked me out, stole my clothes and left me in this plywood box with a bucket to crap in and barely a sliver of light.”
“He took your clothes?” I ask, not sure who this scumbag is or why he’d do something like that.
“Yeah.”
“Did he—”
“No. But he did tell me that stealing from innocent people would hurt them when they came to find their things were missing.”
“So he’s teaching you a lesson.”
“Yes. He’s teaching me this ‘lesson’ daily. And sometimes, while I’m asleep, he puts a flashlight on me and just watches. Like some kind of a pervert.”
“That’s it?” I ask, even though it’s enough.
I feel the heart tremors starting in my chest. The trembling starts to spread throughout my limbs and an affliction on par with revulsion begins to grow and take shape in my lower abdomen. The violation alone pumps me full of venom. First he kills Quentin, then he debases Bailey and now he’s kidnapped us both and is holding us as prisoners?
“I can cover up, but I have the feeling he’s…he’s…pleasuring himself. I think I can hear him doing it, but then he stops and leaves and after that, he doesn’t come back for awhile. Not sure what kind of lesson he’s teaching me then, maybe that sickos like him do exist.”
“Shhhh,” says a voice from the darkness. It’s coming from where the surfer is. “If he catches you talking to her…”
I fall silent. Bailey doesn’t talk. Then to the surfer I ask, “What has this guy done that has you so scared?”
“There were four of us in here,” he whispers. “It was before you came. The guy, his name was Andy, he wouldn’t shut up. Day and night he’d yell. He’d sleep off and on only to gather strength to yell himself hoarse. Then one day he came in and shot Andy in the face with his beanbag gun and the guy dropped dead. He left him there for the day, just so we’d know what happened to us if we behaved poorly. That’s what he said. That Andy had been behaving poorly.”
“So what’s his endgame? What does he want?”
“We can’t figure it out.”
“Can we get out? I mean, have you been thinking of a way?”
“Sure, but it’s all locked down pretty good. Bolts on the floor, solid welds on the bars, insulation on the walls we assume, so the neighbors don’t get wind of anything unusual going on here.”
“So where does that leave us?” I ask.
“It leaves you shutting yer damn piehole so the rest of us can sleep,” the geezer’s buddy says, chiming in.
“Wait a minute,” I say, something not right in their story. “How long have you been here?”
“Since before whatever is going on out there,” the geezer’s mate says.
“Stop talking,” the surfer warns.
The cage falls silent again and my mind goes to Bailey, to what she’s endured, to what she is enduring.
There has to be a way, I think to myself. There just has to be.
Morning comes and goes and no warden. The afternoon passes too with none of us talking, and still no warden. I look at the old geezer and he’s scratching his skin because the powder from the fire extinguisher is apparently beyond irritated. He got it the worst. The surfer has some of the powder on him, too, but by and large, the geezer is as pale as a geisha doll. Well, the ugly male edition of said doll.
“Need some damn water,” he finally growls to his buddy. He can’t stop itching and honestly, it’s driving us all nuts.
“Might not get it today,” his friend says.
His friend nudges his shoulder, then nods toward the bucket. By now my colon is bulging with peach juice and whatever’s left in my stomach, let’s just say things are about to take a turn for the worse.
“No,” the geezer says, shaking his head. “Ain’t doin’ it.”
“You just gonna sit there and itch?” the younger of the two hobos asks. “Because the second one of them has to crap, yer window of opportunity is slammin’ shut.”
“That’s a very small window with what I’ve got brewing,” I say, causing everyone to look my way.
The surfer’s face drops, like he knows what’s coming and knows it’s going to be bad. But the geezer? This wrinkled ballsack of a geisha doll, he scrunches up his pocked face, draws an irritated breath that flares his nostrils, then frowns like he’s chewing down the world’s worst temper tantrum. Bucking up, smashing together his gums with utter disgust, he says, “Fine. Hell, it’s only…whatever. It’s just piss I guess.”
He staggers over to the bucket, sours his face, then reaches in and pulls out a short, clumpy turd which he tosses at the surfer like he’s playing hot potato. The turd hits the surfer’s shirt, but the surfer is rearing back with a less than manly squeal and flicking it off his cot where it lands. It hits the floor with a splat and the surfer descends into a tirade of cursing so foul, I wonder if some of the things he says are being invented out of his rage alone.
Ignoring the insults, the geezer overturns the bucket of urine on his head, gags, then dry heaves as he frenetically wipes the fire extinguisher discharge off his face and arms. He then convulses several times, like a cat choking up a hairball, drops to his knees and vomits all over the floor. This starts a chain reaction of vomiting from the other two, and I’ll be honest, even I’m feeling a bit nauseous watching all this take place.
