By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 15: Congratulations. You Are Here Forever

“Just do what I told you,” 8363 said.  “Do what I did.  It worked for me.  They’ll never throw me out of here.”

That’s what I was thinking about while Officer Yan marched me across the Parade Ground to the Examination Rooms, which were part of the Classroom Building.  It was February; snow was falling; I’d been in prison for almost a year.  I was having my one-year Custodial Review, which would be conducted by an officer in one of the Rooms.  I repeated to myself the answers that 8363 had given me.  Then I repeated them again, until I was sure I’d got them right.  They worked for him; they’d work for me.  There was no difference between us.

My assigned officer was Lieutenant Connors.  In the corridor, I waited in line, cuffed and shackled, behind the five other criminals waiting to see him.  One by one they went in and came out.  A couple were crying.  The rest appeared stoic.  Or indifferent, fated.  But in a situation like that, restraints need to be applied to everyone.  Officers can never predict when a criminal may do something unfortunate.  Then I heard “G023104411!”, and I entered the office.

The Lieutenant was sitting at his desk.  I bowed, and he told me to be seated.  The seat was one of those little plastic stools.  I sat on the stool with my hands on my knees.  Lieutenant Connors was another twenty-something.  He was like Officer Yan; he had the same college-kid look.  Gordy likes them like that, I thought.  But with Lieutenant Connors, it was more of a grad-student look.  Self-esteem?  He had it.

“4411,” he said, leaning back in his leather chair.  “You’re in here for life.”

“Seven years to life, sir.”

He swiveled slightly in his chair.

“You’re in here for as long as we keep you in here, convict.”

“Yes sir.”

“And what have you been doing to reform yourself and prepare for your release?”

There was a long silence.  I let it creep by.  Then I said, “I did the Training Team.  I’ve had only five overtimes in the factory.”

“I have the factory files.  And every convict does the Training Team.  Again, what have you done to reform yourself?”

I let another silence happen.  I made it longer.

“I can’t think of an answer.  Sir.”

That was true.  8363 had warned me to stick to the truth.  And actually, there wasn’t anything else in my brain.

“Are you sure of that . . . answer, convict?”

The Lieutenant’s brain was more complicated than mine.  He’d made that little pun or whatever about “answering but not answering.”  But he’d been thrown off track, and he was searching for a way to get back on.  I think the Lieutenant had gotten his promotions too fast.  Maybe because he’d graduated from Sterling or some place like that.  But Sterling grads never go to work in prison.  Maybe he’d dropped out.  Failed to complete his M.A.  Or his Ph.D. . . .    The way his body shifted in his uniform suggested that he was uncomfortable wearing something he wouldn’t want his friends to see him in.

“Yes sir,” I said.  8363 had said to keep it simple.

The Lieutenant hesitated, and went for plan B.  If I wouldn’t talk, he would.  “Your criminal history,” he said, studying his computer screen, “indicates a wealthy man.  A man of arrogance.  A man who disregards the law.”

“Yes sir.”

“You have no comment on your arrogance?”

“It was fun while it lasted, sir.”

“This is not a time to make jokes, convict.”

“No sir.”

“Your Custodial Review will strongly influence the final determination of your sentence.”

8363 hadn’t told me all the ways they had of saying “when, if ever, we decide to let you out.”  I enjoyed watching the Lieutenant search for the right words, and how pleased he seemed to be about his choice of “strongly influence the final determination of your sentence.”

“Yes sir.”

The Lieutenant shifted in his clothes again.  Why should he be so uncomfortable, I wondered.  But that was his problem, not mine.

“And what do you plan to do about that, convict?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, sir.”

I was feeling like I knew this guy.  He was an office lieutenant.  He was a professional, trained not to show any emotion.  That’s why he smashed a computer key and snapped, “Do you have anything else to tell me about your life in this facility, convict?”

I allowed a couple moments to go by, to show I was serious.  Then I said, “I am a criminal, sir.  This is a good place for criminals, sir.”

Two minutes later I was clanking out of his office, with a bad report on my record.

“Great job!” 8363 said.  “Now neither of us is ever gonna get out of here!”

So—  Not much more to tell you.  Another year passed.  They didn’t bother to review either one of us.  Then another year.  Same thing. “I love the sameness,” he said.  And you’ve gotta love a life in which you march and sew and fuck and take your orders and your punishments and wake up every morning with the sun streaming through the bars.

