I kneeled next to Brutus, trying to decide what to do with him. I couldn’t just leave him lying there. I didn’t have time to bury him in the backyard. And Carla had the car, so I couldn’t take him to the dump.
An idea suddenly came to me. I hoisted Brutus into the air—he was a lot heavier than I thought he would be—and threw him over my shoulders. I was breathing hard before I even got out of the front door.
I walked about a block from the house, my furry kill growing heavier by the step. I probably looked like an Old West trapper who accidentally walked too far, all the way into the present. Then I dropped the dog in the middle of the street. I think I damn near had a heart attack from the exertion.
Carla would come home soon and more than likely be the one to find Brutus. Possibly even run him over. Oh man, that would be classic. Think of the guilt. I could use that against her for years.
I had my story ready. I let Brutus out to pee and he took off like a rocket, leaping the small, broken-down backyard fence, obviously in hot pursuit of a wild rabbit. That was totally believable because both Carla and I had seen him do it. I went after him but couldn’t catch him. After losing him, I decided to head back and wait for him to return. Why else would I be up so early? And as the carcass in the street would prove, the poor dog should’ve looked both ways.
I noticed a few drops of blood on my shorts, but thankfully nothing on my T-shirt. I would’ve been really mad if that dog had ruined my shirt. It did have a ton of stupid dog hair all over it, but Carla showed me a pretty cool trick once, wrapping masking tape around her fingers—sticky side out—and patting down her hideous brown polyester pants covered in Brutus hair. The tape worked. The hair was gone. If only the tape could’ve had the same luck removing the ugly from the pants.
After returning to the house, I pulled off my shorts and rinsed them in the bathroom sink. I threw on a clean pair, dropped the dirty shorts into the laundry basket, and headed into the kitchen. I moved to the coffee maker, made a pot, and sat at the kitchen table. Nothing started the day quite like a delicious cup of black coffee.
My White Nightmare
There was no coffee in the Confinement Center. No iced tea. There was no TV. No radio. No phone. No computer or e-device. No books, magazines. No pen, paper. Nothing whatsoever to write with, or on. There was no clock. No sound. No smell. There were no people. No talking. No singing. No shouting. No whispering. No laughing. But there was crying. My crying. A lot of tears shared with nobody.
Four bright white windowless walls surrounded me. They were padded. An equally padded door blended into one wall. A tiny camera lens, the size of a nickel, watched from inches above the door. They watched me cry. But they didn’t care. Did they laugh? Did they point at me and call me a baby, just like my dad used to?
My universe was probably four or five feet wide by maybe eight to ten feet long. But felt smaller. A lot smaller. It was a coffin you could stand in. The ceiling was also white. And maybe a foot over my head. Way too low, like the room was closing in on me. Had a very suffocating effect, like being buried alive.
The floor was white and soft, like the walls. The whole floor slanted slightly downward to a small hole cut into one corner. They had called it an “evacuation port.” I called it a shithole. Apparently it emptied into a chemical toilet, so I was supposed to shit and piss in it. But sometimes, in protest, I took a shit wherever I wanted. Only problem, when I did that, a nozzle popped out of the ceiling and sprayed down the entire room with a sanitizing liquid. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t cold. It was exactly room temperature. It would spray over and over until either the shit was rinsed down the hole or I physically pushed it into the opening.
The room was bathed in white light. It never turned off. It didn’t flicker, dim, or brighten. It was constant. White. Only white. Absolute, unrelenting white. I read in a magazine once of a condition skiers call being snow blind. Apparently the total white obliterates all perception of depth and details. That’s what happened in the Confinement Center rooms. They called them Total Sensory Deprivation rooms, or TSD rooms. And they were right.
Even the air had no feeling to it. Not hot. Not cold. Just there. Nothing in the TSD room ever changed. Each second, each minute, each hour, was the same. No day, no night. Nothing. Time didn’t just stand still, it didn’t exist at all.
