By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 14: Sewing Your Own Prison
We entered the Pen through the gate. No more front door and lobby for me. I was promptly escorted to the Colonel’s residence and locked in the cage in the servants hall. 6839, 1057, and 9555 were buzzing around, preparing for Mr. Patrick’s afternoon snack and casting sidelong glances at me, afraid to ask what had happened. Afraid, or indifferent. More glances were cast as 9555 stepped into the role of conveying the snack, and a very long time elapsed until he returned. I was in the cage, looking out through the bars like an owl in the zoo.
Then, while 1057 heated the stove for the couple’s first course at dinner, the Colonel himself strode in, ordering everyone out of the servants’ area. They scuttled away, 1057 casting anguished eyes at his stove—puzzled, like all of them, where he was supposed to go. My prediction was the servants’ john.
“You did a good job today, convict,” the Colonel said, walking up to the cage.
“Thank you, sir.”
“It was a privilege never given to any other convict.”
“Yes sir. I am grateful for my privileges, sir.”
He was pacing restlessly, but always keeping my face in view. Every time he passed the cage, I could see his dick growing harder behind his pants. At first I wasn’t sure. Then I was.
“It seems you made an impression on those gentlemen today.”
“Yes sir.”
“I have to say you’ve made an impression on me as well.”
“Sir?”
“From the first time I met you, I knew you wanted to run everything. You wanted to run my life.”
“Yes sir.” OK, that was true.
“I hated you, but I let it happen.”
“Yes sir.” Too bad I didn’t know at the time. But it wouldn’t have mattered.
“That’s one reason why I joined the army. I found out what it’s like to command. I accepted the obligation.”
“Yes sir.” Where was this going?
“I did the same at Paris. I accepted my duty.” A shadow came over his face. Was it the shadow of pain or the shadow of self-congratulation? Who cared—I was hard again! Two males are standing on opposite sides of a cage, and they’re both rock hard and raging—do they care about anything else?
“I got you in here. I thought you were a criminal, but I gave you a chance. After that, I made sure that you came to Paris. I had you numbered, uniformed, caged, trained, and worked. I made you my servant, and I can fuck you whenever I want. You were a bull, and I made you a cow.”
He stopped in front of the cage. He was so close that I could smell his uniform. I could hear his breath. I could see the sweat on his forehead.
“How do you feel now, convict? No fucking theater. How do you really feel?”
I knew it was the wrong thing to say, definitely the wrong thing, but I was too hard to say anything else. “I love it, sir. You’d love it too.”
Yeah, the wrong thing. Also the totally right thing. The thing that 8363 had taught me.
His hand, which had been reaching toward that giant bulge in his cock, shut itself into a fist. His face darkened into one of those looks you never want to see. When you’re locked in a cage and there’s a wild man outside, you imagine horrible things. You imagine him throwing fire in your face. You imagine him leaving you in the cage forever. You forget that he may be a prisoner of himself and his rules.
He left the room in a hurry, and before I’d even lost my hardon the usual two guards appeared and took me out of the cage. Nothing was said, but in ten minutes I was kneeling in front of the Chow Hall so my shackles could be removed. I squatted till Officer Yan came along, marching my cell. The guards told him to take me, and he did. My cellmates were surprised that I was back in time for chow. Maybe “surprised” is too strong. They noted my early arrival. 8363 looked at me and laughed. “Something go wrong?” he said, in the ventriloquist’s mutter he used when there were other convicts around.
That night—and the next two nights, I was so horned up that 8363 and I had no time for discussion; we just had time to fuck and be fucked. It was like I was 25 and he was 35, or actually, like we were both 18–young, dumb, and full of cum. When I mentioned that, he said, “Definition of a career criminal. Once we’re captured, that is.”
Of course I wasn’t returned to the quarters next morning. I was put back on the line in Factory 5.
Then Sunday arrived, and we were able to talk. I told him everything that had happened, and he said he was “totally pissed. When do I get my turn at the Civic Club?”
“Never,” I said. “Unless you can go back in time and become the Colonel’s college squeeze.”
“I like where I am,” he said. “By the way, I hear that the cell is gonna be working in another factory.”
“You hear. You’re always hearing things.”
“And they turn out to be true.”
“Sometimes I think you’re running this place.”
“Yeah, right. You keep confusing me with the Colonel. Who according to 9443 doesn’t even exist. But what I hear is, starting tomorrow, we’ll be sewin uniforms. Prison uniforms. Isn’t that hot? As if it wasn’t hard enough to wear these clown suits, we’ll be making them. Rubbing our noses in what we are.”
“I noticed that word ‘hard.’”
“I meant it.”
“It’s a good word.”
“I’m excited.”
“So am I.”
“You understand, this is punishment for our cell. Because of what you did.”
“I’m not that important.”
“You got that right.”
We were walking on the Parade Ground in our winter uniforms. It had snowed the night before, and the ugly yellow buildings were even uglier because of the wet gray melt-off curving down their sides. Then we squatted together on the concrete.
“It looks good,” I said.
“Definitely.”
“A criminal could be really happy in a place like this.”
“Yup. We’re happy.” He swayed closer to me. “I think he’s like you were, when you first got here. When I knew you first. You were a total shit.”
