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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 18

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 18:  The Best Place to Get Boeuf Bourguignon

Did you ever stand around naked?  Just stand around?  You shift from one foot to another.  You cover your nuts.  Then you uncover them, just for the hell of it.  Because you’re bored.  Bored and anxious.  You look around at the uniform stacks of uniforms.  You smell the ink as Dev rubs it over a stencil and into your clothes, turning anonymous pieces of cloth into YOUR shirt, the shirt of Tommy, slap number 21338.  First the front of the shirt, left pec; then the back of the shirt, between the shoulder blades.  Then the shorts, right thigh, left butt.  Then the underwear, right thigh, left butt.  Your boots too–21338, left side of your left boot, right side of your right boot.  And the cap.  There was room for your number on the back of your cap.  Dev was a perfectionist, so it took more than 20 minutes.

“Yeah,” he was saying, holding up a shirt to inspect his work, “like we say, they be seein you comin an goin!  Same with you shorts.  They watchin you dick, then they watchin you ass.  They wanta SEE whose ass it is.  You jus’ off thee slap farm, so you doan know.  So I’m tellin.  The freemen LOVE to look at us.  Not kiddin!  Even if you are like . . . older.”  Meaning me.  “These women jus love to flirt with you.  These men too!  Course you best not try any follow up.  Least so somebody find out.  Somebody in Crew 7.”

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 17

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 17: Preparing for Your New Career in the Hospitality Sector

Two tall young slappies jumped out of the van.  One opened the door for Mr. Williams; the other took charge of Kristian and me.

We were told to face the van, and we heard our shackles being unlocked and falling onto the concrete.  Then we heard, “OK, I be gettin you in now.”  “In” meant the luggage compartment—a windowless steel box with a tiny grille through which we glimpsed, for a moment, the luxurious compartment where Mr. Williams was now positioning himself amid pale green leather upholstery.  In the luggage compartment there were hooks on each side, up near the top, to secure any cargo that might get loose.  But now we were the cargo, and we were attached to the hooks by our cuffs.  A few moments were required for the slappie to push us into place, facing each other; then the hooks clicked shut, the door slammed, the slappie’s heavy boots pounded their way to the driver’s compartment, and the delivery van was in motion.

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 16

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 16: Establishing Your True Worth

There were bets about how quick Yash would go, and the ones that bet on his thirty-first day in the Coop were right.  I took longer.  Lots longer.  By the time I went to the Room, I was the longest-running slap in the Coop.  But just when I thought I was lost in the system, the boss grabbed me out of the line leaving the chow hall and told me to “stand aside.”  “Aside” was a collection of three slappies–me, a 20-something named Kristian that had been vacationing from Sweden and had suddenly discovered that coke was not allowed on St. Bevons Island, and a young local named Marco, a “rude boy” that had got himself “sent down thee road” to Slappieville.   Marco was a kid, 18 or 19, whose eyes kept roving back and forth like he expected someone to kill him.  Kristian was tall and his stubble was blond, but he was skinny and somehow professorial.  Even after his weeks in Slaptown, he was still looking around him in a bewildered way, like he’d lost his glasses or his cellphone.

The Boss led us to the Intake shack, where Jojo and Malcolm gave us a shower and a new set of browns and boots.  “Lookin you best for thee Man” was Jojo’s comment.  “No haircut?” I said.  “No mon, that stubble you got is you best feature mon.”  When they were finished, they shackled our legs and cuffed our hands in front of us.  Then they locked our cuffs to a chain.  An officer came by, grunted something at the trusties, gripped the end of the chain, and gave it a tug.  We shuffled forward.  “You’re on your way to the Show Room,” he said.  Like we wouldn’t have guessed.  But that was that.  No long goodbyes.

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 15

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 15: Crime and Punishment

Here’s the way it was.  Every new slap had to spend at least 30 days being “trained.”  The idea was that if you spend 30 days in the Chicken Coop, you find out what you are, an you be a good slappie, resta you life.  “Good” meaning all slappie and nothing else.  After that, the Program looked around for somebody to sell you to—I mean, somebody to take a lease on your labor service.  Every few days, clients were invited to the Show Room and slap boys were displayed.

Sometime in my distant past, Major Timmons had explained it all.  Then it had seemed less personal—much less personal than when it was discussed in the Scrum Room.

“They even got a catlog, dude.  They be seein YOU, an you bare ASS, right in they laptop dude.”

“While they jerkin, I guess.”

“They jerkin for ME, anyways.  Doan know for you, dude.”