Then one morning when the last of the snow was melting off the edges of the Parade Ground, we were at our tables in Factory 4, sewing uniforms, and I saw 8363 looking around to see whether a guard was watching him.  There wasn’t, so he leaned back and whispered, “On the right—five chairs up.”  My eye followed the line of machines and the criminals attached to them, looking for something worth noticing.  As usual, I was pleased to see that everyone looked alike, all lost in their convict labor and immersed in their blue prison suits.  I looked for “five chairs” up, and saw . . .  a white hand protruding from a blue sleeve, the profile of a face held vice-like between a big blue collar and a little blue cap . . . .   Nothing special.  But then I saw what he was talking about.

WHAM!  A baton came down on my table.

“Eyes on your work, convict.”

“Yes sir.  Very sorry, sir.”

When they marched us out for the Third Feeding, our row went first, so we didn’t get a closer look at the criminal that interested us, but while we were marching a few words went back and forth between 8363 and me.  It was one of those times when he was marching in the file next to mine.  Our arms were swinging and our legs were pumping in the same way, and we were both shouting the chant of the day:

Paris, Paris, we can’t lie,

Locked up here until we die.

Practically the best time of the day!  But I was good at sneaking a look at 8363, and pretty good at reading his lips.  In the moments between chants I read the words, “Colonel Bridger.”

Naturally we discussed the possibility at length, as soon as we had the chance, but we decided that we couldn’t be sure.  The next two days in Factory 4 didn’t give us any better views.  But on Sunday, when so many things seem to happen around here, our cell got hit with one of those random searches.  As soon as we were marched onto the Parade Ground, we found two cells ahead of us, squatting, and the one ahead of them standing up to be searched, convict by convict.  We were ordered to squat, and the search went on.  As usual, they had a mob of officers doing the job, so it didn’t take long for criminals to be processed through the search.  Squat, stand, into the search line, submit to search—then permission granted to go back and squat with your cell queue.  Unless, of course, one of the officers was forced to cuff you up and take you away, in which case your whole cell would be in for interrogation.

When it was our time 8363 and I stood, joined the line, faced an officer, raised our arms, opened our mouths, enjoyed the officer’s arms embracing our waists, massaging our shirts, rubbing our legs, probing our dicks.  Then we were motioned with a grunt back into the mob of squatting criminals watching their fellow criminals be searched.  Another thing to be enjoyed.  But when 8363 squatted next to me, after the search, I felt a little shiver go through his body, and I looked closer at the criminal who was being ransacked at the moment.  This time, there wasn’t any doubt.  It was Gordy, all right.  The former Colonel Bridger.  Buttoned into his little convict suit.  Obediently raising his arms so the hands of the pimply young officer could have full access to his body.  Bowing at the end and going back to his squat on the concrete.

Search ended, the cells were marched off quickly to their various scheduled activities, and we didn’t see the ghost of Colonel Bridger again.  We spent our Yard time talking it over.  He wasn’t on our block; we knew that.  He was probably in some other block in C House.  If so, we were certain to encounter him again, but no one could predict when.  Wisely, the officers staggered the Yard schedules of the various blocks, to prevent inappropriately close relationships among the criminals.

But why didn’t we know that there was, shall we say, a change in management?

“You’re so self-centered,” 8363 said.  “You think that because you knew Colonel Bridger, everybody else would.  The only time he was seen was at those graduations from the Training Team, and the occasional New Years.  If he walked across the Parade Ground right now, nobody would recognize him.  If he didn’t have his officers around him, that is.”

“Yeah, you’re right.  It’s a funny thing about being so important.”

“I hear that Major Xing is handling the graduations now.  Maybe he’s the new colonel.”

“But why don’t we know?” I repeated.

“Why should we?  We’re just criminals.  There are a lot of countries where the leader disappears and nobody talks about him anymore.  The common people don’t know.  One day he’s the leader; the next day he’s a non-person.”

“Like us.”

“Right.  And maybe like your Mr. Patrick.”

“Oh yeah.  Patrick Yee.  I’d forgotten about him.  I wonder how he felt about being cleaned out of the quarters.”

“Or what their last conversation was like.  A minute before the Colonel was dragged off by the cops.”

“Or a minute after the Colonel told him he was a criminal and he was having himself arrested.  I wonder what crime he chose.  He couldn’t commit a real crime.”

“OK.  If you say so.  Let’s go to the Commissary.  Maybe we can steal something.”

