Feldman worried fitfully about his decision, changing his mind at least a dozen times. He considered the other avenues open to him—Warden’s Desk, for example, a prisoner’s single opportunity to petition the warden directly. But because no “sweat”—the prisoners’ term for intense effort, the cost to him of favors—was attached to it, it was unreliable. A refusal at the level of Warden’s Desk was binding, and Feldman rejected this option. Nor could he see how he might have resorted to simple absenteeism from the canteen, even if he had been willing to accept the additional day tacked on to his sentence. An absentee was required to “freeze” within one hundred yards of the area where he had declared his absenteeism. As a last resort, he considered the Buddy System. The term was misleading. It meant that any prisoner could at any time ask for and
have
a privilege belonging to another prisoner, but since favors could not be paid back in kind, the borrower became, in effect, the lender’s slave. Here was a loophole big enough to drive the entire system through. “Only show restraint,” Feldman had urged the convicts in the informal discussion groups on prison regulations. “Give the privilege and ask for nothing in return. Don’t make a slave of the borrower. Then when anyone needs something, he can have it with immunity.” They had agreed in theory, though some scoffed and called him Red, but in practice, the temptation to assert power when it was so infrequently available was always too great. So he was forced at last to ask for Respite. (Nor, once the decision was made, did he easily determine how many hours of Respite to ask for, rejecting the three that would probably serve, to settle finally on the five which if they did not serve could only mean that fate and circumstance had been against him from the start.)
After his written request he was called up before the Respite Officer (a revolving role, but always taken by some minor functionary—usually a cook, or one of the tuckpointers in constant service around the prison—to dramatize, Feldman suposed, the absolutely rigid and binding force of the Respite obligation). The “sweat” was again explained to him, and he indicated that he understood and even, as part of the ceremony, asked a few questions so that there could be no objection later that he had been railroaded. Then he raised his hand to take his solemn oath.
“I, Leo Feldman, understand the nature…of the contract…that I have entered…into here,” he repeated, in the familiar halting rhythm of all tandemly sworn oaths. “I understand the obligations imposed on me by accepting Respite and deriving the benefits…thereof…I undertake to pay back…fifteen hours of duty…to be worked out…however…the Director of Prison Labors…sees fit…but in some capacity…foreign to…and differing in kind from all my past performances. I further concede…my willingness…to pay back to the state…for all my mistakes…resulting in loss of revenues…at the fixed retail price…through labors…again foreign to past performances…and recompensed”—here the Respite Officer slowed down the pace of the oath“”at…one third…my…nor…mal…dai…ly…rate…Now,” he concluded, “I accept Respite”
He was impressed by how deep an oath could go, and had an impression of commitment extensive as the root of a tooth. He had given his word, and recognized for the first time the serious implications of having a word to give. It was as if he and all men walked around always under bond, a burden of treacherous feasance. It struck him, too, that such obligation was onesided, the dangerous cutting edge toward himself.
And all this simply to guarantee that on the following Tuesday there would be time enough to obtain a permission slip to get a pass to go to the west wing for the meeting of the Crime Club.
It was possible that he might have done without his elaborate preparations, that things would have gone smoothly, but he had lost his nerve in a way, though another kind of nerve had taken its place. Here he was, spending permission slips, passes, Respite, taking on tiers of obligation, confronting a jeopardy of consequences that he could not possibly foresee. It was like living in a boom town whose primitive facilities and difficulties with supply forced the prices of even those ordinary commodities one took for granted to skyrocket mercilessly—like paying two dollars for toothpaste or five for milk. Necessity made for a sort of obligatory sportiness.
So he had the Certificate of Respite in the breast pocket of the blue fool suit. He touched it at least a hundred times that Tuesday. After lunch he did not return to work in the canteen, but went back to his cell to wait for the pencil man. Disappointingly the man didn’t question what he was doing in his cell—despite himself, Feldman was itching to show him his certificate—and after getting his permission slip, he brought it to the Fink to trade it for a pass.
