By Joshua Ryan

I had to get in to work really early that day, because I was the person who was supposed to handle the year-end calls from the branches in other time zones. When I finally got to the lounge at 9 for coffee, the first thing I did was go to the deck and look at the convicts. I wanted to see if one of them was standing by the fence.

“Whatcha lookin for, Jason?” It was somebody’s voice. I remembered. It was Peter Tomlinson’s.

“Uh . . . nothing. . . . I . . . uh . . . Great day, huh?” It was another one of those days we have in winter when the sun is so bright you’d almost think it was spring already. At 9 o’clock in the morning, it must have been 55 degrees on that deck. It was sort of like the first day when I met the convict.

“Not really. Channel 10 says it’s gonna snow tonight.”

“That true? We almost never have snow in December.” What are you talking about? I asked myself. My eyes were searching the fence, searching . . .

“It’s true. Look at those clouds. Cirrus. We’ll have snow all right. Lotta snow.”

“Too bad. I wanted to wash the car.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” I couldn’t believe I was making jokes.

“What are you looking at, Jason?”

“Just watching the convicts.”

“Huh?”

“The convicts. Down in the field.”

“Convicts? Convicts? Oh, you mean the clowns? The guys in the funny brown suits? ‘Where ARE the clowns? There OUGHT to be clowns . . .’”

There it was — along the fence, something moving. It was a man. It was him. He was already there.

“You don’t think they’re funny?” he asked. Looking suspicious.

“What? The clowns? Or the convicts?”

“Hey, Jason, you don’t look too good. If I was you, I’d take a pill.”

“Right. You’re right. I don’t feel very well. I think I need to go home.”

“Hey, what about the year-end meeting? You gotta go to the year-end meeting.”

“You go, Pete. You go in my place.”

“But I’m going anyway, Jason.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Huh?”

“I gotta go.”

“Sure, Jason. Anything you say.” Looking very suspicious.

I didn’t care how suspicious he was. Not anymore. I went to my cube, I grabbed my briefcase, I left. I rushed down the street, praying that nobody was watching on high and noticing how healthy I’d suddenly become. I hurried through the park. This time, I didn’t have to walk so far. The convicts had gotten much closer, over the weeks. I took the first trail, and it plunged directly downhill. In two minutes I came to the fence. And there, picking up trash behind the wire, was Convict 351699. He was standing in a patch of sunlight, looking up the trail. “Hey, Jason,” he said. “I knew you’d come early.” Then he reached out and hugged me over the barbed wire.

It was the first time I’d touched him. I felt the heavy convict coat. I felt the heavy pack of convict muscles shifting underneath it. I smelled the odor of a man who was locked every night in a cage — not sweaty, somehow, but musky, like the smell of places where men keep their tools locked up. . . . “Hey man,” he said. “Don’t rip your clothes!” I stood back and looked at him. I was shaking with excitement. And maybe that was why he looked so strange, but if it hadn’t been for the number on his chest, I wouldn’t have believed he was real. Because he’d changed so much. His expression had changed; even his voice had changed. Before, he’d looked like a kid in a man’s body. Now he looked like a man. When he was glancing up the trail, I’d thought he seemed nervous; but now that I was next to him, I could see that all his movements were firm, decisive, almost formal. He hugged me because he was planning to hug me; then he moved back to his side of the fence, because that’s also what he had planned to do. He had wanted me to decide; but I could see that he’d had things to decide, himself. Well, he’d decided.

“It’s so great to see you, Jake! I was afraid you wouldn’t come!”

“Naw,” he said. “I had to come.”

“Why the sad expression?”

“Who, me? Just serious.”

“How come?”

“I’m glad you’re my friend, that’s all. I’m glad you came back. I’d like to keep you.”

“Thanks, Jake. That’s what I wanted to hear!”

“And now?” he said.

There was only the sagging barbed wire between us. I could see the little drops of sweat on his forehead; I could see the little thin lines on each side of his nose; I could smell the scent of his uniform, the scent of cheap cloth, and strong detergent, and a cage in a penitentiary, and a ride in the back of a truck, jammed shoulder to shoulder with a gang of other convicts . . . If we’d been at the Brass Rail or Bulk Trade or The Loading Zone, we’d have been falling on top of each other by now. But Jake just stood there. He was one of those guys who can do that. And I was afraid to move. My heart was racing. I started to say something. Then I realized I had nothing to say.

“You know what?” he said, like he’d remembered what he’d planned to say, long ago. “You still haven’t been on this side of the wire.”

“No I haven’t,” I said. “Maybe I should try it.” That’s what I said out loud. What I was thinking was, “Yes, yes, yes! This is it!” And also . . . “He’s smarter than I thought he was. A lot smarter.” I could feel the sun warming my face. It was all working out. Jake had known what to do.