After that, I saw the former Colonel every day in the factory, but our eyes never met.  He marched in and out in a different queue, and as he marched he kept his eyes pointed forward, his arms swinging in exactly the same motions as the other criminals, and his legs pumping time to exactly the same cadence.  He looked at nothing except the cap of the criminal in front of him.  I never saw him raise his hand to ask a question or go to the shitter.  When he was in his chair, his eyes never left his machine.

It wasn’t until two Sundays later that 8363 pointed him out, standing in line for the Classrooms, and we approached.

He was looking down at his little blue booties, but his head came up when he felt our presence.  At first his face was completely blank.  He didn’t know me.

“Hello, 8009,” I said, taking a quick read of his badge.  “Maybe you remember me.”

He looked in my eyes.  Then he looked at 8363.  Seeing the connection.

“Hello,” he said.  “I’m living in Block 7 now.”

“We’re in 9,” I said.

“I guess you’re two floors above me.”

“That’s right.  We had our lecture earlier today.”

“Which one?”

“’Now You’re a Number.’”

“That’s a good one.  Ours is ‘Obedience and Docility—You Need Both!’  I hope to learn more.”  He smiled slightly.  Calm.  Bashful.  Beautiful.

“How you getting along?” I asked.

“Fine.  Training Team did me a lot of good.  I finally got the right haircut.”  He pulled off his little blue cap.  The big bald skull made every feature on his face seem bigger—eyes, nose, lips.  His body looked bigger too.  Training had put even more muscle on him.  He was like a big item forced into a small package—the strong man looking dispossessed in his prison uniform.   It was a good look, and I was happy that I’d gotten so good at sewing.  His uniform was straining against its five buttons, but I knew they wouldn’t come off.

“You look fine,” I told him.

“Thanks!”  His eyes had a little glow in them now, as if he were thanking me for more than just the compliment.  But who knows?

“So how do you feel about your life in prison?”  I couldn’t keep myself from asking that.

“I love it,” he said.

At that moment, his queue got the command to move, and the legs of 8009 began their preliminary pumping in place.

“I know we’ll see you around,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I’m here for life.”

Convict 8009 moved forward, headed for his classroom.  His cap was perched in precisely the right place on his head, his arms were swinging at precisely the right speed and angle, his booties were moving neither slower nor faster than the booties of the other criminals being marched to their lecture.  Watching his back as it swiveled to the cadence, inside the blue shirt with the striped shoulders, watching his legs pistoning inside the blue pants with the stripes along their seams (“symbolic of the chains and shackles that secure you,” as we’d learned in another lecture), I was struck by the force of that big body imprisoned in that childish outfit, by the sight of those childishly precise motions.

“You’re wearing the same suit as he is,” 8363 reminded me.

“You always know what I’m thinking,” I said.

“If anything.  But I feel the same.  You remember, I sit closer to him in the factory.  I’m watching those huge hands making those tiny stitches, all day . . . .  So hot!  When I see that, I’m surprised that I can keep on making my own stitches.”

“Should I be jealous?”

I knew how he’d answer.  “Why shouldn’t you be—I’d love to fuck him.”

“Me too.  But you’re enough for me to handle.”

“Same for you.  Besides, he’s not in our cell.  And I don’t think he’s ever gonna be.  You know how seldom a cell assignment changes.”

“Right.  Never.”

“It would be bad for security.  It would disrupt the cell.”

“Very true.  So I guess I’ll put up with you.”

He shrugged.  “You have no choice.”

We could tell by the way the shadows were falling that it was nearly time for us to be marched back and get locked in our cell.  Some of the criminals from our block were starting to queue up, and we joined them.  We were standing side by side, looking around, but especially at a window on the fourth floor.  It was square and covered with bars, exactly like all the other windows.  Nothing significant.  And if you looked through that window from the inside, you would have the same view as every other criminal—nothing but the big slabs of concrete that made up the Parade Ground, and the big blocks of concrete locking it in, all with barred windows looking back at you.

“That’s our cell,” he said.

“Looks good,” I replied.

“Definitely.”

On the wall beneath our window, the Three Questions were stenciled in tall red letters.

“Who are you?” I said, reading the first question out.

“I am a prisoner!” he said.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“This is a prison!” I said.

“Damn right!” he replied.  “And what are you doing here?”

“I am here,” I said, “to serve my sentence!”

We smiled at each other, and our queue moved forward.

THE END

 

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Metal would like to thank the author, Joshua Ryan, for this story!