Out (28 page)

Abraham, a man
so dark he seems to be almost blue-black, shakes his head slowly.

“No?” Dr.
Ashburn seems surprised. He leans forward. “Abraham, think about it. Are you
sure you don’t want to earn some extra points?”

He doesn’t look
up. He just keeps shaking his head slowly, slowly. The doctor is clearly
annoyed by Abraham. He
purses
his thin lips, runs a
hand through wispy blond hair, and adjusts owl-eye glasses. He jots something
angrily on the handheld. “Fine. Paul?”

Paul looks
young, younger than I am. He’s tan, Hispanic maybe, with a scar down his left
cheek. He stares at me with blank, brown eyes. “God loves you.”

“Say his name,”
Dr. Ashburn says, sounding like he’s coaching a child to speak.

“God loves you,
Sebastian.”

Ashburn smiles.
“And?”

“And you will
be cleansed and made pure. Praise God.”

At that, all
the men murmur some form of “Praise God.”

“Great, Paul.
You will be rewarded.” He happily taps the screen again. He turns to me. “Sebastian—”

I know I
shouldn’t say it, but I do. “My name is Chris.”

“Sebastian, you
are in Orientation group Delta. We meet daily for counseling and reorientation
training. This is where you learn about our facility and how we’re here to help
you. We’re here to help each other. You are all part of God’s family, and he
wants you to heal. Isn’t that right?”

The men murmur,
all except Abraham, who sits silent as a mahogany statue, eyes closed as if
he’s a thousand miles away.

Dr. Ashburn is
clearly annoyed by Abraham, but he continues. “We were just discussing our need
to cleanse ourselves to be worthy of God’s love,” Dr. Ashburn says smoothly as
he peers at me over the top of his glasses. “For today, Sebastian, just listen.
You’ll understand how it works soon enough. Let’s continue with…” He looks at
the faces of the men in the circle. “Noah.”

Noah, a scared-looking
older man with a gray crew-cut, face like a
Mako
shark, sits across from me in the circle. His mouth twitches. “Yes, Dr.
Ashburn?”

“Noah, can you
tell Sebastian one of our five rules?”

Noah licks his
dry lips and stutters. “No unauthorized conversation.”

Dr. Ashburn
smiles and taps his handheld. “Excellent. Paul, another rule?”

Paul looks
terrified. “Meals are to be taken in silence. Clean your plate.” He sniffs
repeatedly, a nervous tic.

“Two down,
three to go.” Dr. Ashburn taps his device again. “Charles?” A Korean man coiled
into a ball has his head tucked between his knees, eyes closed. “Charles, are
you feeling ill?” An involuntary murmur from the other men. Charles doesn’t
respond.

Paul, who sits
next to him, nudges him. Charles looks up, dark marble eyes in glaring whites. “I’m
feeling fine.”

“Then tell us a
third rule.”

Charles puts
his head back between his knees.

“I’ll tell it.
I’ll tell it!” Paul jumps excitedly on the mat. “Follow directions at all
times.”

Dr. Ashburn has
typed something on his keypad. “Charles, I’m making a note to your rehab
counselor that you are being uncooperative.” The other men moan, a low
frightened sound.

“The other two
rules are….everyone….” Dr. Ashburn looks from man to man, waiting for them to
respond as one, which they do, all except for Charles, who now rocks back and
forth in small, rhythmic movements. “Keep to Yourself and Pray Three Times
Daily!” they shout like schoolchildren.

The doctor
turns to me, and beams. “You see? It’s not that difficult. I’m sure you’ll find
that, with time, you’ll be right at home here.” He consults his keypad again,
and turns to the others. “The next thing we need to discuss today is cafeteria
behavior.”

Silence.
Charles even stops swaying.

The doctor
sounds like he’s talking to a bunch of second graders. I want to smack him.
Probably not a great idea. “There was a problem in the Dining Hall during the
second shift yesterday. Who can tell me what happened?”
 
Nobody moves. “Paul, weren’t you second
shift?”

Paul goes pale
and blinks repeatedly. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

The doctor
licks his thin lips and fixes his eyes on Noah, the twitchy shark guy. “Noah,
can you help Paul? What are we supposed to do when something goes wrong?”

Noah blinks
rapidly. “Help those who are in violation by turning them in.” He stares at the
floor.