Sleep was not easy to come by. No bed. No covers or clothes. The feel of fabric against the skin was only a memory. The last time I had clothes on was right before they stripped me and threw me into my living coffin.
Sometimes I screamed as loud as I could just to hear the sound of my own voice. I slapped my hand flat against the wall as hard as I could just to feel the sting of my flesh. Those were the only sources of stimuli. I closed my eyes, opened them, closed them, opened them so I could experience the contrast of light to dark to light again. Anything to make something different, even if only for a split second.
If I banged my head against the door or walls out of boredom, or a desire to hurt myself, I could accomplish nothing. I tried—dozens, maybe hundreds of times. Barely even got a headache.
Food was served without any set schedule. Sometimes it felt like twenty-four hours between servings. Sometimes ten. Sometimes a hundred. A small slat rose at the bottom of the door. Probably only three inches high. A food bar was pushed in. Not by a hand, but by a mechanical lever that retracted. I had no idea what the food bar was made of. I can only imagine it was comparable to NASA food. Like the shit they ate in the space station. Shit that I one day dreamed of eating, back when I believed good things could actually happen. Like a boy from Clemensville could grow up and become an astronaut.
The food bar was around five inches long, three inches wide, and an inch thick. It had the consistency of any snack bar. It didn’t taste bad. It didn’t taste good. It didn’t taste, period.
A cup of water followed the bar. You had perhaps half an hour to drink the water. I’m guessing. The cup was made out of dissolvable shit, like the stuff coating a pill you take for allergies or something. If you didn’t drink the water fast enough, it puddled on the floor.
The room and the food did its job. No stimulation whatsoever. Total sensory deprivation. The only thing that provided any contrast at all in my white nightmare was a bright red button set in the far wall. It was at chest level and about as big as the top of a pop can. It glowed out of the white like a beacon.
I would sit and stare at that button. I knew the rules. Push it and I was out. Gone from the Confinement Center forever. Push it and see human beings again. Push it and hear voices again. Push it and see darkness again. Push it and feel again. See, hear, smell, touch, taste—all the sensations I had been deprived of for who knew how long. Oh, how I would’ve liked to feel again. Anything. One simple push of the button.
They wanted me to push it. And they said we all eventually did. Fuck them. I wasn’t pushing it. I knew what lay in wait on the other side.
Kitty Bowling
When I was a kid, back in the apartments, I always wanted a cool pet. Not a dog, but a cool one: like maybe a Komodo dragon or a bald eagle; something that would really make me stand out. Something that would make all the other kids jealous. But it didn’t happen. Sheila and I did have a kitten once, but not for very long.
Perhaps it had been a stray, or maybe someone knew that kids lived in our apartment and was looking to give it a good home. For whatever reason, the kitten just showed up one morning on our front doorstep.
My dad must have thought if we had a pet we wouldn’t bother him, because he totally surprised us by letting us keep it. The thing was all gray, except for four white feet, so of course Socks was the only fitting name. Sheila fell in love with the kitten immediately; she carried him everywhere she went. I wanted to carry him around too, but she would never let me. She never let me do anything. She got to play with Socks. I got to watch.
But when she wasn’t around
, then I got to play. I made up a game that I called “sock face.” I’d pull one of my socks over his head and laugh until my stomach hurt while he ran into walls and furniture as he tried to get away. You would think the stupid animal would spend a little more time trying to pull the sock off instead of running around like a retard. But then the game wouldn’t have been near as much fun.
And then one day my dad walked into my room, holding Socks. Actually petting the creature like he cared. “Samuel,” he said. “Have you ever kitty bowled?”
I sat on my bed, alarms going off in my head. My dad knew what I had done and hadn’t done. Was this a trap? A trick question? Usually when I had the wrong answer to his questions, I got hit. But today, something was different. My dad smiled. That never happened. I stared at him, at the kitten cradled in his arms. “No. What’s kitty bowling?”
“It’s a game I used to play with my cat when I was a kid,” he answered. “Come out to the hall and I’ll show you.”