He was relieved when the Fink, one of his enemies, questioned the legitimacy of the slip and had him taken back under guard to check it. The pencil man had left on a break, and they had to wait for an hour and a half.
“Yes, this is all right,” the pencil man told the guard, glancing casually at the slip, when he returned.
Feldman was brought back to the Fink, who searched his face for signs of triumph. It’s good I planned ahead, Feldman thought. It’s good I had the foresight to anticipate all this.
He was disturbed, however, that he took no real pleasure in his justification. For one thing, he couldn’t be sure that the Fink had really doubted him. Perhaps he had been pretending merely to cause him trouble. But wasn’t trouble exactly what he wanted? he wondered. And then, saddened, he realized that if it was, he had been trapped into wanting it by the warden. What of the generosity he had seen in his thriftless preparations? Wasn’t that all undermined if he wanted to use up all the security-to-spare that he had purchased by asking for five hours of Respite when three would probably have served? It was difficult to know which was better—gratefulness for things gone smoothly, or delight that his pains had been really necessary. Had the warden
intended
all this? Feldman was numb. He suspected it had been the warden’s objective to bring him to just this state of stymied feelings. Call the police, he thought wearily. I’ve been robbed.
With the pass to the west wing secured, he went to dinner at five and still had time to return to his cell for a half-hour’s rest before starting for the meeting. He was exhausted, but so worried that his precautions had stripped him of the energies he would need that evening that he saw it was useless to try to rest. He set out for the Crime Club.
He was early, but several members were already there and he wondered if they had had to make the same preparations. They—many, like himself, wore special clothes; he supposed these were bad men, and he thought
Flair
, thought
Style
—herded together on folding chairs in a strange, tight grouping. Feldman went up to the small stage at the front of the room where they were stacked and took one down, feeling curiously depleted. It seemed odd to him that no one had attempted to make rows or to line up the chairs around the walls. The members were bunched together in a random arrangement, so that despite the fact that it was still early and probably not everyone was there yet, the room seemed crowded.
As others came, they went up to the stack of chairs and continued the odd pattern Feldman had observed. The back of one chair was at an oblique angle to Feldman’s shoulder; another began to describe a rough arc a couple of inches to the right and slightly forward of his stomach; someone else sat facing him, so that their knees touched. It was like coming to life in a Cubist sketch. This is some bunch, he thought sorrowfully, guessing the implications of the seating arrangements.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the convict facing him.
Feldman moved his chair a few inches, bumping into one behind him and feeling what was almost certainly an ear against the back of his neck. “Excuse me,” Feldman said, but the convict ignored him.
“I said, ‘Who the hell are you?’”the first prisoner repeated.
Rather than answer, Feldman reached inside his jacket to pull out the warden’s letter. The man unfolded the paper and read it. “This is a Certificate of Respite,” he said.
Feldman looked at it again. Already the five hours were up, and he had a heavy, sudden sense of uselessness. The official seals flared obsoletely on the certificate like great gilded nipples.
“All right,” a voice announced, “it’s seven o’clock. I call this meeting of the Crime Club to order.”
In the close quarters it was difficult to know who spoke. The voice might have been tough and husky, but was marred by a faint lisp and, at the other, deeper end of the man’s speech, a difficulty with
l’s
and
r’s
. The result was a peculiar effect of retardation, of the frictionless speech of monsters in films. The tattooed underside of the tongue, Feldman remembered. My God, it’s God.
“Old business?” the voice asked. “All right. New business?”
“I have new business,” Feldman said. He had decided to assert himself at once.
“Who’s that? Who’s there?” the voice asked, and Feldman saw a man stand up not far from him. Seated, he caught a quick glimpse of the flowered underside of the man’s tongue.
Feldman rose. “I have new business,” he repeated.
“State your new business.” The man was huge. He looked like all the dock-wallopers and bodyguards who had ever lived.
“You’re out of order,” Feldman said. “I’m the new president of this club.”
“Who the hell are you?”