“Right. So,
Paul, you’d be doing your friend a favor by telling me who was responsible.”

Dead silence.

“It was me.”
Abraham, eyes open, leans forward.
 
“I
did it.” Tiger eyes blaze in defiance.

Dr. Ashburn
obviously hates this guy. “Abraham, claiming to be responsible for something to
hide the error of another is wrong in the eyes of God. It’s a lie.”

Abraham, who of
all these men seems the least afraid, leans back on the mat, stretches his arms
behind his head, and grins broadly. “But see, I was responsible. I threw soup
at a guy a table over from me.”

Dr. Ashburn’s
mouth hangs open. “Why would you do that?”

“I wanted to
see what would happen.”

You can feel
the other men sort of inching away from Abraham, even though they have little
room to move. It’s subtle. But I can tell that this guy is a troublemaker, and
he’s going to be my friend.
 

For most of the
rest of the session, I just try to study Abraham while looking like I’m listening.
He’s strong, fierce, independent, not broken. An ally. Am I crazy enough to
think I could get out? I think about the sniper that Luke mentioned, the one
who shoots just above the eye.
 
Maybe it
doesn’t scare me as much as it would have weeks ago.

Ashburn finally
dismisses us. Four guards show up to escort us back to Delta.
 
No one says anything on the way, and we’re
forced into a single-file line as we shuffle down the corridor. Abraham falls
in line behind me.

When we get to
the bunkroom, the guards let us in and every man goes to his bed. I do the
same, not knowing what else to do, climbing the metal ladder to the top.
 
Abraham is in a bed two bunks over, also on
the top. Noah wordlessly climbs into the bed below me.

All the other
guys seem to just flow with this. Nobody talks. A loudspeaker whistles, then a
voice comes out scratchy and annoying: “Please take out your bibles and begin
reading. Lunch for first shift is in 45 minutes.” As if they’re one person, all
the men reach somewhere and pull out a small black book. I reach to the side of
the mattress and find a pocket sewn into the sheet. Inside, I have an identical
black book. Guess I’m going to read the bible.

I prop a small,
stained pillow against the metal bars of the bed frame, lean into it, and open
the book. The pages fall open to a section marked by a small piece of paper. I
look up to see if I’m being watched. Are there cameras in here? Who left this
paper in the book? I check the ceiling, trying to scope for the surveillance. I
can’t find it. Safest way, I guess, is to turn onto my stomach, put the book
between my propped up arms, and that way I’m shielding it, probably.

I hide as well
as I can, hoping for the best. I try to unfold the paper with no movement,
slowly, a centimeter at a time. I frown intently, pretending to read the
printing on the pages. Instead, I concentrate on this hand-scrawled note on
what looks like toilet paper.

Shower. Go far
left. Wait.

That’s all it
says. I look up as subtly as I can, trying to see if anyone is watching me read
this worthless piece of paper. The guy who had this bed before probably left
it. He was probably delusional after months…years? …in here. Writing nonsense.
But still I crumple it up and tuck it into the pocket where the bible went.

After what
seems like an eternity of staring at the tiny ant-like words in the holy book,
a loud buzzer sounds. Men shuffle expectantly. First lunch shift, I guess.
Everyone around me stays put, so I do too. The guys at the other end of the
room march silently away, leaving half here, where I am.

Two guards tap
the metal railing with black nightsticks. “Hygiene,” one yells. Everyone gets
up, lines up, and never one word is spoken. Abraham lines up too. We march in
the opposite direction of the lunch crew. We’re led down yet another hall to a
huge cement-floored room installed with multiple showerheads, probably twenty
across. One by one we strip, drop our clothes, and find a spot in the corral.
Go far left. Ah. Maybe not an old leftover note after all. I make a beeline for
the far left showerhead. Abraham is behind me in line, so I wait, not watching,
to see if he comes over too.

He does.

Water suddenly
shoots out of the nozzle, too cold to be comfortable. Hoses poke from the
shower walls and squirt antiseptic-smelling liquid soap directly onto our
bodies. Men line up in front of each nozzle, waiting their turn to be squirted.
Abraham is behind me in line.

“Listen,” he
says. I can barely hear him over the rushing water as I scrub my body. “Keep
washing.” I do. “I’ll slip you another note. Wait for it. Don’t do anything.”
 

