The Room (30 page)

Then, at last, time did move and his cell door was clanged open with the yell of chow time. His eyes somehow opened, but there didnt seem to be too much of a change with the exception of more light. He knew he was looking at something, seeing something, but he didnt know what. He continued to look until he realized that what he saw from the corner of his left eye was the wall and the dimness of what was visible was the pillow. It was only after moments of consciousness of the fact that that little sliver of gray was the wall that he realized his face was almost completely buried in the pillow. He then realized the pillow was damp, vaguely aware that it was caused by his tears. He continued to stare at the gray sliver trying to react to the continued command of chow time.

He moved his head, then raised it and lifted himself on an elbow, becoming more and more aware of the fact that he would have to move the rest of his body sooner or later. If only
they would just let him stay in his bed. Not make him move. Just let him rot away until he wasnt even a spot on the sheet. No stain. No dust. Nothing.

But he knew they wouldnt. He knew he had to move. To get up. To walk to the mess hall. To stand on line. Get a tray. Move. Then stop. Stand. Move. Stop. Stand. Get the food. Walk to a table and sit. Then get up. Scrape his tray and put it on the cart. Then go back to his cell and lie down on the bed. He had to do all this. There was no choice. It had to be done. But first he had to move. He had to get his legs over the side of the bed. Raise his body. Then stand. This had to be done first. He had no choice.

He started to move his legs, trying to do what had to be done, while squeezing his eyes, tightening his mouth and fighting the nausea in his stomach. He had to move those legs but it was so hard to do when all he was aware of was the limp stiffness of his crotch. Jesus Krist, how could he move with that damn thing stuck to his legs and covered with stiffening slime? Goddamn those rotten, fucking bastards. Why in the hell wont they let me just stay here. Why do I have to go and get a tray of that rotten shit? I cant eat that rotten garbage, that stinking horsemeat.

CHOW TIME. Up your ass with your fucking chow time, and the legs groaned their way to the side of the bed, fighting their way free from the restraining stiffness and cold wetness. It seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle. It was a chore he didnt seem to have the energy to complete. Yet it had to be done and so the legs slowly inched their way away from the restraints toward the edge of the bed until they were extended over the side and the rest of his body started moving. He sat on the edge for a moment, the covers wrapped around his legs. LETS GO. LETS GO. CHOW TIME. LETS MOVE IT. He clutched at the covers. Move your ass you rotten pricks. Who the fuck needs your rotten food … … … . o shit … … . shit

throwing the covers off and standing. He looked down at the blatant stain on his pants, feeling the cracking streams down his thighs, wanting to splash water on them, but unable to. His legs were so weak he almost fell back
onto the bed. He braced himself then leaned against the wall. His legs were trembling. So was his gut. He moved a leg. Then the other. The pants clung to his crotch and thighs. The pants started to tear loose as he moved but he could still feel the stiffness of both. He continued moving one leg and then the other. The stiffened streams continued to crack and chip. A cold wind seemed to blow between his legs. He could feel the wet, gooey tip of his penis and could think of nothing else as each leg was slowly moved and that wet, sticky limpness bumped and rubbed against one thigh and then the other. Back and forth it swung in sickening exhibition. It was as if thats all there was to him. As if that was all there was to be seen. Just a limp, sticky, scraping penis floundering around between his legs. And he had to walk behind it, slowly moving one leg and then the other, and follow it wherever it led him. It wasnt a part of him. He was a part of it.

The corridor was unbearably bright and long. The floor seemed slippery and sloping and far too wide. If only it were narrower, much narrower, he wouldnt have to worry about falling or being propelled from one wall to another, his knees buckling and legs crumbling, trying to cling to the hard smooth surface of the wall, frantically trying to keep from collapsing into a disjointed blob on the trembling floor. If only he didnt have to walk down the middle of the corridor. If only he could slide along a wall and drag his legs behind him over the springy floor. If only he could flatten himself against a wall and shove his face in the dull grayness and somehow tug or pull his body behind him. Or if only the corridor would narrow so he could stretch out his arms and brace himself against both walls and inch his way down the long corridor. If only he could close his eyes.

