By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 13: Stage Struck

“Thanks for the gossip,” 8363 said.  “You know how it turns me on.”

“Anything to serve,” I said.

“You definitely like serving the Colonel.”

If you can shrug when you’re wrapped up in a bunk with the guy you’re shrugging at, I shrugged.

“Too bad,” he said, “that he’s just running a test.”

“Yeah.  To see if I’ve been tamed.  He said he could tame me, and he was right.  He’s got his answer.”

“Actually, he’s testing himself.”

“Sure, sure.”

“You can’t fuck something that doesn’t get you hard.”

“So?”

“So you think he likes being turned on by the tool he’s made out of you?  I like it, but that’s because I’m a tool myself.”

“I’m glad you’re screwed onto me.”

We played for a while.  He had an amazing tongue—great in my mouth, great on my toes, great when it slithered across my bald head.  Then he told me, “He’s testing himself to see if he wants to be like you.  If he wants to be tamed . . . punished . . .  shackled . . . worked . . . .”

“Who cares?  Just keep doing what you’re doing . . . .”

“He’ll keep testing until he proves that you don’t enjoy it.  Then he can be happy that he’s Colonel Bridger.  Or think that he’s happy.”

“Again, too complicated for me.  You know what I need.”

“Yeah, I do.”  He was slipping out of his longjohns.  “But I’m getting jealous.”

“You think I like him?”

“Huh?  Course not.  But since he’s keeping you this horny all the time . . . .”

“Oh God!  You’ve got me so . . . .”

“ . . .  maybe you could give me some of that punishment too.”

“Yeah?  Really?”

“Yeah.  Now.”

“If that’s an order . . . . ”

So that was how 8363 got fucked for the first time.  I had to do what he wanted.  And he seemed to enjoy it.  In fact, he enjoyed it so much that several of our cellmates gave us unpleasant looks the next morning, and the boss yelled at everybody, meaning us, to keep the noise down at night.

A few days later, I stood at attention while the couple’s breakfast was served and eaten, then returned to the servants’ hall to eat my own chow.  6839 had been careful, as always, to flush the remains left by the Colonel and Mr. Patrick down the garbage disposal, so that none of us could get any—except 1057, the cook, who always spread a counter with the goods and “sampled” them before they got to the table.  I finished my feed, got my cleaning tools from the laundry room, and went to work, happy to find that the Colonel and Mr. Patrick had left and that Mr. Patrick had dropped fewer clothes on the floor for me to hang up.  The shower was worse than usual, however . . . .  I was just coming back to the servants hall when I found two guards positioning themselves beside me.  They stood me against a wall, scanned my badge, and told me to come along.  I was already shackled, so they didn’t need to do that.  One of them did, however, take a pair of cuffs off his belt and attach them to me.

“Sir, where am I going, sir?”

“Colonel wants you.”

I thought they were taking me down the hall to his office, but we went all the way to the first floor lobby, where they led me through the body scanners they used to let civilians in and out.  This was bad!  Were they going to throw me out?!  Suddenly, my whole life was at stake.  Even the guard at the scanner was shocked.  The only thing that quieted him was the phrase “Colonel’s orders.”

Waiting outside was a white prison van.  It was small, to put it mildly—just a cab where the guards sat, and two compartments in the rear, separated by a steel wall, each compartment made for one convict to ride in.  They took me to the back and stuffed me inside, my legs hitting the wall and my butt filling the little steel shelf where the prisoner had to sit.  They slammed a set of bars across the doorway, padlocked it, and slammed the solid door on the outside.  Then we were off, my body jolting against the walls and my ass bouncing up and down on the “seat.”  There was no window, only a lightbulb hidden inside a thick plastic sheath.  I had no idea where we were headed.  I was feeling better, though, because you don’t lock somebody up like that if you plan to kick him out.