A whistle
blows, our signal to switch places. I delay by pretending to have soap in my
eyes. Abraham steps forward, pretends to shove me aside, but instead pushes
something into my palm. I squeeze tightly, holding on.

My heart beats
so fast I’m sure everyone else can hear it. I press the paper into my palm,
digging in with my unclipped nails. After the shower, the guard directs us to a
cement room of shelves stocked with orange jumpsuits. I take one silently, pull
it on, keep my fist balled up.

 
The guard points to a metal bench, where I sit
shoved next to other men who have already showered. We wait for the others. I
am burning to read the note, but can’t do it. Wait. Wait. After what seems like
forever, we’re all finished, and we’re marched out to the hallway again. A
buzzer sounds. “Shift two lunch,” the guard yelps.

The cavernous
feeding area is filled with metal picnic tables, and it’s absolutely silent
except for the grinding groan of men sitting on benches. It’s a sea of orange
jumpsuits. Abraham sits next to me.

Other prisoners
roll huge metal carts down the rows, ladling soup into the empty bowls. It’s
almost clear liquid, with a couple of mushrooms and carrots in it. My stomach
growls even though the food doesn’t smell that appetizing. As the servers pass
us, I pick up a white plastic spoon and stir the soup. I still have the note
pressed into my palm, but I’m afraid to read it here, in the open.

Abraham bends
toward his soup, closes his eyes, and folds his hands, as does every other man.
Over the loudspeaker, a voice intones “For what we are about to receive, make
us truly grateful.” The prayer echoes in uneven waves across the room. Then the
sounds of slurping and elbows jostling fills the room. The servers come by
again, this time with rolls and pitchers of water.

 
“Listen.” Abraham’s voice is a whisper that
sounds so much like the rustling of orange cloth that at first I think I’m
hearing things. He doesn’t look at me. Spoon to his lips, he says, “Resistance.”

I pick up my
spoon, stir, tear a piece of bread and put it in the broth. I’m afraid to
speak.

“Bible.”

I guess that
means I’ll get more information in a note like I did before. It’s torturous not
being able to ask a direct question. Abraham lifts a tin cup to his lips. “Therapy.
Talk.”

So, we might be
able to talk in the therapy? In that session with the stupid doctor? I sort of
see how it could happen. If you knew what to say. And I still have the note. I
have to see what that says.
 

He says nothing
more, and I just eat the rest of the soup, bread, and water, which tastes foul.

After a short
time, the buzzer sounds again. We all pick up our dishes, drop them into a big
basin, and walk again out to the hallways. “Work period,” the guard says. We
trudge forward, forward, forward into yet another room filled with wooden
crates of all sizes, conveyer belts, noisy machines. It’s about 20 degrees
hotter in here than outside, and it reeks of chemicals and piss. When the guard
isn’t looking, I pretend to cough and stuff the paper into my mouth, tuck it
behind my side teeth.

Rolling along
on the belts are little statues of Jesus, plates etched with the face of the
bishop, angel picture frames. Men in jumpsuits stand doing menial jobs,
spraying paint, dabbing paint, putting things in boxes, stamping, packing. This
is work.
 
Making religious crap.
 

A guard grabs
my shoulder and steers me toward a clump of guys who hold spray nozzles. “You’ll
be painting,” he says. “Just point the hose at the statue, cover it, pass it
down the line.”

I stand next to
somebody, grab a hose, and the first squirt of gold goes a bit wild, hitting
another guy in the arm. The guy snarls at me, and a guard shocks him with a
stun gun or something. Little plastic Jesus figures roll by, and I try to hit
them with the sprayer. One falls off because I spray too hard, and a guard is
next to me, jabbing the shock stick into my side, a white-hot poker, but I keep
my mouth clamped closed. I vow to be more careful. I wedge the note more firmly
behind my molars.

We go on like
this for what seems like hours. My legs start to shake, my hand falls asleep,
my head pounds and my eyes water, but we get no breaks. Other men just relieve
themselves on the floor, and I see puddles of urine collecting under the
conveyer belt, running toward steel grates where they drain. The piss smell.

I start to
drift. As I’m spraying, images of Carmen swim in my mind, wavy images of her
red sweater, her lips, and I remember the scent of her hair. When will I see
her? Resistance. Abraham had said that. So some people were planning to get
out. I had to be one of them.