“You understand,” he said with a smile, “that you’ll be trespassing, man. And it’s a felony to trespass in a prison zone. Just want you to know that.” His nose was crinkling. He was smiling like a kid.

“Sure. You bet. Sounds like fun to me!” I said. So I’d decided, too.

“All right! Watch out — don’t tear your clothes.”

He grabbed the two rusty wires and pushed them down. I had no problem stepping over them. The wires were like a rainbow that someone happens to be holding upside down. Then I was on the other side. I threw down my briefcase and put my arms around his shoulders. This time, we didn’t let go.

“Well,” he said. “How’s it feel to be on this side of the fence?”

“I feel like a . . . ”

“Go ahead. You can say it. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I almost feel like a convict, Jake.” I didn’t add, “and it feels good.” He could tell that it did. My cheek was rubbing against his cap, and my hands were gripping his big brown shoulders.

“Let me look at you,” he said, holding me away from him. “You don’t look like a convict, dude. Not with those clothes. Not with that briefcase!”

I looked down. Yup. There was my briefcase. It looked pretty stupid, out here in the wilderness. Why was it with me? Oh, because I’d left that office . . .

“I’m sorry I’m so badly dressed.”

“Hey, what do you mean? I always wished I could’ve had expensive clothes like yours. I mean, look at that tie, man. That is so cool. And I bet a cool guy like me would look pretty good in it, too.”

“Well, try it on. Go ahead, Jake.”

“No, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel good, on top of this convict shirt.”

He was smart all right! This was gonna be one hell of a strip poker session.

“Then take off your shirt. Nobody’s watching, are they? We can both change identities. You try on my clothes, and I’ll try on yours.”

“Are you sure?” he said. But he was already taking off his coat. It seemed like only a minute later, he was standing on one foot, removing his second boot. His coat, his cap, his shirt, his t-shirt were already lying on the ground. There were those big tatts again.

“Hey man!” he said, standing up with the dirty boot in his hand. “I’m down to my socks here, and this ground is cold! Hurry up, man. You’re slow!” It was true. I’d barely gotten my coat and tie off, before I’d been turned to stone by the sight of that body oozing out of its clothes. And he hadn’t even got his trousers off. Not yet.

“Sorry, man, sorry,” I said. It was hard taking my shirt off in front of a guy whose chest looked like that. But the shirt came off, and then the shoes. He was wrong; the ground wasn’t very cold. By the time I looked up again, he had already got my shirt on, and he was starting to thread my tie through the collar. And below the shirt tail . . . nothing. Nothing except his dick swinging lazily back and forth. It was long and thick and heavy, and it was getting hard.

“Trousers and shorts!” he said. “Take ‘em off, convict!” He was grinning at me, as if his dick needed no explanation. “This is what they call indecent exposure, boy!”

I took off my trousers and shorts and handed them over. Before I could think of anything to say, he was zipping up the fly and pulling on my socks and shoes. Now he was clothed, and I was naked.

“Well,” he said, slipping into my suit coat. “How do I look?”

It was amazing.   Except for that naked dome, there was nothing left of the convict kid. In his place stood a young executive, prepared for his 10 o’clock meeting. He looked older, somehow; but he still had that precocious look that a lot of bosses love. Actually, now that I looked at him, even the shaved head worked pretty well; it was that “different” style that people associate with a guy that’s destined to move up the ladder. It was “masculine” and “assertive,” that’s for sure.   He picked up my briefcase and passed it from one hand to the other.

“Do you hold this thing in your left hand or your right?”

“Doesn’t matter.” My dick was raging. He must have seen it, but he was too engaged with the clothes to comment.

“That’s good. Say, do you think I can take your initials off and put my own initials on?”

“I guess you can do anything you want,” I said.

“Thanks!” he said. “I’ll take you up on that!” He smiled at me like a guy who just got his first promotion. Something else happened. He blushed. It was the first time he had ever been really dressed up, and he was blushing. Then he looked down at his ankle.

“Do you think anybody will notice the leg iron?”

“I can’t see it. Just keep it inside your pants.”

“No problem, dude. I can keep THAT in my pants.”

He was grinning at me again, and I was grinning back. But there was something about that look . . .   Something very smart . . . Something too smart! “Hey,” I thought. “This guy is using me to escape!”

