“What’s that racket?” the guard yelled.
“Hey, what is this?” Mix said.
“I’m on Warden’s Business,” Feldman shouted. “I’m Feldman the bad man and I’m on Warden’s Business.” He took out the warden’s flag and waved it furiously. “Feldman the bad man coming through here on Warden’s Business,” he called. “Feldman the bad man on his way to Records and Forms in the supply wing, to pick up requisitions for the canteen. No more requisitions in the canteen,” he yelled. Some civilians and other prison officials from the administrative offices stared at him from beyond the barred gate. Feldman continued to wave his flag and shout. “Feldman the bad man on Warden’s Business for Lieutenant Crease. Feldman the bad man on Get the Requisitions from Records and Forms in the Supply Wing Business. Coming through.”
“Cut out that screaming,” the guard roared.
Feldman marched toward him, waving his flag.
“All right, all right, I see it. Go on the hell through.” He unlocked the gate, and Feldman marched through. He looked back over his shoulder and winked at Mix, but the troubled man had turned away.
In trouble: These were the words of Feldman’s dream. He awoke. He sat up. In trouble. As in atmosphere. Or in China. It was an ambience, a dimension. Sure, he thought, the turd dimension. Something in nature. Something inside and mechanical. Something inside and not mechanical at all. Doom, he thought, the house struck by lightning, the wooden leg in flames, the poisoned heart.
Then why, he thought, why am I smiling?
He had been awakened by a noise. Was someone escaping? Was a cell open? Had a prisoner thrust his hands through the bars to catch a guard’s throat? Would he be made to run with them? He listened.
There was only the breathing in all the cells. It was a sustained, continuous sigh, the men’s breath going and coming like hissed, sibilant wind. Somewhere down the cellblock he heard a toilet flush. Someone wrenched up phlegm from a sour throat. In their sleep men turned uncomfortably on their narrow cots. Rolling, they groaned. He heard farts, coughs, the clipped, telescoped declarations of dreamed speech. No one was escaping. All cells were locked. They were cornered, all of them. No one could get in.
He lay back down again and tried to sleep. How long had he been there? Two months, three? Would they really let him out in only a year? They had to. That was the law.
“Who’s up?” a voice asked suddenly, timidly. “Is someone up?”
The words were clear; they had not sounded like a sleeper’s mutterings.
“Is there someone awake in here?” It sounded as if the man were testing, like a soldier poking with his rifle into the rooms and corners of an empty farmhouse.
Feldman remained silent. Why am I smiling? he thought.
“Dear God,” the voice said. The speaker, someone two or three cells away from Feldman, had slipped out of his cot. Apparently he was on his knees. “Forgive my mistakes, God. Help me to think of a plan to get out of this place.”
Then another voice spoke. “Dear God, forgive and forget. Wipe the slate. I need a chance. Give a guy a chance.”
Another: “God in Heaven,” the voice said, “see the children get an education.”
Men were awake throughout the long, dark cellblock.
“Get the rat who squealed, who turned state’s evidence, Lord.”
“Dearest Jesus of my soul, give me courage.”
“Give me brains, God.”
“I want to go back to Kansas.”
“Make me lucky.”
“Dear God, look after my wife. See she stays true.”
“My kids, God.”
“Kill my enemies, Lord.”
“Please, help my mother to forget me.”
“Help me to learn a trade, Lord.”
“Dear God, please make the parole board see things my way.”
“Help me, God, to give up smoking.”
“To get ahead.”
“Dear Jesus, I can’t stop thinking about women. Help me to forget women. Make me queer.”
“Dear God in highest Heaven, let me win.”
“Place.”
“Show.”
“Grant that society sees fit to abolish capital punishment, Lord.”
“Teach me to get along with others.”
“I need a drink bad, Lord.”
“Dear God, give our leaders the wisdom and strength they need to guide us through these troubled times.”
“Keep China from developing the capability to deliver The Bomb, sweet Jesus.”
“Keep my daughter off the streets. Don’t let her run with a fast crowd.”
“Show me, Lord, how to commit the perfect crime.”
“Dearest Lord, don’t let them discover where the money’s hidden.”
“Gentle the guards, Jesus.”
“Sweet Jesus, protector of my soul, fix my life.”
“Amen.”
“Amen. Amen.”
“Amen.”
Feldman smiled. His joy was immense.
In his dream he had left his cot too. He was on his knees. Like the goyim. He felt he owed it. He was very grateful. “For having escaped the second-rate life,” he prayed; “for having lived detached as someone with a stuffed nose, for my sound limbs and the absence of pain, for my power, for my hundred-and-ten-thousand-dollar home in a good neighborhood, for the tips on the market, for my gold hamper and all the dirty shirts in it, for my big car and good taste, for the perfect fits and silk suits, for my never having been in battle or bitten by beasts; for these things and for others, for the steaks I’ve eaten and the deals I’ve closed, for the games I’ve won and the things I’ve gotten away with, for my thick carpets and my central air conditioning, for the good life and the last laugh — Father, I thank Thee.
“Amen.”
10
A short time after his monthly physical Feldman received a note from the warden:
Your weight is good, your lungs are clear, your specimen sparkles like a trout stream. But slow down. I tell you for your own good. You’re too nervous. You’ll never make it. The doctor is very concerned, and so am I. I’m no killer — that’s your department. I’m just a custodian, a sort of curator, and it grieves my collector heart if I have to lose one of you guys. You’re terrified. Of what? Of what, Feldman? You make your own problems. If I thought it was guilt — guilt’s good, guilt’s healthy, but your kind of guilt isn’t honest. It doesn’t do anybody any good. It’s diffused, unfocused. Anyway, slow down, play ball, calm down. Life is ordinary, Feldman.
Fisher
P.S. Here are the basic rules of this place. I’ll just sketch them in for you. I won’t be very particular, because you’re probably already familiar with the particular stuff. (We have an expression: “You bad men can’t see the ropes for the loopholes.”)
1. Lights out at 10 o’clock. The day begins (adjusted, of course, to seasonal dawn) at 6:30. That means you can get eight and a half hours’ sleep if you work it right. Bankers don’t get that much, ship’s captains don’t. Guys who have lumberyards in Ohio get less. Actually, it’s an hour more of sack time — this is supported by many sociological studies — than is put in by the average U.S. citizen. Penologists are beginning to think that a greater sleepload is a very important factor in rehabilitation, an aggressive dream life being a major element in holding down violence. (Also, if it’s carried over into the outside would, it gives you jerks less man-hours on the streets.)
2. Keep a neat cell. There’s no real complaint here.