THEY LET RUSSELL WORK out a plea bargain, thirty-year sentence, with twelve off for good behavior, on account of how he squealed, and him not being the one that pulled the trigger. Me, they put the handcuffs back on and take me to juvenile detention. In the car going over, cop says, “Don’t think just because you’re sixteen you’re going to get away with this. Guy that’s man enough to screw, he’s old enough to fry.” That’s the first time they tell me what the punishment is for first-degree murder. Life without parole.
I think I’m going to be sick. I’m scared I’m going to start bawling. Up until then, all I could think of was Mrs. Maretto, and how I just got to see her, but after that it started to hit me. It’s not just that I can’t ever screw Mrs. Maretto again. I’m never going to get to do it with anyone. Don’t ask me why, but I start wishing my mom was here. Not that she’s the type that ever made it right before. And she sure couldn’t now.
The whole place is fenced in like a fucking chicken coop, barbed wire on top and everything. First thing they do is take your shoes and your belt. Then they bring you in this room where they make you take off the rest of your clothes and shower. I was glad there wasn’t any other guys in there. Russell used to tell me what happens in here. You got to keep your eye out every second or someone might come along and stick it in your butt.
They buzz-cut my hair. Give me these work boots that weigh like twenty pounds apiece. Then they hand me this package all wrapped up in brown paper. Inside’s a towel, a bar of soap, roll of toilet paper, a couple of disposable razors. Guy takes me down a long hall, past all these guys in cells. Thirty different transistor radios all going at once, you can’t hear yourself think.
Someone says, “That’s him. Fucked a married woman and blew away her old man.” Someone else says, “Asshole.”
Guy calls out to me, when I pass his cell, “Was she good?”
Laying on my cot, nights, when I can’t sleep, I try to remember. Not all the time, or I’d use it up too quick. I save it for when I’m feeling real bad, and then it’s like a treat I give myself. OK, I say. Now you’re pulling up to her house. Now she’s opening the door. Now she’s unzipping her dress. Now you’re loosening your belt and taking off your jeans. Here comes her tits. She’s doing her cheer. Give me an E. Give me an L. Now she’s laying down on the bed. You’ve got your tongue in her mouth now. Now you’re inside her. Now you’re in heaven.
Only it’s like a movie you watch, where you don’t get cable or something, and the reception’s so bad you can’t hardly make out what they’re saying. It’s fuzzy. Getting fuzzier all the time.
Sometimes I feel like I’m some fucking prisoner of war that don’t want to lose touch and go crazy. I’m trying to hold on, you know? So I give myself these little tests where I got to remember something. “Was the tattoo on her left tit or her right?” I’ll ask myself. “What did she smell like? Was her hair blond, down below?”
I think I used to know. But it’s slipping away from me. How do you like that?