I couldn’t believe it — that was the first time it had ever occurred to me! I could see it all happening. He had my clothes; now all he had to do was . . . take a walk. Just walk away. Just leave me there naked, with nothing but his convict clothes to wear back to civilization. I couldn’t stop him, that was for sure. And he knew that I’d never call the cops. But the cops would come, all right, as soon as somebody saw the way I was dressed — and I’d be the one they arrested, if they ever caught up with me. It was me who’d be the convict on the run, scurrying to find a hole to hide in. The only thing between me and the end of my world was this convict’s ability to resist temptation. But no, that wasn’t right. He had no reason to resist. The real question was, did he give a shit about me? Did he care more about me than he cared about his chance to escape? No, that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t care about anybody that way. It was obvious. I had fallen for the stupidest, most ridiculous scam that anybody ever dreamed up.

“That was a joke, man.”

“What?” I said. I couldn’t believe that he’d said something. In my mind, he was already running up the hill. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘I can keep THAT in my pants, anyhow.’ It was a joke. Well, never mind. You’ll get used to my sense of humor. But hey! Put your new clothes on. I want to see what Jason Rossetti looks like as a con.”

He was still there. He hadn’t run. He could have. But he didn’t. And I knew what that meant. It meant that I’d won. I’d taken the risk, and I’d won. Whatever happened now, Jake and I were together.

He’d laid his clothes out neatly on the ground. Laid them out for me.

“Go ahead,” he said. “See how you like them.”

“OK, man! Where should I start?” I’d been trembling before. But now I was shaking like crazy.

“Start with the cap, stupid!” There was that grin again. The cap was sitting on top of the other clothes. I picked it up. There was that name and number, staring up at me: CONVICT 351699. The proof of Jake’s identity. It was surprising how heavy the thing was. Heavy. Thick. Crude. All his clothes must be like that. Even his shorts must be heavy and cheap and crude. I lifted the cap with both hands and fitted it onto my head. That was strange — Jake and I were about the same size, but the cap went down hard over my hair. Then I remembered. I had hair. Jake was bald.

“Now the shirt!”

Touching his shirt was like touching his body — big and thick and brown and numbered, with that peculiar scent all over it, all around it. . . . To put that on would be to get inside his life, get inside his cell, get inside his skin . . . I was ready. I held the shirt up and aimed one arm at the hole . . . Then I looked at Jake. He wasn’t grinning anymore. He was laughing.

“What’s the matter, man?” I said.

“You! Look at your dick! You can barely get the shirt past that thing. What’ll happen when you try to get into my trousers, dude?” He was right. My dick was pointing straight ahead, straight at the bulge in his crotch.

That was the end. I dropped the shirt and hit the ground in front of him. His trousers were clean and cool, the trousers of a young executive — but there was something moving inside them, something warm and hard and strong. My cap was in the way, so I swiveled it around to the back, and I kissed the thing that was inside the trousers. Then I pulled down the zipper. I had never appreciated how fast the zipper comes down, when you’re dealing with really good clothes. The zipper came down, and the dick leaped out, longer and harder than I’d ever dreamed, thick and golden in the sunlight, moist and dripping from its slim long perfect slit, with two balls dangling from the root like ripe rough luscious fruit . . . .   My mouth lunged for the knob, and caught it. . . . His hand found my shaft, and held on like a vice . . . There was a noise behind me, but I was held too tight to turn, or want to turn. It was all happening too fast . . . I wasn’t ready! But it was happening . . . no one could stop it . . . his dick lunged and bucked and lunged again . . . the hot load hit my mouth . . . before my throat could gulp it down my own cock jerked and my own load leaped out of me. . . . into the light, the white hard light, the light like a diamond, a jewel that was bursting in my head as I feasted on his enormous load of cum . . . Oh God! I thought. Oh God! Oh God! This is it, this is it . . . !

And then I was falling sideways, and I was trying to get up, but I couldn’t; there was something holding me down . . . there was something hard planted on my neck . . .

“Stay down boy,” a voice said, “and you won’t get hurt. Understand?”

I didn’t answer. It’s hard to talk when you’re being rammed into the ground, face first. It’s hard to talk, and it’s hard to think. Something had happened. We’d had sex, and then . . . something else had happened. Something wrong. Something that had gone wrong. I tried to think, but I couldn’t. There was nothing left to think with.

“All right,” the voice said, but it wasn’t talking to me. It was talking to somebody else. “You can relax now. Get back in your browns, boy.”

“Boss, Yes Boss!” That was Jake’s voice. It didn’t sound scared. It didn’t sound surprised. It didn’t sound like anything.

I tried to get up. I wanted to see. But the weight on my neck came down harder. I could feel what it was — it was a boot. Somebody had a boot planted on my neck!

“Boss! Puttin em on, Boss!” It was the same voice, only farther away.

“Put em on, boy.”

The ground was cold after all, once you were stretched out on it, naked. Cold and hard. “Grab your cap, boy.”

“Boss! Grabbin my cap, Boss.” The cap came off my head.

“Get back to the gang, boy.”

“Boss! Gettin back to the gang, Boss.” A pair of boots clumped off through the brush.

