By Joshua Ryan

I realized that I’d wanted something new to happen to me, but I had no idea how quickly it would happen.  As the man says in “Heart of Darkness,” “the changes take place inside, you know.”  Which means that they can happen at the speed of light.  When we got back to Jerry’s house I wasn’t walking in as a guest; I was walking in as a prisoner escorted by an officer of the law.  It was hard for me to talk.  Everyone else seemed freer and looser than they’d been before.  Dean seemed to be talking and smiling even more.  When people started to leave, I was amazed that they could get through the door without permission.  When I left, it was like I was sneaking away before the guards could catch me.

I spent the next few days huddling in the condo — which had never been mine and now felt like some illegal squat.  I got drunk and jerked as if that was my true profession.  Ten days later, I was riffling through my junk mail and found an envelope that was long and heavy and return-addressed to a PO box that looked decidedly official.  It had been mailed to somebody named Meres Steven Curtis.  Oh, shit.  That little drive with Dean hadn’t been a daydream after all.

I ripped open the envelope and yes, it was a message from the

DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS

and it was an

ORDER TO REPORT

I sat down with a thump and started to read:

22 April 2024

Steven Curtis Meres:

You have been sentenced by a court of law of this state to a term of imprisonment of from one (1) year to Life in a facility of the Department of Corrections, and are hereby ordered to report to the following location, where you will surrender and be taken into custody.

Patna County Jail

623 White Oak Ave.

Glenvue

Your surrender will take place at the following date and time:

Tuesday, 4 June, 2024

7:00 a.m., local time

Date and location of your surrender will not be altered under any circumstances.  Failure to report at the specified place and time will render you liable to the additional charge of escape.

No longterm parking is available at your place of surrender.  Any vehicles left on the street or on the property will be considered abandoned and will become property of the state.  Do not drive your own vehicle to the place of surrender.

Articles in your possession at place of surrender will consist only of immediate personal effects, totaling no more than five (5) pounds in weight.  Food, drink (alcoholic and non-alcoholic), firearms, and non-prescription drugs of any kind are strictly prohibited.  Articles in your possession may be returned at D.O.C. expense (U.S.P.O. package rate) to an address designated by offender.  Only one mail recipient may be designated.  Articles not so designated will become property of the state.

As an offender reporting for incarceration you are strongly advised to pre-complete all arrangements for disposal of real and personal property, assignment of power of attorney, etc., as the Department of Corrections will not assist with such arrangements.

This order constitutes official identification and is to be presented at surrender to duly appointed officers at place of report.

Department of Corrections

 

I don’t know what I’d imagined when Dean said I’d receive “an order to report,” but here it was, just for me.  I was amazed by its completeness and finality.  No room for bargaining, that’s for sure.  There wasn’t even a number to call or a website to visit if I had any questions.  Everything was taken care of.

I had a few drinks on that.  Then I placed a call to Dean.  “All right,” he said, businesslike.  “I’ll be on that shift.  Anything else?”

“No.  Not that I can think of…”

“See you then.”

I’d expected something more elaborate, but … Maybe he was at work.  And maybe I should think less about him and more about this huge thing that had happened.

So I did.  I was terrified.  I was also hornier than I’d ever been before.  For once I didn’t need to hunt through my files for good pictures to jerk to.  The Order to Report was more than enough.

Next day I woke up remembering that there were things I had to do before I went to prison.  I spent a while relishing the weird feeling you get when “I” turns up in a sentence with “prison” at the end.  Then I made a list: get rid of car, put possessions in storage, make up a story to explain my absence, deal with Jerry, give somebody my power of attorney.  OK, as the poet said, “in dreams begin responsibilities.”

Last responsibility first.  I needed to get somebody to take care of my finances while I was “away.”  Who better to exercise power of attorney than … my attorney?  Norman Jarrelson — I’d chosen him when I made my first real money.  I picked him because he was gay and because I was sure that even his husband never called him “Norm.”  That would be way too frivolous.  Norman was the soul of propriety, and I don’t think he ever had any human interest except for the husband, whom I knew from one anecdote.  I once asked Norman if Louis and he were still members of the film club at the art museum, and he said they’d both decided there was “too much bad language in those movies.”

