The Insurrectionist

by Mahima Martel

“Ugh!” Deni growled. “Can I come out of my room now?”

  “No,” said Bashir. “Your mother’s still upset, best you stay in here until morning.”

  “Ah,” Deni whined.

  Bashir rose from his bed and looked down at him. “Read a book; play a game. Try to keep yourself occupied for a while.”

  When Bashir left, Deni collapsed in his bed with hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He glanced toward the window. It was already dark outside. He closed his eyes and wished he were back in Russia at his Uncle Aslan’s farm with the big, wide open fields. There his imagination soared in all sorts of directions; here in America he felt stifled.

  Later in the night, Deni lay in his hospital bed. He was so ungodly bored. After lying here for the past couple days, he was afraid his imagination would run dry. The imagination is only good if you have something to feed it, he thought.

  Desperate for some mental activity, he searched the room for that dark, looming shadow that often visited. “What are you? Who are you?” he said out loud. “Can you tell me what my purpose is here? Why am I still alive?” There was no sighting and no answers.

  The door opened with a sharp white light of the hospital hallway. A doctor approached and started to remove the tubes in his body. “I hope you enjoyed your stay at St. Joseph’s Shangri La. The Reading penitentiary awaits.”

  Two hospital aids followed by two of Reading’s finest police officers entered with a gurney. The cops removed his ankle cuff from the bed and the doctor’s aids moved him to the gurney.

  The hospital hallways were quiet except for a few stray nurses on rounds and a janitor mopping. Strapped to the gurney, Deni stared at the ceiling lights and white painted walls. When they reached the outside, the ambulance was waiting. No one said a word to him as they lifted him onto the vehicle.

  Once at the prison, guards helped with Deni’s gurney and rolled him to the infirmary where he was placed onto a bed. Hospital aids changed him into the regulatory bright orange prison scrubs and cuffed him to the bed by his ankle. It was official; he was a prisoner.

  The outside world was now nothing but a distant memory that he may never see again. Friends and family will move on with their lives and most likely forget they ever knew me, some may even deny they knew me, he thought. A new life of solitary awaited him and all the things he relished in his life would fade.

  The prison hospital made St. Joseph’s seem like a day spa. It was one open room, with beds lined up like an army infirmary. There was absolutely no privacy, but regardless of the conditions, Deni was exhausted and fell asleep quickly.

  The next morning, Deni and the other prison inmate patients were served a breakfast of sticky bland oatmeal. He could hardly gag it down but it was eat it or proclaim a hunger strike. He ate fast and swallowed the rubbery oatmeal chunks whole so he didn’t have to taste them.

  “Hey pretty boy,” called the convict from the next bed.

  Deni didn’t respond.

  “Hey, pretty boy, are you deaf?” The convict shook the metal medical table between them. Medical scissors, plastic bottles and rolls of surgical tape fell to the floor catching the attention of the prison doctor.

  “Hey Grimes, obviously pretty boy isn’t interested in you, so why don’t you hit on someone else!” yelled the doctor.

  Grimes, a heavily tattooed, muscular man with a shaved head and a swastika tattoo on the back of his head, ignored the doctor. “Pretty boy, what are you in for? Whaddya do, kill someone with kindness, break and enter someone’s heart?”

  The doctor came over to Grimes. “Right now, pretty boy makes you look like a patty cake. Bombing at the Fairgrounds,” the doctor said nodding at Deni.

  “Ah so you’re that raghead that blows up little kids! Man, that’s totally fucked up. The smartest thing our country can do is round the lot of you Muslims for mass extinction,” said Grimes.

  Deni decided to turn around and address Grimes. This neo-Nazi was something he had seen before; some were hardcore, while others blended into American society only to spill out their hatred when it was safe to do so. “According to that tat on the back of your skull, genocide seems to be your answer for everything,” replied Deni.

  “You’re a little pussy,” replied Grimes, “I can’t wait for the time you get gang-banged in the shower.”

  “What kind of man looks forward to sex with another man?” said Deni. “You call me a pussy, at least I’m not queer.”

