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The Prison Writer – Chapter 08

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By Joshua Ryan

The line ended at a door that was so important we had to be buzzed through.  On the other side was a wide white hallway with wooden doors on one side and steel doors on the other — and a yellow line on the left, of course.  Finally we got to a place where there were two steel doors with a glass booth between them.  An old officer was seated in the booth.  Officer Collison pulled me over and told me to stand in front of the glass.

“Got one for ya, Pop.”

“Yeah?  Don’t look like much.  But OK, if you say so.  Hold up your arm, boy.  I wanta see that bracelet you got.”

“Yes, Sir.”  I held it up to the window.  He half-rose in his chair and scanned my wristband.

“Nother lifer,” he said.  “Well, welcome to free room and board.  I’ll take him into Number 2.”

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 07

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By Joshua Ryan

It wasn’t totally dark in there.  The place reminded me of a parking garage or an auto shop.  Lights were hanging from the ceiling, and not far from the spot where Dean parked you could see a little inside building blazing with light against the murky background.  It was apparently some kind of office where we had to stop.

Dean unlimbered his big body and stood in front of the car.  Another big guy came out of the office, carrying a cell phone in his hand.  This guy also looked like a cop, but he was wearing a gray uniform.  He was talking loud, and Dean talked loud to match him.

“Hey bro.  How’s it goin.”

“How’s it goin, Hal.”

“Not so bad.  I see you got somethin in there.”  He peered at me in the back seat, chained under glass.  Then he pulled out his phone.  “Name?”

“Meres,” Dean said.  “M-e-r-e-s.  Here’s his shit.”

He handed a brown envelope to the man in gray, who opened it and checked its contents against whatever he saw on the phone.

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 06

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By Joshua Ryan

It takes a little over half an hour to get to Glenvue from where I’d been living, but I was so wired up I don’t remember anything about the drive except being wired up.  I was a mile from my destination when I came out of my nerves enough to notice that Glenvue was a lot more prosperous than I’d thought it was.  I hadn’t pictured Dean working in a place that was quite that well off.  Maybe that explained why they didn’t mind hiring gays!  It looked like the kind of town where they wash the streets every night and you get fined if you don’t have a two-car garage.  I couldn’t help looking at it and thinking, “If my next book sells, I’m gonna get a place out here.”

The driver slowed down and turned in my direction.  He was a 20-something with a pony tail and a taste for the smooth jazz channel.  “You said 623 White Oak, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s it over there, but there must be somethin wrong, man.  It’s the County Jail.”

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 05

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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

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 04

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By Joshua Ryan

Jerry’s new boyfriend was giving him a birthday party — arranged by Jerry, of course.  There’s no point in describing it; it was just a big gay gathering with the ordinary number of lushes and phonies and nice guys, none of them interested in me.  Dean and Craig were part of the crowd standing around the quesadillas.  The usual drinks, the usual food, the usual conversation, the usual question from Jerry: “How’s the next book comin?”

“Slowly.”

“Gimme a date!  Publisher wants more of you.”

“I’m sure.  But I’ve paid for your BMW, and I’ve paid for your pool, so I’m doing this one at my own pace.”

“Come on!  It’s April!  I wanta fill the pool.”

“Whatever that means … As you know, my last book’s in the third printing…”

“Which means it’s about time to give em a new one.  Look…”

A 30-something in shorts that were far too tight for him wandered over, and I had the pleasure of meeting “Rory,” the latest BF.  That was that, but after a while Dean detached himself from Craig and the others who were grouped around him and strode in my direction.  He was the only person I knew who actually looked good in a Hawaiian shirt.

“Pushing the season?” I asked.

“Yeah, I know it’s early.  Follow me.  I told Craig you’d like a look at my car.”

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The Prison Writer – Chapter 03

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By Joshua Ryan

Pictures from the next morning:  Dean’s smooth, heavy body filling my bed.  My head jerking up as memories hit me from the night before.  My feet stumbling over the clothes I’d strewn on the carpet.  Wine glasses lying dead in front of the couch.  My hands fumbling with the coffee maker, anxious to fix the obligatory brew and get this stranger out of my home.  Dean striding into the kitchen — white tank top, black boxers, bare feet, and the shadow of a beard.  “Make mine scrambled.”

Apparently he’d leave when he wanted to leave.

“I think,” he said, taking his final bite of the eggs, “you should use your own name.  No pen names this time.”

“Do you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”

“I’m talking about the name you’ll use in prison.  Steven Meres.  That’s good enough.”

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Story

The Prison Writer – Chapter 02

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By Joshua Ryan

I woke at 8:00 with the vague impression that I’d done something stupid the night before — probably something stupid in writing.  These days, almost everything I did was in writing.  I checked my email.  Oh God — there was a message from that cop I’d met the day before.  I’d wasted the whole day either talking to him or thinking about what he said.  That whole silly business about problems with my books … And here he was again.  Because I’d sent him a message!  “Time for lunch … dinner …”  Worse and worse.  Dinner was even more serious than lunch.  I hoped he was turning me down.  But no, he was saying he couldn’t do dinner until a week from Tuesday.  He would meet me at 6:30.  Where did I suggest?

Of course, I could have written back and told him I could see it was inconvenient for him — maybe some other time, I had a pretty heavy schedule … But … He was eye candy, at least.  Despite the boyfriend.  And it might be useful.  If you’ve got a fetish, I guess you ought to feed it.  And who knew if he was TOTALLY devoted to Craig?  Significantly, he was now pushing dinner, not lunch.  Not that I wanted to bed down with a cop!   I wrote back and suggested La Folie.  That would show him who was boss in the culture department.  “Please be my guest at dinner.  I’ll be grateful for your ideas.”

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Story

The Prison Writer – Chapter 01

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The Prison Writer

By Joshua Ryan

This story is for adults and about adults only.

It is also fiction.  Any connection to real entities is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

I’m Steven Meres, and I met Deputy Sheriff Dean Brannigan at a brunch given by my agent, Jerry Canto.

Jerry was a flighty, flamboyant queen, but why should I stereotype anyone?  After all, I’m a novelist; I should be above all that.  I’m just trying to explain why I was surprised when I got to the restaurant and found Jerry sitting next to a person whom he would undoubtedly have described as a superhunk.  I was prepared to be envious, but Jerry let me know right away that the man was, “unfortunately for me, only a friend.”

“Steven, client, meet Dean, gambling buddy.  I mean, buddy who gambles,” Jerry said.

The guy stood up to shake hands, and my first impression kept being right.  Six feet two, 100 percent muscle.  The long-sleeve tee did nothing to cover it up.  Neither did the jeans.

“Gambling buddy?” I asked him.

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