I was confused. If he wanted to hit me, he didn’t have to come up with such an elaborate scheme to get me into the hallway. Usually, when he wanted to hit me, he just hit me. Leery, I followed him.
“Okay, here’s how you play,” Dad said. “First, you grip the cat real solid around the neck. And then you wind up and bowl it down the hallway as hard as you can.”
With that, my father went into a windup that any bowler would be proud of. I watched in fascination as my dad stepped into his swing and launched Socks end over end with tremendous force. The cat tumbled head over tail all the way down the hall, smacking the wall at the other end.
“Bingo!” my dad yelled. He shot me a look. “Get the cat!” And then he laughed. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never heard him laugh before.
I sprinted down the hall, grabbing Socks before he got his bearings. I scooped him up and brought him back to my dad. My dad looked at me. He was grinning. He was actually no-bullshit kidding-around grinning! I smiled. So this was what it was like when a father and son had a normal bonding moment.
“Okay, Samuel, your turn.” He nodded. “The object of the game is to get the cat all the way to the far wall. I wanna hear it hit with some authority!”
My dad watched. I was actually nervous. I wanted to show him I could do it. Holding Socks tightly around the neck, I stepped into my throw and released the cat with all my might. But it wasn’t enough. Socks dug his claws into the carpet about halfway down and came to a stop.
“Come on, Samuel, you gotta give it more than that! You throw like a little girl! Get the Goddamned cat and do it again!” My dad’s smile disappeared. My heart raced. I knew the game was about to turn dangerous.
I tried again. And then again. No matter how hard I threw that cat, I never did get him to the other end. My dad stared at me with a look of disgust. Our moment was over.
“You really are worthless,” he said, shaking his head. I braced for the hit I was sure to follow. But he simply turned and walked away.
I was furious at that stupid cat. It had just ruined my chance to bond with my father. I held him behind his neck and threw him so hard it hurt my shoulder. But the damned cat still didn’t make it to the wall.
Socks must have been pretty dizzy from all the tumbling, because after he got himself stopped, he attempted to run away, falling over in the process. I would’ve laughed at him if I wasn’t so mad.
I tried several days in a row to bowl Socks all the way to the wall. He always stopped himself before he hit it and then tried running away. Usually I was on top of him before he got far. On occasion, he managed to escape the hallway. I moved to the next game: “lion hunter.” The apartment was too small for him to disappear for long.
Socks got really mad, even more than usual, during a round of kitty bowling one afternoon. I threw him hard, making it closer to the other end of the hall than ever before—probably missed it by less than a foot. He dug his claws into the carpet, came to a stop, shook his head, and then stumbled away. I tracked him through the deepest, darkest regions of the apartment—looked a lot like Africa in my mind—and cornered him under Sheila’s bed. I dropped to the floor, flat on my stomach, and reached for him. For no reason at all, he bit me. He had bitten me plenty of times before, but this time it really hurt. I pulled my hand back, saw blood.
It was time to teach Socks a thing or two about respect. I jumped to my feet, ran to the closet, and grabbed a wire clothes hanger. We had lots of them. They were used to hang clothes almost as much as they were used to beat us. I left the hooked end untouched and straightened the rest. I went back to the bed, returned to the floor, and pushed the hanger toward the cat. He hissed fiercely, which definitely made the game more fun. It took me several tries, but I finally snagged Socks by his collar and dragged him toward me. He put up a great fight, sometimes clawing at the carpet and other times flopping like a trophy largemouth bass. I was proud of his effort.
Once I had him clear of the bed, I grabbed Socks behind the neck and lifted him into the air. I pushed myself up from the floor and moved into a seated position, with my back against the bed. I rotated the kitty so that he faced me and I held him by the scruff of his neck. His ears laid flat; his lips were pulled back, baring his fangs. He hissed at me. It actually was kind of a scary hiss.
“That’s the spirit, little kitty. Heart of the lion and eye of the tiger.”