  “You ain’t gonna get any pussy in lockup, so you gotta push it into the next hole,” said Grimes. He puckered his lips and kissed in Deni’s direction. “There’s going to be a long line to get between your sweet cheeks.”

  Deni reclined back in his bed with his hands behind his head. He had known prejudice throughout his life, but he always had friends to stand up for him. He was not looking forward to his future prospects in prison and it was his own back he was going to have to watch. Maybe they can put me on the fast track to execution.

  With a towel wrapped around his waist, seventeen-year-old Deni exited the high school shower and headed to his locker where his friends T-Bone, Devon, and Hector were getting dressed after practice. He toweled off and then slid into his underwear.

  “Hey Daudov!” called the team’s offense tackle, Brad Dietrich. “I saw your mom wearing one of those scarfy things. Don’t tell me you’re a Muslim or is your mother just plain ugly.”

  Deni laughed and didn’t say anything, but T-Bone spoke up in Deni’s defense. “Hey don’t be an ignorant ass; our brother here is Muslim just like Muhammad Ali.” He threw air punches at Deni. ‘“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”’

  “No way. Muhammad Ali is black,” said Brad.

  T-Bone was just about to speak when Deni held him back. “I got this.” Deni turned to Brad and spoke as if talking to a child. “Bradley, what’s your religion?”

  “Methodist,” replied Brad with a shrug.

  “That’s funny. I thought you were American,” replied Deni.

  T-Bone, Devon, and Hector laughed and continued getting dressed.

  “You guys are a bunch of pricks,” said Brad.

  “No. I’m not a prick; I’m Santeria,” replied T-Bone.

  Deni turned to T-Bone shocked. “And all this time I thought you was black.”

  T-Bone laughed wildly.

  Hector stepped in the conversation. “No Santeria is Cuban, isn’t it?”

  “No, Cuban is Spanish,” replied Devon.

  “I thought Spanish was Catholic,” said Deni.

  “No, that’s Italian,” said T-Bone.

  “Hey, don’t knock Italians!” shouted one of their teammates from a different row of lockers.

  “Don’t worry bro!” shouted Hector. “Italians make good sandwiches!”

  Deni zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “You know what I can go for¾Chinese.” He rubbed his belly. “I could go for some scallion pancakes.”

  “Nah, that’s white man’s food,” said T-Bone. He put his arm around Deni. “Let’s go get some ribs.”

  “I’m not white?” Deni muttered, mocking confusion.

  “Nope, you’re a brother,” said T-Bone.

  Deni walked out with T-Bone, Devon, and Hector. It struck Deni as odd that he found more camaraderie with America’s so-called minorities, regardless of the rising population of different races and ethnic groups. The Great Melting Pot worked only if it blended into a bland, white stew, with just a spattering of different races and cultures for taste, Deni thought.

  Being a Russian immigrant was a novelty for many in his circle. Occasionally he could entertain the crowds by teaching everyone Russian swear words, or being the butt of Cold War jokes. But when his family’s religion leaked into the portals of his surroundings, it was often filled with traces of distrust and hate. Although he did his best to laugh it off, that nerve ran deep. His only other choice was to deny everything he was and just be a white boy to suit everyone’s comfort.

 
The prison doctor came on his rounds and checked the stats of all the inmates. He looked down at Deni. “Don’t mind Grimes, it’s just his way of making friends. Let me give you some advice, everyone in here has been cast out by American mainstream society in some way or another. They really do not know how to connect normally with people. Try to be friendly. Humor goes a long way and will prevent any ugly incidents you may regret.

  “Thanks,” Deni said.

  “Yeah, well I just don’t want to see you back here bleeding from the ass,” replied the doctor as he walked away.

  At least it was good advice, he thought. It did make him realize that he wasn’t going to be alone in prison. For the first time, it made him wonder what brought him here. What could I possibly have in common with these men who I will be spending the rest of my time on earth with?

  Chapter 7

  Deni was woken up the next morning by the prison staff; it was breakfast time. He sat up in his bed and silently congratulated himself for surviving his first night in prison. The prison guard set a bowl on his tray. It was worse than oatmeal; he didn’t even know what it was. “What is this shit?” he said out loud.