After lots of twists and turns and what seemed like a fast ride on a freeway, the van slowed to a crawl, bumping along a pavement that could not have been a street.  When they unlocked the van and pulled me out I was in an alley behind a line of old buildings, the kind you can see in any “historic” downtown—red brick, two or three stories tall; grudging little parking spaces; fragrant groups of dumpsters advertising the backs of restaurants.  They’d parked in an Owners Only area and were marching me along the alley toward my unknown destination.  Along the alley were posted the clean new signs that decorate the seedy backsides of buildings whose fronts have been gentrified: Bill & Jeff’s Downtown Hardware, Ecosafe Dog Grooming, La Bonne Querelle . . . .   Were they taking me for lunch in a French restaurant?  Probably not . . . .  UnizonPlus Communications, Ben’s Fine Liquors and Wines, The Civic Club . . . .

The Civic Club!  I was back in Springport, and they were taking me to the Civic Club!  The place where I’d been a member!  The place where I’d mingled with the other big men in the business establishment!  It was the last place I wanted to go.  What the fuck was happening?

I’d never known how grubby the back of the Club really was.  It made me long for the Penitentiary, where everything always had to be “hygienic.”  It had snowed the night before, and gray sludge remained in the shadows.  The dumpsters alone . . . .  If you were a stranger, you’d be gagging; if you were someone like me, you’d be wondering what kind of garbage they’d been feeding you all those years.  Was this the stink from the latest meal?  Because by then, I could tell, noon had passed.  They would have moved on from their cocktails to their salads, then to their chicken breast or fish filet (“guests may select either option”); now they’d be getting their chocolate mousse or lemon torte, with coffee and/or brandy . . . .   But what day was this?  Thursday—the second Thursday of the month!  The Civic Forum!  Where I’d last heard Gordon Bridger explaining his plan for the new penology.  In my mind, the pieces were almost fitting together . . . .

Without knocking, the guards pried open the grimy screen door and the gritty inner door and brought me into the kitchen, much to the surprise of the chef and his assistants, who drew back as if they were about to be busted by Immigration.  But the guards knew where they were going.  The following room was the staging area for the waiters, the place where they stopped before getting the signal to deliver the next course.  That was the place for me.  Four or five waiters were in the room, impatiently holding trays of food and drink and looking at me like I was Frankenstein’s monster, which I guess was true; I was a creature that had to be restrained with cuffs and shackles and guards holding onto both arms.  There was also the strange garb I had to wear.  I was a servant, but not like them.  In an hour or so they’d take off their white shirts and their bow ties and go home to their boyfriends, bearing their tips.  I’d be taken back to the Penitentiary in my blue convict suit and my steel cuffs and shackles—unless something bad, very bad, had been planned, and the monster was going to be turned loose on the street.

“No talking,” one of the guards told me, “unless you’re told to talk.”  I was afraid to say “yes sir,” so I made a simple bow.  Then I started listening to the amplified voice echoing from the dining room.  I craned my neck till I could see the man speaking.  It was Roddy Appleton, a guy who’d inherited his father’s construction company.  I’d had some dealings with that little shark.  Fuck!  Why am I here?  Why have they brought me back to Roddy Appleton?

There was always an introducer, and then the speaker.  It was evident that he was the introducer.

“ . . . .  So, uh, if you haven’t turned in your, uh, annual dues, which are due about this time of the year, as you know, just go to our website and, uh, just click onto your membership level.  But you can always raise that thing!  No joke!  You can always get it up!”

That seemed to be a laugh line, but I couldn’t hear many laughs.  I’d always thought the dude was gay, but if he was trolling for boyfriends, it wasn’t working.

“We don’t have a level for, uh, Master of the Universe, but if enough people show interest . . . . ”

A few laughs at this.  Congratulations, Roddy.

“But now, that being said, if our servers would, uh, begin to pass among us with dessert” (waiters fan out from the staging room), “I’ll introduce our speaker.  It’s someone we have welcomed before, and who I’m sure will be even more welcome today.  Our guest is—Colonel Gordon Bridger of the Paris State Penitentiary!”

Oh God, there he was—seated at the front table.  Wearing his uniform.  Looking tense.  But not as tense as I was.  And I had an excuse.

