Sylvia says, “That’s the worst thing about it. Knowing when you might die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“Sure I am.You are too. But you’re better off not knowing.”
I think how absurd it is for her to suggest that I’m going to die, but it’s more absurd of me to think that that’s absurd.
The waitress comes back with our food. A salad for Sylvia and a burger for me. The fries are too greasy, and the bun is dry. The pickle looks exhausted. I think about ordering a beer but decide against it. The waitress looks at me for a moment too long.
“It looks delicious,” I say. I smile at the waitress with my eyes.
“Thank you,” Sylvia says.
The waitress walks away. She’s got a nice walk, a nice swaying bounce in her hips.
Sylvia says, “I think it’s strange when girls don’t have waists, don’t you?” Her cattiness could be because the waitress doesn’t recognize her, but most likely it’s jealousy.
Our meeting isn’t too long. For a while, Sylvia talks about her mother, whom she’s become close with. Her mother quit smoking. They are going to Cuba together in the winter.
“It’s hard to get good vegetables in Cuba.” I’m proud of myself for remembering the weird diet that she’s on. Ten cups of vegetables a day. They wrote about it on some gossip website.
“Communists don’t believe in vegetables?” she says.
“What kind of vegetables do you have to eat?”
“Squash, broccoli, peas, carrots, asparagus,” she says and pulls out her phone to check the rest. I look down at my plate, at my untouched burger.
“I should send you some recipes. There’s a very easy butternut squash pasta dish –”
“Raw vegetables, Guy. I can’t boil them.” She smiles at me like I’m annoying.
The waitress asks if we want any desserts but we don’t.
I ask for the bill. Sylvia talks some more. There’s a boyfriend, a guy she met in Alcoholics Anonymous who is “really talented.”
The waitress hands me the bill. The waitress’s name is Amy. I think about writing my phone number on the bill but decide against it.
I have an acute understanding of what feeling empty means. I feel vastly, tragically empty, like there was no past and there is no future.
35
FOR MY SENTENCING, I DRESS IN A SUIT. I BUY IT ESPECIALLY for this occasion. It might seem stupid to buy yourself a suit right before you go to jail, yet this is precisely why I get it. I need to reassure myself that this, going to jail, is in no way the end of my life. I pay extra to have the suit altered on the same day.
I wait for my suit in a cheerfully clean, cream-coloured coffee place in a shopping district. It seems surreal that right now I am here and tomorrow I will be incarcerated. I drink my tiny cappuccino, my pinky raised.
I watch the fat tourists going in and out of high-end shops. Small packages. They can only afford wallets, scarves, belts. But they seem happy. When they come out, their eyes are feverish. Fuck it, they’ve got credit cards. They can always take on some extra shifts! You only live once! In contrast, the expensively bored cuntpets of rich men – women who can afford everything – look miserable. Massive parcels. The bigger the unhappiness, the bigger the parcels.
I watch the older ones with stretched, pinched faces – veterans of diets and loneliness. The younger ones trot on legs like needles, expertly not tripping over their fluffy white dogs, one bony hand clutching plastic bags packed with tiny doggie turds, the other hand wrapped around enormous cups full of zero-calorie froth. Many of these women are too skinny to fuck. I cannot imagine myself fucking them.
I order another coffee. There’s a new girl behind the counter. She’s got dark skin, a big ass.
“Oh my god, you look like that actor,” she says.
“My wife said the same thing. That’s how we met.”
She shows her bottom teeth. “Cool.”
I try to jerk off twice in the toilet. I imagine the coffee girl sitting on my face. The sweet, musky smell of her. My tongue in her ass. Her disgusted face as I try to kiss her afterwards. I’m half-erect. I can’t get myself inspired.
Later on, I try on my new Paul Smith wool suit. The colour is called anthracite, which is coal, which means black. It’s a black suit; the suit is black. The sales clerk claps his hands. I’m not irritated by this. I want to clap as well. I look great. I take a picture in the mirror and send it to Henri, my old shopping consultant. He sends back a picture of himself giving a thumbs-up.
I wish I could send a picture to Em. Look, Em. Your man. Such a beautiful man with perfect skin. What a nice body. All of it contoured into this fine suit. A perfect male form, perfectly useless now. Look. All for you.
36
WHEN WE’RE NOT WORKING WE CAN WATCH TV. WE GET CABLE here. We watch the news. One inmate’s wife was gunned down on the outside. He first found out about it on the news.
We get newspapers. There are computers although there is no Internet. We get board games. The board games are almost as popular as getting high in here.
You can ask for sketchbooks and crayons. It’s good for us. Each request is assessed on its own merits and according to a list of approved items. There are carefully monitored cell inventories. My cell is always impeccable. I don’t abuse my privileges. I don’t get high. I behave when I’m in the shop. I blank, emboss and finish licence plates. I behave during roll call, in the kitchen, cleaning cells, working out at the gym.
I don’t pace here. I’m good at being locked down. If I get anxious, I do sit-ups and push-ups. When I’m not anxious, I read or watch TV. This is how I come across the Tarantino film Kill Bill. I’ve never seen it. It was quite a big deal back when it first came out. I wish I had seen it.
It’s a violent movie. I don’t know why we’re allowed to watch it. Maybe because it’s funny-violent. Heads flying off, swords slicing off arms, ha ha ha. A slapstick of splattering blood. I don’t care for that stuff. Yet I’m drawn to it because of the lead, played by Uma Thurman. The lead is a sweat-soaked, nostril-pumping character named Bride. She kills her former colleagues and her former boss and lover, Bill (played by David Carradine), who tried to kill her in the past.
Before Bill dies, they forgive each other. I laugh out loud when I figure it out. Bride. The granny rapist next to me shouts to “shut the fuck up” and I shut the fuck up because I suddenly don’t feel like laughing at all.
“She was so beautiful in it, wasn’t she?” Em says. “I watched that movie after a difficult breakup and it really helped.”
“You said you’ve never been in love.”
“That’s right. I wasn’t in love. I was just annoyed at having been dumped. That’s all.” She shifts in her chair. Yawns. Raises her arms quickly to stretch, shakes her head at the guard who starts walking up to us. “Everything okay?”
The guard likes her, I can tell. The guard looks like one of those guys in PUA basements. I can tell he’s having trouble getting women. I can picture him sweating discreetly, trying to impress her, listing his accomplishments. He enjoys going to the movies. He peaked in high school.
“Everything’s okay,” she says softly.
(When I first sat down, I watched her closely. I assumed this was her first time in a prison visiting room. I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. I had words of support ready: Just pretend this is a movie. But her face was all indifference behind black-framed glasses. What kind of person isn’t anxious about visiting prison for the first time? At the other end of the room, an inmate lunged at the woman sitting opposite him. The guards shouted, swarmed the table. He didn’t fight the guards. They walked him out of the room. Em took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with her sleeve.)