He tried closing his eyes slightly, but they were immediately yanked open as his body was almost slammed down on the floor. He could feel his eyes bulging from his head as he struggled and staggered down the corridor. And he could see. He could see the floor and walls with their splotches and cracks, the signs and doorways, the many bodies moving, the entrance to the mess hall and the lights.

And he could feel the light
and staring eyes.

He approached the end of the line as it slowly shuffled into the mess hall, but it always seemed to be just a few feet away until it finally stopped moving and eventually he was able to join the end of the line. He tried to fold himself into the wall.

There was the noise of movement, voices, tin trays and cups, but all he could feel was the light and eyes. And the limp stiffness.

He pressed into the secure wall and closed his eyes. He could still feel the light and eyes all around him, but at least the dimness of closed eyes was soothing. He could feel his body panting for something, for some sort of life. For some sort of relief from the aching nausea that churned in his stomach and throbbed up his spine to his head. Ice-pick pains stabbed his ears, his neck and shoulders and he wanted desperately to be back on his bed, safely locked in his cell, curled up in a tight ball hidden from himself. Yet he feared collapsing into that little ball on the mess hall floor. He knew he had to go through certain motions. He had to accept a tray of food. He had to sit at a table for a safe length of time. He had to scrape the food from the tray into the garbage, put the empty tray on the cart then make his way back to his cell. This he had to do in spite of the nausea. In spite of the pain. In spite of the weakness and fear. In spite of the light and eyes.

He was suddenly prodded forward as the guy behind him told him to move. He fought to keep from falling while keeping himself pressed into the wall and inched behind the moving line.

He clutched a tray in his hands and wanted to ask for just a small amount of food so it would be easier to carry, but was afraid to speak. He slid his tray along the counter, watching the food being plopped onto the tray in wet piles. When he reached the end of the counter he lifted the tray and slowly, painfully turned, trying desperately to prevent the food from sloshing over the sides of the tray. He carefully twisted a foot to the side, fraction by fraction, until he found the position where he could slowly twist his body around without falling, feeling his way into the safest position,
his eyes always on the sloshing food. Eventually he completed the turn and he lifted his head and eyes just enough to look for an empty seat.

Then he realized where he was, that he was standing in front of the mess hall with his tray held in front of him and everyone could see him. Even the men with their backs to him could see him. He wanted to lower his tray while twisting his body and closing his eyes and backing his way to a seat, any seat, and hiding himself under the table. Yet all he could do was remain motionless with the tray extended before him, his body trembling, his mind screaming until he was once

more prodded forward. Comeon buddy, moveit. Whatta yathink ya doin, posin for holy pictures?

He stumbled forward, the warm water spilling onto his hands, feeling the many, many pairs of eyes staring, feeling the fingers pointing with disgust, until his legs scraped against a bench and his body started to fold from pain and his knees banged on the empty seat and the tray clanged on the table. He twisted his body onto the seat, continuing to stare at the food on the tray, lowering his head even further, wanting to rub away the pain in his knees and shins and keeping his mouth clamped tightly shut and breathing through flared nostrils to keep from puking.

He knew he had to pick up the spoon and make the motions until he could safely leave the mess hall. He moved his spoon among the food wanting to feign disgust at the rotten slop on his tray so he could just get up, dump it in the can, toss his tray on the cart and leave, but the most he could do was to dip the tip of the spoon in something on his tray. He tried to gauge the time so he would know when he had been sitting long enough to leave. Or maybe he should wait until the others left before he stood up and walked past them to the door and down that goddamn corridor to his cell. If only he could move the fucking spoon. But at least he was hidden under the table. But how long could he sit here? If he waited for them to tell him to get up and leave then there would be no way he could avoid their eyes. If he just got up now, slowly, quietly, maybe no one would notice him. But how in the name of krist could he get
up so they wouldnt notice him. Suppose he toppled forward, or some damn thing, and the shit spilled all over the damn place or someone and they started yelling at him. If only the goddamn floor wasnt so fucking slippery he wouldnt have to worry about shit like that. Some sonofabitch probably spilled some of the rotten slops on the floor and it would be just his luck to step in it and slip and fall on his ass. The goddamn shit was so rotten it wasnt fit for a fucking dog anyway. Why in the hell do they have to pile so much of it on your fucking tray? The cocksucking bastards. Somebody should shove it in their fucking faces. He continued to twist the spoon in something on his tray, watching it move along the top of the pile, still feeling the lights and the eyes.