There was a lot of applause.  Roddy held up his hands.  “Don’t worry about the uniform,” he said.  “Nobody’s gonna be arrested.  Not right now, anyway!”

More applause, and titters.

“A few months ago,” Roddy went on, “Colonel Bridger electrified this audience by sharing his, uh, revolutionary program for prison reform, and for the redevelopment of many of those, uh, unsightly properties over at Paris.  I’m sure we are all wondering what has been happening, uh, since that time.  Colonel Bridger is here to tell us.  I give you—Colonel Bridger!”

Long applause.  Gordy came to the podium.  He smiled on the audience.

But why was I there?  What did any of this have to do with me?  I was a convict like any other convict.  And I knew he wasn’t going to discuss our sex life.  The Civic Club wasn’t THAT gay.  Although I was sure that a lot of cocks in the audience were drooling at the sight of that tall, hard-muscled figure in his light blue uniform shirt, a shirt that left nothing to the imagination.  I wondered if they’d envy me if they knew that my ass had been fucked by this man in the officer’s suit.  But I wasn’t surprised that he received more than the usual applause.

“I’m glad,” he said, “that after my first talk you invited me back.  Some people haven’t.”  Laughter.  “But last time, I outlined for you a program of prison reform, and it’s only fair that you’ve made me come back to report on it.  Since I saw you last . . . .”

He gave a review of statistics about Paris State Penitentiary that must have driven most of his listeners deep into their desserts and brandy.  Bottom line: the prison was under-budget, prison industries were more profitable than ever, no escapes had been made—“how could they be?”—and the state’s rate of recidivism had declined by 3.3 percent.  “All this in only three years of operation.  I must add, in contradiction to my friends who believe that prison admissions should be diminished, not increased, that there is one thing we know: every convict that has a bunk inside the walls of the Paris State Penitentiary is in his bunk!  He is not on your streets, committing crimes!”  That was an applause line, and he got it.

“But the Paris plan goes farther.  As I told you when I spoke to you last, its goal is the taming and training of every individual convict.  So I think it may be appropriate for me to present you with a product of this system.  Officers, bring the convict forward.”

Fuck!  That was me!

I talked before about that bad feeling you have when you walk on stage.  I didn’t have any lines I had to memorize, and I couldn’t do the wrong thing, because I was cuffed and shackled and had guards holding onto me.  But I still felt that surge of panic.  The eye always looks for something reassuring, and I found it.  The gold-draped windows, the off-white table cloths, the waiters making their rounds with the silvery coffee pots—all familiar, normal, boring props.  What made my stomach drop was the 50 pairs of eyes looking back at me.  I knew those people.  Lots of them I’d bested in business deals.  A few I’d insulted.  Most I’d ignored.  No normal man forgives being ignored.

My hands, cuffed before me, were suddenly colder than my cuffs.  Sweat dripped from my pits.  I had to toss a drop of it out of my eye.  Larry Briscoe, Harlan O’Neill, who still owed me money, Richard Farmer, the guy I used to call Dickie, because I knew how much it annoyed him, were leaning forward with interest.  In the back rows, people were standing up to get a better view.

“This convict’s name,” the Colonel announced, “is G023104411.  You may know him by another name.  He has been in custody for the past nine months.  Come to attention, convict.”

I squared my shoulders and stiffened my body.  As I fixed my head in the forward direction I saw, in the second row of tables, the figure of my brother Robert.  Another wave of cold ran through my body.  Why was he here?  Why was he wearing that look of pleasant surprise?  Glad to see me?  Stupid questions.  He’d taken over my business; naturally he was in the Club; naturally he would come to the meetings; naturally he would be pleased to see his arrogant, obnoxious brother in cuffs and shackles and a blue convict suit carefully buttoned to the neck for fear of punishment if it had not been properly buttoned.