“Get up,” the stranger’s voice said, and the boot left my neck.

I raised my head. Jake was gone, but there were other men around me, men in black boots, with shiny gray uniforms above the boots. They were all wearing shades, and they were all wearing hats, and they were all wearing badges. They were guards! I’d been caught by the prison guards! I’d gone into their territory, and the guards had caught me. They’d caught me kneeling on the ground and sucking one of their convicts off.

I started to stand, but I didn’t move fast enough, so two of them dragged me up. Why are they wearing shades? I thought. The clouds had thickened, and the wind had started. Maybe Pete was right after all. Maybe it really was gonna snow today. It’s funny what goes through your mind at a time like that.

I looked down at my body. It was white and naked, and it was covered with leaves and grass, and there was dead cum plastered on its upper legs.   If I could just put some clothes on, maybe I wouldn’t die of shame. Or maybe I’d die anyway. My life was over.

“Put your clothes on, sir, and come with us.” One of the guards said that, and I assumed he was talking to me. I couldn’t see how he was looking, because of the shades, but he was calling somebody “sir,” and he was talking about clothes. So that was good. Maybe, just maybe . . . . I could smell the tobacco on his uniform. I remembered the guards in the truck, smoking. They’d looked at me, but they hadn’t given a shit about me. I was just some faggot who shouldn’t get too near their truck. Maybe it was still that way. Maybe they just wanted me out of there. I started to think about Jake. What was going on with Jake? But I had to stop that thought. I couldn’t think about Jake. Jake would spend a year in the box! And I was responsible. I was the one who did it. But now, maybe, I was the one who was getting away with it. Getting away without him . . . Everything was so confused. Everything was so scary and confused. If I could go someplace where I wasn’t so confused, then I might be able to think.

“Uh . . . where . . . are they?” I said.

“Your clothes are there on the ground to your left, sir. Put your clothes on, sir, and come with us.”

“Yes. Sure.” That didn’t sound right. I should try something else. “Yes, Officer. . . . sir.”

“Let’s move it out . . . sir.”

“Yes sir.”

I looked on the ground to my left. My clothes were stacked up perfectly, with my slacks at the bottom and my socks at the top. My little shiny business shoes were standing side by side, next to the pile of carefully folded clothes, and my briefcase was standing next to them.   I’d never realized it before, but Jake was a very neat, orderly guy. His cap was always straight, and his boots were always laced exactly right, no matter how muddy they were. One of the guards clicked open a phone. “This is Brenner. Right. We’re taking him out. Meet us at the bottom.”

I put my clothes on. It felt strange to zip up the fly from the inside again, and to knot the tie over the nicely fitting shirt. The clothes didn’t feel like my own clothes now. They felt like the uniform of some army I’d never belonged to. I remembered buying that tie. It was at Jordanson’s, and I wondered if I should buy a tie that cost that much. I held it up in front of me and looked at it in the little mirror they had on the counter. Then I decided to buy it. Now it all seemed amazing. Why would a guy hang something like that around his neck? But I was doing it again. They’d told me to put my clothes on, so I was putting my clothes on. I was on my way back to reality. But there was something different about it now. Inside my shirt there was somebody else’s smell. It was the smell of a convict. It was the smell of Jake. It was the last of Jake.

“All right,” the officer said. “Come with us, sir.” It was good to hear “sir,” even if he did say it in that dead, official way, like a coroner or something. “Don’t forget your briefcase, sir.”

I picked up my briefcase, and we all walked toward the fence. They were escorting me off the property. I’d come to the end. The end of that other world. The end of my little adventure. Now I could go home to my own world. Home to Joey. Home to shame. I could see it now. “How was your day, hon?” “Oh, nothing special. I got caught out in the fields, sucking off a convict from the state penitentiary. He happened to be wearing my clothes at the time, and they got a little dirty. There may be some cum spots, too. So I’m going to the dry cleaner’s. See ya.” Then I thought, I don’t have to tell Joey anything. Because I don’t care anything about him.   It was a relief to think that. We’d come to the fence.

One of the guards bent over and held the barbed wire down. I was going out, exactly as I’d come in. The day was a little colder now, that was all. I stepped over the little rainbow-shaped depression in the wire, and I was careful not to tear my clothes when I did it. I took a couple steps up the trail, and then I noticed — the guards hadn’t followed me. They were just standing in a line on the other side of the fence, watching. So that was the end. No muss, no fuss. Except for Jake. Except for him. Well, I was back. I turned to walk away.

There, in front of me, were two officers of the State Police. “Put down the briefcase, sir, and put your hands behind you.” “What,” I said. “What do you . . .” “You are under arrest, sir.”

I heard the cuffs click together. My hands were locked behind my back.

 

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