That’s about the time The Warden walks in
with sandwiches, sees all this going down and says, “That’s gross.” He then looks at me and says, “Peach?” to which I jump off the cot, turn the bucket over, wiggle down my pants and top off the charade with what I am sure are the worst runs I’ve ever had. It’s humiliating to say the least, but right now I don’t care because my shins are aching so bad and my guts are cramping with such ferocity I could be doing this on live TV and it wouldn’t matter.
The next thing I know, The Warden is gone but returning moments later with a garden hose that he, in his feeble little torturous brain, decides he needs to use in this very moment. At full power with a spray nozzle on it, he sprays us with the harshest stream of water he can manage. He hits the geezer while he’s on his hands and knees barfing. He blasts the surfer on his cot. And he hits me while I’m hovering over the bucket of homemade peach marmalade, furthering my shame, stamping in my humiliation.
When he’s done, he opens the door, zings the peach at me, hitting me in the side of the neck. He then starts throwing sandwiches at us, screaming like we’re children tracking muddy feet over his fresh white carpet.
When he’s done, while he’s sitting there frothing at the mouth, enraged with blood red eyes and shaking jowls and hands curled at his sides into fists, he turns and stomps out of the cage, slamming the door shut so hard it rocks the entire structure.
We all look at each other like we’re not sure what to make of it.
“Your skin feel better?” I ask the geezer.
He turns and looks at the sandwich fixings sitting in water and vomit, picks it up and starts to eat it, but that only lasts for so long because he’s only two bites in when The Warden returns and starts shooting at us with his beanbag rounds.
The surfer curls and rolls over, turning his back to The Warden. He takes one in the kidney, barking out in pain. I take one in the chest, which has me gasping for breath and nearly coming up empty. The geezer takes one in the back of the head and his buddy just sits there, looking at him, eyes as cold and as dead as stones, my shoe now sitting on his foot, unlaced, a bit too big.
The Warden aims at the geezer’s friend’s face, pulls the trigger and the weapon fires dry. From his pocket, he takes out a shotgun round. No, he takes out a solid slug.
“Get down!” The Warden says. The vagrant doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. “Show some damn respect!”
Spit is flying now. The Warden has completely come unhinged and now I know why these guys are so scared of him. Whatever disconnect that’s happening in this guy’s mind, it’s got him acting homicidal on a level I’ve never seen before. I try to inch up my pants, but only barely because in that shotgun is a hunk of metal and not pellets or a beanbag.
“Show some damn RESPECT!”
Slowly the guy lifts his middle finger, not blinking, not shying away. His eyes are locked on the psychopath’s eyes and that’s when the gun goes off and a giant hole is blown in the geezer’s buddy’s forehead.
The geezer rustles to his feet, manic, screaming obscenities and I’m sure we’re all going to die, but I’m not doing it with my pants down sitting over a bucket of peach diarrhea, so screw it, I’m going to take whatever modesty is afforded me in this situation.
By now The Warden is yelling at the geezer and the geezer is yelling back at The Warden and pretty soon it’s just The Warden dropping his gun, gripping both sides of his face and howling like some snared, rabid animal. He’s screaming so hard and so loud the surfer starts to scream too, but only in response to his own terror. Me? I’m just sitting back, waiting to see what happens. But the geezer, he’s got a death wish and he’s not about to give an inch of ground.
Pretty soon The Warden turns and storms off. We hear feet stomping all the way to the door, a door opening and a door slamming shut. The gun is just there. But it’s empty. The geezer and I both know that. Rather, I know that.
The geezer’s squawking has turned to sobbing and he’s now standing before his friend, a man with a giant hole in his head and no more life left in him. He wanted to die. It was clear as day. It was like he was begging for it.
“It shouldn’t have gone down this way,” the geezer says, choked with emotion, full bodied sorrow in his every spoken word. “He was a good kid. He was just…sensitive.”
“He was your son?” I ask.
Turning around, eyes narrowed, but wet and inflamed, he says, “He was my partner!”
“Like in crime?” I ask.
“No you fool!” he roars. “He was my partner in life!”
“So you were gay,” I say, getting it.
“Yes,” he admits. “Yes we were gay, so what. This is California and gay is the new straight.”
“It is not,” I say, not even sure why I’m arguing with this guy who apparently just lost the love of his life.
“Shut up!” the surfer snaps, now turning over and just as riled.
I put up my hands in mock surrender, then try to stand without slipping. A second later the house door opens and the house door shuts and The Warden comes walking in with a bucket of his own. We all sit completely still. He opens the cell door and starts overhanding peaches at us. His face contorted with rage, each and every throw becomes more accurate than not. Honestly, it’s like getting struck with baseballs at the batting cages.