It was disconcerting to Feldman not to be known here. Troublesome as his notoriety had been in the other parts of the prison, he had always been able to take from it a kind of reassurance, reading the prisoners’ contempt (and perhaps fear) almost—he knew this was insane—as a sign of their
culture
. Now their ignorance of him deepened his impression that they were corrupt. There was no telling what such men might do. As yet, however, he had no real fear of violence, taking comfort from the man’s very size, trusting in a big man’s admiration for order and due process.
“My name is Feldman,” he said.
“Credentials,” the incumbent said calmly.
“I have credentials.” He took out the warden’s letter and read it to them, leaving out the postscript.
“Check the signature, Forger.”
The man seated at Feldman’s knees held out his hand and took the letter. “It’s legit,” he said after examining it.
“I have a letter saying I’m the new president too,” one of the other convicts said.
“Sure you do,” said a man on the outer edges of the circle. (They formed a rough circle, Feldman saw now.) “We all have letters like it. As the son of a bitch says himself, he’s the one does the nominating and electing.” The men laughed.
“That’s right,” Feldman said. “That’s right. You all
would
have similar letters.”
“It’s a goddamned banana republic, we got so many presidents,” someone else said.
“What are we going to do?” Feldman asked.
“What the hell,” the big convict shrugged. “You be the president.” He sat down.
“Installation of officers,” a convict called mechanically. “Let’s get on with it.”
They swore Feldman in at once, the outgoing president administering an oath that he seemed to compose as he went along. (It wasn’t a bad oath, Feldman thought, considering it had been made up on the spur of the moment.)
“Well, what do we do now?” Feldman asked. None of the men said anything. “Old business?” he asked, remembering the formula of the past president (not, despite appearances, a bad officer, all things considered). He tried “New business?” with the same results, then looked around the room at the Crime Club membership. “Let’s steal something,” he suggested, giggling. He stared out at them for a few more minutes and then sat down, no longer uncomfortable. Gradually he felt even more at ease, and despite the physical closeness in the room, he began to grow sleepy and once or twice actually caught himself nodding. He wondered what they were doing over at the Model Airplane Club.
It was strange, another of the endless rituals and counterrituals he had met with here. Some time ago he had begun to think that he saw a design. It had to do with the nullifying of energies, as though the warden’s final intention were to keep the men quiet by having them perceive just what Feldman was slowly perceiving, that they were caught up in a treadmill rhythm of opposing impulses. It seemed too simple a theory perhaps for the elaborateness of the rules and ceremonies, but he was relieved by its very simplicity. It humanized the warden. Not that it made him kinder or easier to get along with, but it stripped away some of the mystery. If the mystery was unearned he was glad to know it. And now, hoping that they knew it too, he felt suddenly closer to his fellow convicts. Surely they shared his perceptions and accepted them. (After all, they all stood to gain from passivity, stood to gain from the saltpetered food and the worked-off violence and the deflection of their intentions. Let us all take the cold shower together, he thought. Let everyone behave: no prison breaks, no complaints about the food, no misspelled petitions for the redress of grievances.) Expansive, he felt not their good will, but the clubby chill of their sophistication. Their discreet indifference was attractive. Something could be said for superior sales resistance, for sulk and moroseness of spirit, and suddenly he felt like congratulating them and being congratulated by them. “We’ll pull through,” he would have said, “it’s not so bad.” Before he could speak, however—and why, anyway, did he want to? why had he tried to comfort his personnel that time in the soiled back rooms of his department store? what had he meant to tell them? why did he still feel a necessity to respond? was his own sales resistance not so superior after all?—he heard a stirring of the chairs and someone rising.
“I’ll tell you something about crime,” a convict said, startling him with the unexpectedness of his speech. “It’s too indoorsy. Why’s your average con doing time today? Shit, look at the terms used to describe him: he’s a
breaker and enterer
; he’s a
second-story man
; he’s
on the inside
, he says of his jail,
behind the walls
. It’s all inside jobs, I tell you. What’s his own term for the world but
the outside?
Never Chicago, never Detroit.