When you were sold, you left the Coop and you were never seen again, unless you turned up working down the block from some other slap that trained with you.  Then maybe you would meet him and share your happy memories.

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 14

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 14: Your Every Moment Will Be Filled with Meaning

When you’re a freshman slappie you wake up at dawn, and if you’re a new and potentially uncontrolled slappie, you lie in your rack until the boss comes by to unlock your shackle.  Then you herd into the latrine to do your business.  The smell of piss and shit from 100 slappies—that wasn’t one of the attractions of the King George Hotel.  The hotel had slappies, but they did it someplace else.  Mornings are chilly on St. Bevons, and the steam goes up from the shit holes.  You march to the chow hall in your big boots and your little slappie suit, and you feel like the cold breeze is drowning you.  Chow is something like oatmeal and something like coffee.  No croissants.  No marmalade.  No fresh fruits offered for your selection.  No one to suggest that the gentleman might wish to try the special breakfast of the day.  Then you’re marched out on the slab for exercise.  You strip down to your y-fronts, and you’re ready for your session of mens nulla in corpore sano.

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 13

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 13: But You Don’t Have to Pay Any Rent

I edged inside and he slammed the door.  “Well,” he said, looking down at me from the height of six feet three. “I seen you before, boy.  Guess you here cuz you got some more questions bout thee Program, right?  Guess thee best answers gonna come from what thee Major calls experience.  Doan you agree, boy?”

A chorus of laughs told me that the room, once empty except for the boss, was now filled with slappies.  The same slappies I’d been watching two days before were sitting in the Scrum or leaning on their bunks, and they were all watching me.

“He doan know boss!” one of them shouted.

“Teach em boss!”

“Give em some sperience boss!”

“At least ten inches boss!”

“Shut thee fuck up,” the boss said, pleasantly.  He was still looking down at me.

“Now you livin thee slappie life, boy.  You know that?”

“Yes . . . I mean yes boss.”

“Awright.  Time to get you gear.”

He unlocked a closet, pulled out some large bulky brown objects, and dropped them on the floor.  “That you blanket,” he said.  “An that you mattress.  Pick em up.”

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 12

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 12: This Season, Brown Is Trending

They let me loose and I fell back, panting.  Automatically, my hands went up to my neck.  But it wasn’t my neck anymore; it was a thing wearing a collar.  “Yeh mon,” Malcolm said, “you a slappie now.”  I twisted, holding my stomach, trying to get my breath.  My eyes were level with their waists, and I saw that their shorts were tented.

“OK slappie, straighten up,” Jojo said, kicking a chair in my direction.  “Sit on it,” Malcolm said.  My balls slumped down on the wooden seat.  “Keep still,” Jojo said.  “This doan take long.”  He plugged a shaver into the wall, and in two minutes he had shaved me bald.

“Get up,” Malcolm ordered.  “See that wall?  Stan’ there.  This is a camera, slap boy.  Hol’ still, gonna take you picture.  I said hol’ still.  An look pretty—this is you audition, dude.  I mean it—how you think I get this great job?  You keep lookin unhappy, dude, this gonna last all night.  OK, that’s better.  Now turn left.  Turn right.  Lemme see you butt.”  So now my white naked body and my white bald head were fully recorded.  “Through that door,” he told me, pointing.

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Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 11

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 11: Gettin Fixed

I did what I guess everybody does, the first time he’s put in a cage.  I stood at the bars and wondered how to get out.

I needed help!  But who could help me?  My brother?  Not interested—except, undoubtedly, to cash in on my property.  Major Timmons?  I’d seen how that turned out.  Roger?  I didn’t even know his full name.  And there was no way to reach him, even if I did.  And when you thought about it . . . .  To hear him talk, he had contacts everywhere.  He knew all about St. Bevons.  He knew Major Timmons.  He had a reason—not a good reason, but a reason–to get back at me: I’d stiffed him on his plan to take this wonderful vacation together.  Fuck!  Did he have some connection with all of this?  Was it possible?  But if he had . . . If he had, what could I do about it?

“Nice shirt!” somebody said.  It was a young white slappie.  He was sweeping the walk, and he’d got as far as my cage.  Next to him was a young black slappie, doing the same.  They stopped and leaned on their brooms. “Nice shoes too,” the black guy said.  “Pret’ soon, though,” said the white guy, “he look like us.”  The black guy gave me a thoughtful glance.  “You fucked, dude,” he said.  They started sweeping again, laughing.  After a while, they got to a corner and turned and were out of sight.

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