The Room (4 page)

He leaned against the wall and put his feet on the edge of the bunk. It seemed like just a short time ago that he was awakened to go to court, yet he knew it had been about 5/30 and that he didn’t get back to his cell until after 7/30. 14 hours. Fourteen long hours, yet he could remember very little of it. He had stood and waited; sat and waited; paced and waited with time seeming to be endless, yet now it seemed like such a short time ago that the guard awakened him and threw him a set of blues and said, court time.

He reviewed the day, thinking of specific incidents, trying to remember all the details, every word said, reliving every gesture, yet he could review it all in minutes, yet those minutes added up to 14 hours. He sat on the bench for a while, then they went down on the elevator to the holding tanks. Then he waited for his clothes in one tank, then waited to be cuffed to the chain in another tank, and then they got on the bus and went to the courthouse and went to another holding tank and were unchained and then to the courtroom, then back to the holding tank, then back on the chain and on the bus and back to the jail and another series of holding tanks until eventually he was back in his cell. And it added up to 14 hours. At the time endless and now a matter of minutes.

He knew he had been in the courtroom a long time because the other guys asked him why he was there so long when he got back to the holding tank under the courtroom, yet, now, it seemed like minutes. All that talk. All that stipulating and waiving. All the stupid questions and answers. Only minutes. Hours of bullshit that end up being minutes. It was like a church ritual, or some fucking thing. Nobody knew what the ritual was about, or cared, they were only interested in keeping it going. Thats all. Keep it going. Like a perpetual-motion machine. Just give it a push and it keeps going on and on and on

until you stop the sonofabitch. Thats all you have to do. Just stop it. Thats what I should have done. Just stuck my hand out and stopped all the bullshit. Just tell them where its really at. Shove all their words and ritual right down their fucking throats. Show them up for the assholes they are. I should have just shoved that stupid p.d. out of the way and took over myself, the dumb bastard. The do-nothing sonofabitch. Just twist their ritual around and shove it up their asses.

Screw it. Its not important anyway. Just a preliminary hearing. I/ll get them the next time. Theyre not going to screw me around with their rules. Itll be different the next time. When it really counts. They cant play their games with me.

Bang, bang. I gotya. Ya did not. Ya missed. Youre a liar. I gotya right between the eyes,

smiling, chuckling aloud, stretching out on the bunk, running through the park, slapping the side of your leg with your hand, clucking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, horse and rider all in one. Getting shot on top of the hill and rolling down then crawling behind a tree or bush and shooting the dirty redskin, or owl-hoot or sheriff or whoever else was chasing you. Hiding behind the tree or bush and using the rifle you slipped from the saddle holster as you slipped from your horse and shooting at your pursuer and missing an occasional shot and the bullet kachanging off a rock and the other rider slides from his horse and returns the fire and soon everyone is crawling, running, hiding, shooting. And every day, before the game started everyone yelled Im a bad guy–Im a good guy, and, somehow, in a matter of seconds there were two sides and they were running, riding and shooting. And the whine of bullets followed the leg-slapping, tongue-clicking, galloping of the horses as they pounded over the grass, in between and around bushes and trees, suddenly leaping over gopher holes or logs, suddenly yanking on the reins to avoid the strike of a rattler and eventually stretching out on the grass beside a small stream or water hole and looking up at the clear sky as the horse quenches his thirst, and the smell of grass was sweet as horse and rider renewed their strength to continue the chase or retreat.

And those battles on 72nd street. Seemed like there were hundreds of kids packed in the street with guns made of the corner edge of an orange
crate, the joint of the 2 pieces cut at an angle and a rubber band stretched from end to end, and square pieces of cardboard shot at each other as everybody ran, screamed, and charged or attacked pushing a scooter made from an old skate, a 2 × 4, and an orange crate. And old Mrs McDermott. She thought it was real and called the cops and when they came everyone ran screaming like a madman.