Then he’s out of peaches, but that’s not it. “DO YOU WANT SOME PEACHES?!” he screams at the top of his lungs.
“Yes,” I say. The surfer and I say it at the exact same time. The geezer, however, does not reply. He simply turns and stares at The Warden, same as his dead lover had done.
“Do you want some PEACHES?!” he screams.
The geezer doesn’t move.
“Tell him yes,” I say.
“Shut up!” The Warden booms back at me.
He looks at the geezer, who says nothing, then turns and grabs his rifle, fishes a slug out of his pocket, loads the weapon all the while keeping his eyes firmly planted on the old man.
Finally he racks the load, points the weapon at the old man’s head and says, “Would you like some peaches you old son of a bitch?”
The man’s chin lifts, but it’s his body stiffening with fear. Shoulders back, nostrils flared, eyes blinking back tears, he flicks his jaw a few times, stubborn.
“Last chance,” The Warden says, stepping forward.
Finally the man’s countenance deflates and he says, “Yes. Yes, I would like a peach.”
“Good,” he says, leaving the cell. “Eat what I gave you. And the sandwiches if you want.”
And then he’s gone and now I thoroughly understand why these men have lived in such fear of The Warden. He’s mental, but on a massively homicidal, truly untouchable scale.
Two days pass. On the third day, at daybreak, I wake up hearing the surfer guy going on about something. I open my eyes, see what he’s seeing, then jump to my feet and stagger sideways.
Sometime during the night the geezer hung himself with his friend’s shirt. He made a makeshift noose, wrapped it on the bars of the cage, stepped off his cot and died. It wasn’t the struggle that woke the surfer. It was the smell. I smell it now.
The old man’s bowels let go.
I plug my nose, same as the surfer. He looks at me and I look at him. An hour later, The Warden walks in, looks at us, at the dead guy on the cot, and then he glances up at the geezer.
“He crap himself?” The Warden asks, casually.
“That ain’t perfume you’re smelling,” I tell him.
I’m looking at this guy and I’m being cordial, but deep down, I’m planning to kill him. I’m not exactly sure how, but if I ever get out of here, I think I’m at that place where if I get started, honestly, I could give this swamp donkey the kind of beating he’ll feel into his next two lives.
“Probably gonna stink some more,” he says, producing a peach. The Warden takes a bite and both the pulp and the juices rise to flood his gums and teeth, and then these same juices spill over onto his lips. He slurps it up, sucks the
fruit, then takes another bite, chewing loudly, like he can’t get enough.
“I’m sure it’ll stink until it doesn’t,” I tell him calmly.
“Would you like a peach?” he asks, pulling another, smaller piece of fruit from his jacket pocket.
Thinking about how wrecked my bowels are, how I was hosed down and shot while I was suffering the volcanic squirts sort of sours me to the whole idea of eating peaches.
“I’m kinda thinking maybe I’d like one later? If that’s okay with you?”
He makes a face, like he’s considering it, then he says, “Yeah man, sure. Later.”
For a second, I’m not sure if he’s going to lose it again, but he simply smiles a big, creepy smile, then takes another sloppy bite of the peach, chewing loudly, with his mouth open, smiling.
God that creepy freaking smile!
“You come here with a boy?” he asks casually, his eyes holding mine.
I swallow the biggest lump in the world, the one sitting in my throat at the mention of the boy.
“No, why?”
“Found a kid the other day, hiding.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. Problem is, he don’t like peaches.”
“Is that so?” I ask, my face now ashen, my bowels feeling extra loose once more. If he’s talking about Tyler, if he harms him in any way…
“See I’m starting to think you came here under false pretenses and that gets me a bit peeved. So maybe it’s not the case. But maybe it is. When I get back, I’m going to have a little chat with the kid, see what he’s got to say.”
I don’t say anything. What happens though is that I realize for the first time that in a pinch I’m a terrible actor. Not fit for poker. Like ever.
“Get that sack of crap off my cage and drag him over here. Then you and Point Break over there move against the wall, reach up and grab the bars. Both hands.”
The surfer kid and I get the geezer down, our stomachs jolting from the stench of both feces and urine. We drag him to the cage door, leave him for The Warden.
“Back wall. Bars. Now.”
We do exactly as we’re told. We watch him drag the old man out of the cage, shut and lock the door, then pull his corpse out of the room, a little brown smear trailing behind him. When The Warden comes back, he says, “Get his little homo friend, too. No sense in wasting a good bed.”