Sheila had told me one time if you dropped a cat, it would always land on its feet. She wouldn’t have told me that if she hadn’t wanted me to test it. So I climbed to my feet and lifted Socks over my head. I swung him upside down and let go. The cat did a neat little flip and sure enough, landed on his feet. I quickly pounced on him, pinned him against the floor, and patted him on the head. “Not bad, kitty. You passed the test.”
He hissed again.
Time to make the test a little harder.
I scooped up the cat, closed the bedroom door, and then moved to Sheila’s bed. I climbed onto the bed, stood tall, and turned around, facing away from the bed. Once again, I raised the cat above my head. This time, I didn’t just let him drop; I wanted to give him a little more challenge. I threw him pretty hard to the floor. I couldn’t tell whether he landed on his feet or not because everything happened so fast. Socks let out a goofy-sounding shriek when he hit, and then he literally bounced. He came to rest in a crumpled heap, quivering.
I wasn’t completely pleased with the results of the test because I couldn’t tell what part of Socks hit first. So I repeated it. I threw him down really hard. It wasn’t as hard as I could—I wanted to give him a fair chance—but it was pretty darn hard. I watched closely and I can say with complete confidence he did not land on his feet. He landed squarely on his back. So much for Sheila’s little saying.
And then Socks became still. I grabbed him from the floor and shook him. His legs swung limply and his head flopped side to side. And then nothing; he just hung from my hand. Sorry, Sheila, looks like you don’t get to play with Socks anymore. I stuffed him under my shirt and left the bedroom.
Dad sat in his chair in the living room and stared at whatever program was on TV, a TV much smaller than the one we had before Mom left. He paid no attention as I passed. Sheila was still outside, so I headed to the end of the complex that opened up to the parking lot. I dropped the cat in an empty parking space.
The next day I went back to where I had left him. He was flattened into the pavement. Must have been a pickup truck.
A Pretty Cool Idea
With Socks gone, I had to find other ways to stay entertained. Exploring the local alleys and kicking over garbage cans was always fun. One summer afternoon, I wandered into an alley not far from our apartment complex and gave several trash cans extra hard kicks. I had some anger issues that day.
Everybody else was at the pool, but I didn’t want to go swimming, even though it was like a thousand degrees outside, and almost as hot in our stupi
d apartment. I had been swimming the day before and I slipped on the wet cement again. I hadn’t hit my head that time, but it hurt every bit as bad in a whole new way. One leg shot into the water and the other slid along the cement, smashing my nuts against the edge of the pool. I suppose the scream was probably girlish, but it just slipped out. My dad stomped over and jerked me out of the water. “Samuel, are you stupid or something?”
All the other kids, and even some of the grownups, had laughed. Tears filled my eyes, but I was done letting my dad make me cry. I clenched my teeth, grabbed my towel, and left. I walked to the apartment—it took me a while because every step made me want to throw up—and into my bedroom. I climbed onto my bed, curled into a ball, and cried.
So despite the heat, I wasn’t going to swim with those assholes ever again. The sound of their laughter still bounced around in my head. Instead, I took out my frustrations on the trash cans.
I approached another one, executed a wicked karate kick, and sent the can flying. A flash of yellow and black shooting out from under the can caught my eye. Something slithered toward the pile of trash now littering the ground. Awesome! A snake! I stepped on it, not hard enough to kill it, but hard enough to pin it. It struck at my tennis shoe, but that didn’t do much. Now for something to put it in. An empty plastic trash bag lay in the trash heap. The snake hissed as I grabbed it behind its head and lifted my foot. I held the reptile in the air and examined it. A bull snake. Not all that big, maybe two, two and a half feet long, but big enough to keep for a while. Maybe hide it in my bedroom. I dropped it into the sack and twisted the top closed.
I walked down the alley a little further, happy with my catch. That’s when a pretty cool idea came me. Why hide it in my bedroom when it could be put to better use? The snake writhed inside the sack, searching for a way out. My grin grew even bigger.
Criminal Zoo Page 6