  “Grits,” replied Grimes as he dug hungrily into his breakfast. “You’ll get used to it, sweet cheeks. The day before they stick the needle in ya, you’ll have grown to love it.”

  “That’s all I have to look forward to—a taste for grits. Well that sure sucks.” Deni gobbled up the food, swallowing without tasting. He glanced over at Grimes. “So what’s your deal?”

  “Now you wanna talk?” questioned Grimes.

  “I’m bored,” replied Deni.

  “I knocked off an A&P and killed the clerk,” said Grimes.

  Deni set his bowl on the metal table next to his bed. “Why?” He was shocked by his own question. Why was the first thing the FBI asked; it’s the first question they ask any felon. Why did you do it? Why the hell does anyone do anything? he thought, but Grimes did have an answer.

  “Shitty little fag behind the counter gave me attitude so I shot him then made off with the cash in the register. I would have gotten away with it too if some bitch didn’t get my license plate number as I peeled out,” replied Grimes.

  “That’s it. Just like that you decided to end the life of some shitty fag?” questioned Deni.

  “Shitty little fags are worthless pieces of shit that just take up air,” said Grimes.

  “So you just knocked someone off because they consumed oxygen?” questioned Deni.

  “World’s over-populated; we need to start conserving our recourses,” explained Grimes.

  “Ah, so you’re an environmentalist,” Deni joked.

  Grimes studied Deni and really hated his sarcastic smirk. “You’re one to speak. Don’t you guys want to kill all infidels?”

  “No. We just want to get people’s attention when no one is listening, but you Nazi’s were the real masters at killing populations of people by gassing them. There is a difference in making a public impact and hiding secret genocide for the purpose of mass extermination,” explained Deni.

  Grimes turned away from Deni; he was done with the conversation. He may not have been the most educated man, but he had his own justification for his predilection for violence and didn’t care much for Deni’s sarcasm.

  Deni rested back in his bed. For all the murderers in this facility, there were a million more murderers on the outside world who would never be judged for their evil acts—all the world leaders who start illegal wars for profit, leaders who allow their population to starve so they can live in riches, corporatists who poison foods and the environment so they can receive greater bonuses, bankers who steal houses from the poor leaving them homeless. What quantifies evil? The amount of blood spilled, the body count, the intentional destruction of innocent masses? Regardless of how evil is defined, there will always be those in power to discriminately judge it and their corrupt policing forces that enforce it, he thought.

  It was the summer between Deni’s sophomore and junior year of high school when his buddy T-Bone steered his old white Cadillac onto the A&P parking lot. T-Bone, Devon, Deni, and Hector climbed out of his car and swarmed the convenience store. They were on a mission for junk food. Devon made himself a plate of nachos from the hot station, T-Bone and Hector roamed the chip aisle and Deni searched for his favorite snack¾Ding Dongs.

  The A&P clerk watched carefully, especially T-Bone and Hector in the chip aisle. It didn’t help much they were joking around and giggling. “Are you boys finding what you need?”

  “Yeah, I just can’t make up my mind, too many choices,” said T-Bone.

  Deni caught what was going down; his buddies were being unfairly profiled for their race and ethnicity. In an act of rebellion, Deni glanced around the store for mirrors and cameras. He stood as close to the shelf as he could and then stuffed a couple packages of Ding Dongs and Twinkies in the pockets of his baggy basketball shorts.

  He walked up to the front of the store, got himself a grape slushy and then headed straight to the clerk. He grinned and paid for his slushy. Since he was white, the clerk paid him very little mind and remained focused on T-Bone and Hector. Devon crowded the checkout with his nachos and lemon slushy next to Deni.

  “Dude, how can you drink that shit? It tastes like piss,” said Deni.

  “It helps digest the nacho cheese,” replied Devon and then sloppily swallowed a cheesy chip.

  “Okay boys,” the clerk said to Deni and Devon. “Why don’t you guys move along?”

  Deni and Devon stepped outside. It was only then that Devon noticed Deni’s pockets weighed down. “Shit, what do you got in there?”