“On his first day in the institution, 4411 received a thorough search and medical examination.  He was numbered and photographed, and he was issued his uniform.  This is the uniform worn by all criminals in the facility.  It is simple and durable, and you will be interested to know that its cost is less than 20 dollars—less than 25 dollars, with the addition of those little blue booties, as we call them.  Maintenance of this criminal is very cheap.  To answer a question that always comes up: under the blue outer garments is a suit of what, I believe, our grandfathers called long johns.  We consider ourselves a progressive institution—with some very conservative ways.”   Some chuckles, widespread smiles of enjoyment.

“In a high density facility, hygiene is of great importance, so we equip all criminals with a special hairstyle.”  He turned to one of the guards, who quickly snatched off my cap.  My baldy was revealed for all to see.  The audience let out a gasp of surprise—followed by a sigh of satisfaction.  Colin Perry was definitely getting what he deserved.

“You may replace the cap, officer.  Once properly attired, this criminal was admitted to the Training Team, where he learned how to comport himself in a community in which he is not the maker of his own rules.  For this purpose we find physical training extremely useful.  The source of criminality is arrogance, the idea that you are more important than anyone else.  Mass physical training, the training of criminals in bodies of 50 or 100 or more, where all perform the same rudimentary movements under the same strict orders, teaches the opposite.  It teaches criminals that everyone else is more important than they are, that they are an insignificant part of an enormous machine.  We all remember gym class in high school.”

Smiles all around.

“Some of us hated it.”

Nods from a few.

“Some of us loved it.”

Grins of pride from many.

“But the purpose of physical training in that educational institution was to enable us to EXCEL.  This is not the purpose of physical training in a correctional institution.  Its function is to teach every criminal to perform the simple, mindless, undemanding actions that subject him to common discipline.  Instead of building pride, it represses pride—and with it, represses crime.”

Expressions of understanding on some faces, expressions on others indicating that this was too big a philosophical concept to grasp.

“AND,” he continued, with a showmanship I never thought he had, “our criminals learn all the latest dance steps!”  He turned to me, while a guard unlocked my cuffs, letting my arms fall to my sides.  “Convict!  Slow march in place!”

Automatically, my arms began to swing and my legs began to piston up and down.  One two, one two, one two . . . .  My shackles jingled; I marched toward nowhere, as I had been trained to do.  Above the white tables and the remains of the brandy and desserts, every pair of hands was clapping.

“Convict!  Quick march in place!”  I marched fast, shackles clanking loudly, uniform moving rhythmically up and down, identity badge flopping in time against my chest.  Hearty applause and laughter!

“Stand at attention, convict!”

The guard cuffed me up again.  I bowed and came to attention.

“After training, the criminal was taken to his permanent address, which is the cell he shares with 15 other convicted criminals.  The cell is efficiently arranged so as to provide more than 250 cubic feet of space for every convict and yet to provide total supervision, 24/7/365.  He is now established in his life as a convict under permanent control of the institution.  He enjoys cheap but adequate housing, food, and clothing, and medical attention when he needs it, and he has what I am sure we would all like to have—total job security.”

Much appreciative laughter.

“Most importantly, he is relieved of all responsibilities for self-management.  He does what he is told, when he is told, in the way he is told.  With the proper training he may return to society as a docile citizen, or, if the correctional authorities regard this as the more appropriate option, he may continue to be housed and worked in the Penitentiary, for his own good and the good of society.  In either case, he will no longer pose a threat to anyone in this room.  In fact, his labor in the facility will pay for most of the expenses of keeping him.  With continued improvements in efficiency, his industrial value will continue to increase.

“Here you see our program, gentlemen.  As shown by the example I have presented to you, it can turn even the most . . . difficult criminal”—he paused, allowing them to remember how difficult I had been to the members of the Club, and to share a hearty laugh about what had happened to me—“into productive state property.”

“Speaking of costs, Colonel,” a voice piped up, “I’m just wondering, exactly how much does this criminal cost?  I mean, compared to the prisoners we had before?”  It was Vic Foner, the guy who ran the company that used to clean houses for me.  He rooked me out of twice as much as his service was worth, just because he knew I wanted to re-sell them as fast as possible.