They sure were some great battles. Days were spent making the guns, cutting every piece of cardboard that could be found, and then the street was packed with kids. And the battle would go on and on, and when you ran out of ammunition you just picked up what you needed from the street. There was cardboard all over. From curb to curb, hahahahahahahaha. The street cleaners sure must have hated it. Those old italian guys with their little hand trucks and brooms and shovels. But they probably didnt mind sweeping up the cardboard as much as they did the dog shit and horse manure. But old Mr Leone used to help them. He used to come out with his shovel and pail and select only the best pieces of manure. But he always waited until the birds had eaten what they wanted. Sometimes he/d stand there for an hour waiting until the birds had finished, then he/d inspect the pile, select the choicest lumps and carefully put them in the pail. He sure did have a nice front yard, but it sure did stink sometimes, especially in the summer. Everybody said he had a real great garden in the back. Mostly tomatoes. But who knows. No one ever saw it. Anyway, the rosebush in front was nice. Smelled so good you couldnt smell the manure in springtime. That was always a good time. But June sure was long. Waiting for school to be over. It seemed like years before it was time to sing, no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers dirty looks. And then home to mother to show her the report card and tell her you got promoted. And she was always happy to see good marks, but then she wanted to know why the D in effort and D in conduct. And there was never an answer. Youre such a good boy. Why cant you get A in effort and conduct, the hurt look on her face. And you try shrugging and mumbling the question away, but it doesn’t work. And you get all knotted up and sick to your stomach and you feel hotter and hotter and theres nothing to say. Not a goddamn thing
to say. Nothing that anyone would understand. You talk on line, or laugh in the classroom and some asshole teacher tells you to write a demerit slip, and you whisper again, or chuckle and the dumb bitch hands you another one and another one and then youre supposed to explain why those assholes give you D in effort and D in conduct. As if it was your fault or something.

Fuckit. Who gives a shit. The dried-up old douche bags. Why in the hell do they teach school if they hate kids so much. Stop that giggling. Dont you know youre disrupting the class. Shit. They just cant stand to see people laugh. They got their rules and a sour face and thats it. They dont want to know anything. If you dont do it their way theyll screw you up. Too bad we couldnt get them in the middle of one of those battles. And get them with one of the Baileys guns. Or slingshots.

Yeah … … they were good slingshots. It was the rubber bands. Their old man made them out of the inner tubes of tires. They were really powerful slingshots. And they made their ammunition out of old pieces of oilcloth and it hurt like hell when you got hit with one of them. Really was dirty fighting. John killed a cat with a slingshot once. Put a big hunk of steel in it and hit the cat right in the head. Really smashed it. But those battles were great. The screaming, the running, the clogged streets and stalled traffic.

But cops and robbers was a good game. Even when it was raining and you had to stay in the house. Especially that apartment on third avenue. It was on the fourth floor and was perfect for shooting it out with the cops,

kneeling beside the open window. Pow. Pow. He was Dillinger. Or maybe Pretty Boy Floyd. Pow. Pow. The street was filled with cops – behind buildings, cars, lampposts, in the doorways of buildings. And the rain flooded the streets and splashed off his window sill onto his face. They yelled at him to give himself up. Youll never get me alive copper, pow. Pow. He knew they had him surrounded, that there were hundreds of cops out there just waiting to riddle him with bullets, but he wasnt going to give up. He/d fight to the death. And if they got him he was going to take a few of them
with him. Yeah, they might getim, but he wasnt going alone. He ducked below the window as the sashing was splintered with bullets of all kinds: pistol, rifle and machine gun. He twitched his lips and flipped his cigarette out the window, cursing the lousy coppers. He crouched against the wall, looking at the bullet riddled walls, snarling. When the shooting stopped he slowly raised his head and once more emptied his gun at the cops.

Then it happened. He took a slug in the shoulder and fell on his back, still holding his gun.