He had to move. There was no choice. He had to. The longer he sat the more he became a part of the bench. He could feel the cement getting harder and harder. He had to move. Some fucking how he had to move and seek the freedom of his cell.

The guy sitting across from him belched and stood up then picked up his tray. He slid to the end of the bench, clutching the tray, and faced the wall before standing. He stood close behind the guy that had been sitting across from him and shuffled his way to the garbage can, let the food slide off the tray then put the tray on the cart. He kept his body twisted toward the wall as he walked down the side of the mess hall and through the door, turned stiffly so his body remained twisted toward the wall and pulled one leg behind the other, his hand ready to lean against the wall, and worked his way down the corridor feeling the light and the eyes. He could see the soft gray of his cell door and he wanted to run to it, through it, but it was more important that he keep his body twisted toward the wall and not fall on his back.

He slowly got closer and closer until his hand felt the warmth of the cold steel. He leaned against the door jamb for a brief second, looking at his bed, then tilted forward until he bumped into it. He scrambled onto it and let his body unbend in the soft warmth of the mattress. His body remained twisted, twisted into the mattress. His right eye was buried in the pillow, the left peered at the wall. The left lid blinked
when necessary. His lungs functioned. His arms hugged the body of the pillow, his hands gripping the edge. It seemed like a toe moved. He could smell and feel the warmth of his breath as it flowed into the pillow then billowed into his face. It was his breath. It was good to feel. And it was all he could hear. It flowed into the pillow, then billowed around his face. He could feel, too, his heart, and it seemed like he could hear it, but he only felt it. Could only feel the unheard beating. And he could feel his chest. His lungs functioned, but he felt his chest. He could feel the pressure on his right ear pressing into the pillow, and could feel the left exposed to the cooler air. He could feel the beat of his heart in his shoulders, could feel it beat down his arms and hands, into the cheek buried in the pillow. Warmly buried in the pillow. The other out in the air, quiet, still, seemingly cool, and free from the beating of the heart and the flowing of the blood as if the flowing and beating stopped at the neck and that cheek was just there, a companion of the other yet completely unattached even to the exposed and cool ear. Air was forced, almost thrust, into his chest, yet it was done silently. Everything was silent. The bodies moving in the corridor. The trays being piled on carts. The flies buzzing around the commode in the corner. The only sound was the sound of his breath flowing into the pillow and filtering into his face.

He remained twisted into the mattress, silent and motionless, save for the needed blinking of an eyelid.

The door clanged shut. He heard it clearly, distinctly, over the sound of his breath flowing into the pillow. And he felt it. Felt it over the beating of his heart, the flowing of his blood, the pain in his chest and the functioning of his lungs. He could feel it over the stiffened limpness and the light and eyes. He was safe.

His head moved slightly and he looked at the door. Thick, heavy steel. It was smooth and gray. It looked warm. It was impenetrable. It had a small window of thick, unbreakable glass. Wire-mesh glass. Outside were people and lights and baskets and signs, and rooms, and cells, and hallways, and walls and ceiling and floor, but the door was impenetrable. He was safe.

He moved his head a little more, then his shoulders, and loosened his hands on the edge of the pillow, and his left arm, then hand, crossed over his chest until he was leaning on his elbows, his face looking directly at the door, his head nestled down between his shoulders. He looked at the door. On the other side were baskets and signs. His body moved. A foot, an ankle, a leg, then the thigh. His shoulders moved a little more and then a hip. He was on his back, propped on his elbows, his legs crossed. Blues here. Yellows. Blankets. The door was locked. The huge bolt was shot.