“An excellent question,” the Colonel said.  “Despite enhanced security, we spend, per convict, only 86 percent as much as other state penal institutions.  A big reason is our total standardization of convict housing, clothing, feeding, management—everything related to the convict.  Every convict is a unit that is handled in the same way as every other unit.  And our costs are offset handsomely by a factor I have already mentioned: at Paris State Penitentiary, convicts are actually required to . . . WORK!”  Large applause.  “They work not just on institutional maintenance but on profit-making factory production.  This convict, for instance, works in our clothing factory.  He sews shirts all day.”

“Hey Colin, how you like your job?” someone yelled.  This one was Frank Crutchfield.  The one who used to nag me about playing golf with him.

“You’re taking over my show,” the Colonel said.  “I brought this criminal here not just to dance for you” (lots of laughter about that again) “but to allow him to answer that question.  And I want to be very honest here.  We can’t pretend that reform is easy.  We can’t pretend it’s painless.  I would argue, in fact, that reform without discomfort is not reform at all.  Down at the gym, they say, ‘No pain, no gain.’”  Heads nodded in the audience.  “We have to remember: prison should be designed to change a criminal, but it’s too much to expect him to enjoy the process.  As a method of reform, enjoyment is counter-productive.  I doubt that you gentlemen enjoy getting out of bed in the morning—if you’re going to work, that is.”

Laughter, and replies of “No!” and “Are you kidding?”

“That says it all!  But again, this criminal can serve as an example.  He has lost his freedom and possessions. His life has been restricted to a set of standardized behaviors controlled by his guards.  As you can see, encounters with normal people are permitted only when he is safely secured.  This is a humbling experience, as it has to be.  I am sure it is not pleasant.  But let’s see what we can learn from the criminal himself.”

He turned to me.  “Convict, I am going to ask you some questions.  I want you to answer fully and honestly, and with no fear of punishment.  Do you believe me, convict?”

I was standing at attention, so I couldn’t turn my head or do anything to conceal the fact that my dick was straining so hard at my long johns that the weight of the cloth was painful.  I was afraid that the next voice from the audience would be, “Got a boner, Colin?”  When I thought of that, the ecstasy in my dick got bigger, so big that my voice cracked like a kid’s when I answered: “Yes sir!”

“Fine.  Now, why are you in prison, convict?”

That was easy.  “Because I am a criminal, sir.”

“So, do you think your punishment has been deserved?”

Also easy, except that it caused even more pain to my dick, and I was sure the pain was registering on my face.  “Yes sir!”

“Now, despite the fact that you deserved your punishment, we know how hard it is.  We understand that your life in the Penitentiary must be difficult.  Tell us in your own words how hard it is.  How do you feel about your punishment?”

I was choking with the effort my muscles were making to keep myself from cumming.  “I like it, sir,” I squeaked.

A laugh from the crowd . . . and a long pause from the Colonel, as if he was looking for his next line.  Obviously, I’d given the wrong answer.  “Say the truth, convict,” he prompted.  “For a moment it sounded as if you’d said that you actually enjoyed your life in prison.”

“I like it VERY MUCH, sir!” I shouted.  “I LOVE it, sir!”

Laughter and applause.

But the hour was late; my response was an anti-climax.  Some of the audience seemed puzzled.  What I’d said—was it proof that the Paris program worked, or proof that it didn’t?  Nobody looked like he really cared.  But why should anyone care?  I was just after-dinner entertainment.

Roddy said the usual “thank you all so much for coming,” and most of them ambled for the door.  There was, however, a small rush of members to the front to congratulate the Colonel on “the best talk we’ve had in a long time,” and to urge him to come again and “bring that convict with you!  So much fun to see him doing his thing.”  Robert walked over to shake the Colonel’s hand and to give me a parting glance—the kind of glance you give to a prize-winning animal you’ve enjoyed seeing at the county fair.

The Colonel shook hands with Roddy and exited quickly out the front.  The guards bundled me back in the van.  Fortunately, my pants were still clean.

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