His mother jerked up in bed in the next room. Whats wrong son, scrambling out of bed and wrapping her bathrobe around her. He jerked around, startled by the sudden voice, and stared at his mother who struggled with the robe as she ran to her sons side. The fear in his mothers voice and the panic of her movements made it impossible to answer. He was fascinated by the size of her breasts. He had never realized they were so large. When her body turned they seemed to take many minutes to follow. He never realized that she had large, dark nipples. Even after they were covered he could see them sticking in the robe, and could see their movement as his mother knelt beside him and put her arms around him. What is it son? Whats wrong? Nothin. Nothins wrong. I was just playing. She hugged him and she felt unusually soft. He never remembered his mother feeling so soft. His mother held his face in her hands, smiled, and kissed him on the forehead before getting up and going back to the bedroom to get dressed. He started to continue the game, but decided against it and instead he leaned against the window sill and watched the rain splash on the street and on the tops of cars.

Yeah, the goddamn rain. Always coming at the wrong time. You plan on doing something, or going somewhere and it rains. Every goddamn time. Like the fourth of July they let me buy fireworks and it fucking drizzles all day. What a bunch of shit. One fucking day out of the whole fucking year and it has to rain. Probably the only time it ever rained on the fourth. The only time I can remember. Just my fucking
luck. Had to worry about keeping the punk dry so it wouldnt go out so I could light the firecrackers. Wouldnt have been so bad if it had rained like a bastard for a while and then cleared up. No, it had to drizzle all day. And of course the next day was nice. The goddamn sun shined like a sonofabitch all day.

Fucking shit, sitting on the edge of the bed, his muscles tensed and teeth clenched, staring in front of him and shaking his head. Fuck it, fuck the whole rotten mess, jerking up and wishing to krist there was something or someone to smash. He stood in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection for a moment, his arms half-raised, then leaned closer and looked at the red spot on his cheek. He jabbed at it with his fingers, but the sonofabitch just hurt. Nothing happened. Nothing came out of it. It didnt get bigger. It didnt get smaller. It just hurt.

He turned around and looked at the cell just waiting for it to say something. Anything. Go ahead you sonofabitch, say something and I/ll smash your fucking face in. I/ll crush your fucking head. He looked a wall right in the eye and defied it to make a move. Just one single move. Or say a word and he/d tear it apart. He/d pulverize the cement into powder. If only there was a face to scream into. A face that would say something and he could take the words and shove them down the faces throat. Or beat his fucking breast, or kick the fucking door

o shit, staring at the wall

shit!

He sat on the edge of the bed and let his body slowly relax and shook his head in disgust. It was a bitch. A goddamn bitch. He knew where he was. Youre fucking well right he did. There was no bullshit about that. He was right where he was. And so was that wall. And that one. And the door and the ceiling and the floor and the bars on the window and the commode in the corner and the sink on the wall and the goddamn pimple on his cheek. And the rats ass bunk he was sitting on. Real. All of them. Yeah, he knew where he was. Just as sure as krist made little apples he knew where he was. But if only he could dream the sonofabitch away. Just close your eyes and dream it away.
Not even lay down or anything else. Just close your eyes and let the bastard disappear. Open your eyes and walk through the fucking door. Open or closed just walk right the fuck through it. Thats all. Bye, bye baby.

O fuck, stretching out on the bed and covering his eyes with an arm. I wish theyd turn the lights off for a while. Just for 5 fucking minutes. Thats all. Just 5 minutes so maybe you could get some rest.

Rest? Aint that a fucking joke. Theyd rather die than let you get any rest. Just a little darkness. Thats all. Just a little darkness. Is that so much to ask for. Theyd even save money if theyd turn off the lights. Just complete darkness so you cant see a thing. No corners. No walls. No window. No nothing. Just a big black nothing. Thats all. And they act like youre asking for the world. And all I want is a big, black nothing. And I wont even whistle. But they love the light. Krist how they love it. Theyll give you every fucking shade of gray in the world, but just dont ask for black. No shadows. Have to have a little light in those corners. Just has to be. Just enough so you cant rest. Thats the whole idea. Just enough so you cant rest. They dont want you to lose any time. Dont want you to slip through a few hours by sleeping – the cell door clanged open – the rotten mother-fuckers.

He got up and went to the mess hall. It was bright. The trays were bright and shiny. He leaned against the wall with the others, slowly moving an inch or so every now and then. And everything was dull. The talk. The food. The people. Dull. All dull. When he finished he went back to his cell, threw some water on his face, dried it, then sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the door to be locked.