  “Stocking up on Ding Dongs,” he said with a smirk.

  T-Bone and Hector finally exited the A&P both with bags of chips and a drink. “Man was that clerk a crazy fuck or what?” said T-Bone, obviously offended. “We weren’t doing anything. I got money; I was going to pay.”

  They crowded around T-Bone’s car as Hector lit up a joint. Huddled together they passed it around, so no one could see. Suddenly a cop car pulled into the parking lot. Deni took the joint from Devon and stuck it upright in his grape slushy.

  The cop, a tall, brawny blond with a crew cut, got out of his car. His assured stride indicated his superiority over the boys. He walked right past Deni and stood before T-Bone. “Now you boys aren’t causing any problems are you?”

  “Nah, we’re just hanging out,” replied T-Bone.

  “Got a call from the clerk. He’s concerned your loitering will deter customers,” said the cop.

  “Deter customers?” Deni questioned with a giggle.

  The cop turned around and stuck out his hand. “Look son, I have no problem with you, so why don’t you just stay out of it.”

  Deni glanced around at his friends. They all started laughing. The joke was what the cop didn’t know; the white boy was holding the doobie in his slushy and had lifted a handful of Ding Dongs from the A&P.

  “All right boys,” said the cop, “I can see you’re up to no good, so why don’t you move it along.”

  “You got us wrong,” said Devon. “We’re just hanging out after football practice; we don’t mean any harm.”

  “The clerk inside said you were all acting suspicious inside the store, like you were casing the place. Now did any of you lift anything without paying?” questioned the cop looking directly at T-Bone.

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Hector.

  T-Bone stood with his arms out and his legs spread. “Go ahead, search me.”

  Deni, Hector, and Devon snickered.

  “You watch yourself young man, or you will find yourself in the back of my squad car,” said the cop.

  “For what, trying to prove myself innocent?” replied T-Bone.

  Devon stepped before T-Bone. “We’re leaving,” he said to the cop.

  They all got into T-Bone’s car. There was silence in the car as T-Bone drove away furious; there was retaliation in his eyes. Deni co
uld see it in the rear view mirror and he felt guilty. He was the one who did something wrong and got away with it just because he was white. Deni probably would have never believed it had he not seen it first hand—race baiting and profiling.

  “T, sorry about that,” said Deni.

  “It’s not on you bro, you’re cool. You played that mo-fo good. You know it just sucks. I go to school. I play football. I’m looking forward to going to college and everyone wants to categorize me as a crook just because I’m black. It really just pisses me off.”

  “They’re the ignorant ones,” said Devon. “Few years from now those assholes will be asking for your autograph and you can tell them all to go to hell.”

  Deni tossed T-Bone a Twinkie. “Courtesy of the A&P. I saw how that fucker was eyeing you guys.”

  T-Bone laughed. “You’re fucking kidding me? What a fucking douche bag! Idiot’s eyeing Hector and me and the white boy walks off with his pants filled with pastry.”

  “Hey where’s mine?” asked Hector. “I was profiled too.”

  Deni reached into his pockets. “Twinkie, or Ding Dong?”

  “Ding Dong,” said Hector, “no wait, Twinkie.”

  Deni handed Hector a Twinkie.

  T-Bone laughed hysterically. “Don’t tell me you got any Little Debbie’s in your pants?”

  Deni snapped his fingers. “Shit! And I have the perfect place in my pants for Little Debbie.”

  Everyone in the car roared with laughter.

  “Boy!” yelled T-Bone over his shoulder at Deni. “You just got yourself a new nickname, Sweet Pants.”

  “I can dig,” said Deni as he opened his slushy and pulled out the damp, limp, purple joint. Surprisingly he was able to relight it. He took a hit and it was quite a sensation—grape weed. He handed it to Devon in the front seat. “Purple haze,” he said.

  T-Bone glanced aside at the joint and started laughing. “Dude that is one sick looking doobie.”

  “I could have stuck it in my Ding Dong,” Deni replied.

  Hector laughed. “Ah shit!”