I reexamine the stolen cash in the morning—I left it on the coffee table. That was a bad idea. The money looks repulsive in daylight. Deflated by the sight, I go and forage in the mini-fridge. I find a wilted carrot. I gnaw on it. I wash it down with a glass of tepid brown tap water.
The answering machine’s blinking red light catches my eye. I walk over to it and punch the play button. Alonzo’s drunken rasp knifes my ears: “I know you’re there. Trembling in the dark like a culo. Let me explain something. Do you remember my mom? She’d stand in line for hours outside the welfare office on Gilbert. To get government commodity foodstuffs. Sacks of weevil-infested white flour. The temperature out there topping a hundred and five degrees. That’s who we are. People with no mythology.”
I’m unnerved by Alonzo’s message. The tracheotomies have murdered his voice. He’s sick, and possibly dying. Yet the prospect of death doesn’t mellow him. And he’s holding me hostage—in a fraternal Stockholm syndrome. Which only reinforces the bondage-like rapport between us.
I struggle to stay away from the kitchenette sink. But the faucet’s bewitching drip is a siren’s song. Like a zombie I sleepwalk to the sink. I flip on the hot-water tap. I scrub my hands with dish soap. When I rinse them, my fingertips are pinking with blood. In a trance, I repeat the process. After the fifth time, my palms bleed. Seeing my own blood again—three times this week already—triggers a vicious flashback. To the night the cops took me into custody for the assault on the tech executive.
Rhonda is out getting a pedicure on D Street. I’m alone in our rooms. The doorbell ding-dongs. I yammer: “Who is it?” The answer shortens my lifespan. SWAT police. I do my algebra. I can let the assholes in. Or jump out the window. Rightfully, I select the latter. Only a loser would stick around to get nailed.
It’s heigh-ho, up and over the window sill into the wild blue yonder and the pavement below. I don’t get far—molecules of anxiety siphon the strength from my legs. Long enough for the cops to break down the door.
The first cop inside shoots me in the hip with a rubber bullet. Pow: I am knocked off the sill to the floor—the bullet leaves a contusion bigger than a jumbo pizza. I writhe on the carpet, happy it can’t get worse than this. To prove me wrong, another SWAT cop pepper-sprays me square in the face. A SWAT special operations unit brings in a robot—a toy-sized metal box on four wheels—to sweep the rooms for contraband. Then I’m taken downstairs to the lobby.
Initially, I am transported to a substation north of Base Line. A bunch of SWAT tac squad cops in the booking room take one look at me and chorus: “Kill the faggot, kill the faggot.”
Brilliant, I muse to myself. Truly brilliant.
I’m thrown into the holding cell with a drunk Mount Vernon hustler. A bit of rough trade. Irate because he’s been socked in the jaw by the desk sergeant. He grips the bars and screams he’s in pain and wants to see a doctor. Three officers charge into the cell to whale on him. Within seconds, there’s a stew of blood and skin on the walls.
In the middle of the night I am cuffed and driven in a patrol car to county jail. I’m escorted into another holding cell. Still handcuffed, my clothes are taken from me. I’m moved again—dumped nude in a strip cell. Nobody knows where I am. Maybe no one ever will. My balls shrivel with fear as plainclothes detectives interrogate me. One claims he’s a lawyer to get me to confess. I say zilch. What’s there to admit? That Rhonda went for a pedicure? Nope. That’s not me.
At dawn I’m issued a regulation orange jumpsuit and transferred to a felony tank. I’m fortunate enough to score an upper bunk. I also discover a John Dos Passos paperback novel hidden under my smelly plastic mattress. The book has no cover and looks as if someone used it to stop a bullet.
The paperback is a welcome diversion—the tank’s toilet is backing up. It’s regurgitating fecal matter from our tank and the other tanks in the jail. We’re getting everything. Nonstop.