“You’re right,” I said. “You got lucky. You got to reform me.”
“Yeah, sure,” he answered. “How bout fuckin me tonight?”
“Great idea.”
The next morning, Cell 17 began stepping on the sewing machines in Factory 4, Uniform Production. It was a good thing that the other cons didn’t know how to connect the switch to me. They didn’t know about the Civic Club. I let them think that when the Colonel kicked me out of his quarters he was just downsizing his “staff.” And it was clear that nobody had told Officer Yan anything. He acted like his cell wasn’t being punished, although he assumed that it was, for some reason he wasn’t given. He used to be a sort of nervous young guy. Now he was calmer, more willing to zone out and obey his orders. More like a convict. But it was fun to see him when he marched us in through the factory door. He wrinkled his nose like he was walking into a tanning plant.
Like I said, convict suits have a smell, especially when they’re new. It’s all that cheap material. It needs some washing before it has the characteristic odor of industrial soap. With that mass of suits coming through, it doesn’t matter how high the roof is. You’re totally inside the smell. “Immersive therapy,” as 8363 called it.
Also immersive—the feel you get from pushing the stuff past the machine. I was put in the button brigade; 8363 was sewing “yokes”—the part on the shoulders that has the big panel of stripes on it. Much more interesting than making Sports Klassiks (and I’m sure it was a relief for 4398). After all, we were making uniforms that we would have to wear ourselves. Sewing those big plastic buttons, I imagined my own fingers pushing them into their holes, locking my body into the prison where it belonged. 8363 felt the same way about the stripes he was sewing. We were taught they were supposed to symbolize prison bars. He said, “When is a symbol NOT a symbol?” When we were doing Sports Klassiks, sewing was part of our brainwashing, which was good. But now our work was part of our imprisonment, too. We were making our own prison, he said, and we were succeeding every day. One of the signs hanging from the ceiling said
YOU WEAR WHAT YOU MAKE
Whenever I looked up from my needle, I saw the sign, and I saw the stripes that 8363 wore on his back. You work best when you’re inspired.
I guess I’m getting sentimental. So I’ll make it worse. Suddenly, Christmas was a week away. 8363 told me that chow on Christmas was something special, and it was. We got extra pork in our pot, and a small slice of fruitcake. The fags in the kitchen had decorated the Chow Hall with special banners:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
SEASONS GREETINGS
NEXT YEAR IS THE FIRST YEAR OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE
“Dude!,” said 0631, back in the cell. “I liked it. It reminded me of home.”
8363 winced. “That’s the last thing I want to be reminded of.”
“Warmed my heart,” 0631 said. “Mine too,” 8363 said. “That slice of fruitcake reminded me of my Auntie Ying.” 0631 drifted away, and 8363 added, “The old bioch. But what did you think of our holiday menu?”
“I dunno,” I said. “The one thing I’d like to have is turkey. Turkey and cranberry sauce. But so much for Christmas. I don’t care. As long as I’m here.” I didn’t add “with you,” but he knew that, and when the boss and the poker players were turned the other way, he gave me an enormous kiss. “Let’s see what happens at New Years,” he said.
New Years Eve was a special day, with a parade of criminals marching past the Colonel and his staff. It’s possible that Warden Wilson was the little fat man on the left of the Colonel, but he was not identified. In fact, no individual was identified, because this was the Day of Solidarity of Convict Queues, an opportunity for all the cells to be marched in harmony up and down the Parade Ground. At the end, ten criminals were marched forward to represent the achievements of the workers in the ten highest performing cells (unluckily not including Block 9, Cell 17), and the Colonel made a short speech to them, emphasizing unity and Collective Responsibility. After that there was nothing to do but march back to our cells and wait for the New Year.
Officer Yan came into the cell as usual to inspect us, but it was clear that he had no intention of enforcing discipline—or admitting that he wasn’t. “Criminals!” he said. “I wish you a productive New Year!” Again I wondered what this slender, handsome young man in his little round glasses was doing as a prison guard. And what he was doing that night. Obviously on duty. Partying with the other guards? Wishing he could do something more with them? Doing it? I hoped not! It made me hard to think of him, uncertain and bewildered, wondering where he belonged . . . .
Then he left, and we began our celebration. It was pretty pitiful. Every criminal had some lame song or joke. 0631 decided to do a comedy skit about 8363 and me, in which he pretended to discover what we were up to at night. 9328, the con in bunk 5, and 9634, his friend from bunk 2, were laughing so hard that 0631 pointed at them and said, “You too, loverboys,” and they had to admit what everybody knew. The boss had a contact someplace, and he brought out a bottle of whiskey, which he passed around. You couldn’t get high on one-sixteenth of a bottle, but OK . . . .
The bright light blinked out. 8363 climbed into his bunk and motioned for me to follow.
“Here’s a little New Years gift,” he told me, handing me a sandwich in a plastic wrapping. It was a turkey sandwich.
“How’d you get this?” I asked.
“Oh, I had some shit I stole from the Commissary, and I traded up with it. And here,” he added, giving me a tiny red jar, “is your cranberry sauce.”
We shared the sandwich, which was stale. The sauce was also past its prime.
“I hope you like it,” he grinned.
“I like it very much,” I said, taking another hit of the cranberry sauce. “I love it!”
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