I went to Norman’s office and told him I’d be leaving town and planned to be out of communication for a long time, and he was so far from asking me why that I had to add, “I’ve got a lot of writing to do.”  Then I thought I should say something more, so I told him, “I feel that I need to go someplace different.”  He looked at me and nodded.  That was good enough for him.  So I laid out the idea: he would have my power of attorney and, in exchange for a substantial fee, administer all my financial affairs.  Bank accounts.  Stock portfolio.  Royalties.  Contract enforcement.  Taxes.  Bills.

“Car?” he said.

“It’s leased.  I’ll return it.”

“Good idea.  Cost effective.”

“Thanks.”

“Relatives?”

“Me?  No.  Not anymore.  Not really.  You see…”

“Makes it simpler.”

An hour later, I walked out the door with my legal business completely settled.

Also with my story made up.  Next lad to hear it was Jerry.  He, of course, had a fit.  He would have had a bigger fit if he hadn’t been so eager to tell me the terrible tale of his breakup with Rory, assign the blame to the proper person, and get my advice about “how to heal,” meaning how to get Rory back.  Relying on my faint knowledge of the plots of romance novels, I outlined the way to a happy ending.  By then I’d given him the same explanation I gave to Norman, and some elusive comments about my plan for the hottest, grittiest, most authentic and realistic book I’d ever written.  The look on his face said, “You? What kind of reality could you write about?”  But he didn’t say it.  I think I did convince him that if I traveled for a while I’d turn out large, larger, largest amounts of hot and gritty prose.

I treated a few other people the way I’d treated Jerry.  I sent Professor Nordhoff a message saying that I’d be clearing out a little early and if he found any damage to the place — which he wouldn’t — he should contact Norman Jarrelson, Esq.  He made an amicable response.  Everybody did.  Nobody seemed particularly sorry that I wouldn’t be around.

After that, I had only non-human stuff to deal with, the kind of stuff that doesn’t need a story.  I had less trouble than I’d expected heaving out a ton of clothes and books and other crap that I suddenly realized I never wanted to see again, and putting down a longterm payment on a storage space.  I spent the last few days moving things into my little room in the warehouse.  On the morning before I had to report I called the leasing company and told them I was ending my contract early and I’d be around that afternoon to turn in the car.  On the way I stopped at the warehouse and deposited the last of my electronics.  I got a return ride from Luft.  When I opened the door to Professor Nordhoff’s place it was empty of my possessions.  I had the eerie feeling that I had never existed.  Eerie, but interesting.  I was free of everything I’d spent so much time earning and taking care of.  I went on the Luft app and ordered a ride for 6:00 a.m.

Luckily, the TV came with the place.  I watched for a while, finished my last bottle of brandy, ate the last of my food except for a beautiful pastry I’d taken home from the French deli — saving that for breakfast in the morning — and washed the Professor’s glasses and plates.  By then I was drunk, so I fell asleep fast, despite my excitement.  When I woke up, I was scared that I might have overslept, but the sky was still dark on the other side of the windows.  And there were the clothes I’d laid out for my special day, resting reassuringly on the big chair in front of the bookcase — black shorts, my favorites; the dress shirt I used for book signings and interviews, a rich but unobtrusive blue; pale gray slacks; a pair of dress sox; black leather belt; and, dressing down a bit but expensive for what they were, my best pair of Italian loafers.  Quick shit-shower-shave and into my outfit.

The pastry I’d saved from the day before had kept well in the fridge, and the warmed-up coffee (hadn’t wanted to make myself even more nervous by going through the ritual of brewing) was not too bad.  Half an hour left till the Luft ride I’d scheduled, so I was still on time.  Toiletries, towel, shaving stuff, crap clothes from yesterday — down to the dumpster.  Hands shaking a bit, but tolerable.  Nothing left to take but the Order to Report, which I’d put next to the door so I couldn’t forget it.  I took a minute to look around the place — appliances off, curtains closed, nothing of me remaining.  I dropped the keys on the coffee table, closed the door, and made sure that it locked.  Then down to the street to wait for my ride.  High anxiety!  I want that car to come right NOW!  But there it was, heading around the corner five minutes ahead of time — the three-year-old Japanese car piloted by “Your Driver, Denny.”  I climbed in, and was off to prison.

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