I bury myself in the novel, reading fifty pages until the warders order me from the tank. They yell: “Leave the book behind!” Shoeless, I slosh through watery shit to the gate. I’m shackled and chained to a string of other prisoners. We’re corralled to court for arraignment.
I make a grand entrance into the courtroom, tracking brown footprints. I spot Rhonda among the spectators in the pews. My baby girl. Her loyalty is breathtaking. I try to smile at her. But I can’t. My mouth won’t cooperate. Because my bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars. I can’t afford that or a private attorney, so I’m assigned to a public defender. A young pup who doesn’t know squat. He’s convinced a jury of my peers will convict me. Opting for the alternative, we go to trial by a single judge. Next stop: Muscupiabe.
It seems wrong to think about these things now, but memories are deceitful. They have a habit of showing up like cockroaches when you least expect them. I simply cannot forget how the curtains came down on Rhonda and me.
I’ve been out of prison three weeks. Rhonda is in our walk-in closet, jamming clothes into a suitcase. From the doorway I bleat: “Why are you leaving me?” My question is an exercise in rhetoric. She’s already spelled out her departure’s catechism. It’s summarized in three words—I’m an asshole.
She lifts her valise, assaying the stockings, towels, panties, and bras she’ll ration in the days ahead. Then she looks at me, sniggering: “Do you want me to say it again? You’re an asshole.”
I did a nickel for this crap? No, I did not. I wag my head, indicating she’s not going anywhere. Rhonda gingerly places the suitcase on the floor. Bam: she springs at me, raking my face with her fingernails. I lurch backward. Whoa. What the fuck. She hoists the valise and flits from the room. Her high heels clack with terrifying finality out the door.
In agony, I reel into the bathroom. An unsympathetic mirror confirms what I fear. I’m the reluctant owner of four deep and symmetrical bloody claw marks on each cheek—stretching all the way down to my chin. Rhonda always pampered her nails, encouraging them to grow into steak knives. I’m aghast. Will my face heal, or am I going to look this way forever?
For the next week, it’s touch-and-go. The claw marks don’t blanch. Rhonda doesn’t call. Alonzo comes by, but his visits bring an alcoholic’s uncanny knack for jabbing at what hurts most. He has a solemn, canonical liturgy: “I never approved of your old lady. Never did. She’s a North End white girl. She isn’t the kind to stick around when the shit hits the fan. Yeah, okay, okay. She didn’t divorce you while you were in the joint. But that’s fucked up. She was waiting to do it when you got out. She’s passive-aggressive. You’re better off now. You don’t have to worry about her stabbing you in the back. But your face is totally ruined. I’d see a dermatologist if I were you.”
□ □ □
The phone is ringing again. I steel myself. It’s got to be Alonzo. Asshole or not, he needs my support. I shut the faucet, leaving bloody fingerprints. I sashay into the other room. I pick up the receiver and gabble: “Alonzo? You all right, man? Listen, it doesn’t matter what you think of me. I don’t care if you disrespect me. I’m cool. I mean, it’s Christmas. And if things get—”
A canned voice breaks in: “This is a prerecorded message from the law firm of Dougal and White. We represent Blessed World. Your former employer. You are being contacted in regard to your usage of their property. Your refusal to return a uniform estimated in value at three thousand dollars is now a criminal offense. Because of the aforementioned item’s worth, this is a felony, punishable by incarceration. Your ongoing usage of the apparel for purposes of soliciting money also constitutes a felony. This message is to advise you to cease and desist. You have twenty-four hours to return the uniform to Blessed World’s office. Any other action on your part will be construed as adversarial. If you plan to return the uniform, please press one. If you have questions and wish to negotiate the surrender of the item at a later date, please press two. If you—”
I slam the phone down, my blood pressure skyrocketing through the ceiling. Who do those punks think they are? Nobody talks smack to me and gets away with it.
Consider my résumé. It’s an alphabet of jails, handcuffs, palm trees, smog, and pepper spray. I don’t have friends in high places. I don’t know the mayor like that other donations solicitor does. So what. I’ll get by.