Sleepers

Marlboro lit a fresh cigarette with the back end of a smolder between his fingers, tossed the old one over the side and swallowed a mouth of smoke.

'Rizzo was my friend,' Marlboro said. 'I didn't have a piece of what went down.'

'Didn't break your ass to stop it,' I said.

'Look around, son,' Marlboro said, cigarette clenched between his teeth, veins thick on his bulky arms. 'You see a lot of other nigger guards around here?'

'Guards is all I see around here,' I said.

'I got me a good job,' Marlboro said. 'Work is steady. Pension, if I make it, a good one. Vacation and holidays are paid and every other weekend belongs to me and my lady.'

'And it keeps you in cigarettes,' I said.

'I hate what they do to you and the other boys,' Marlboro said, cigarette out of his mouth, sadness etched across the stark contours of his face. 'Hate what they did to Rizzo. That boy was blood to me. But there ain't nothin' I can do. Nothin' I can say gonna change this place.'

I put the mop back into the pail and ran it through the ringer, hands on the top end of the handle, eyes on Marlboro.

'You ever hit a kid?' I asked.

'Never,' Marlboro said. 'Never will. Don't get me wrong. There's some mean sons of bitches in here could take a beatin.' But it ain't what I do. Ain't part of the job. Least not the job I took.'

'How do the other guards feel about you?'

'I'm a nigger to them,' Marlboro said. 'They probably think I'm no better than any of you. Maybe worse.'

'They always been like this?'

'Since I been here,' Marlboro said. 'Goin' on three years come this June.'

'How about you and Nokes?' I asked.

'I do my work and keep my distance,' Marlboro said. 'He does the same.'

'What's the deal?' I said.

'Same as the others,' Marlboro said. 'They don't like who they are. They don't like where they are.'

'There's lots of people like that,' I said. 'Where I live, every man I know feels that way. But they don't go around doing the shit Nokes and his crew pull.'

'Maybe they different kind of men,' Marlboro said. 'Nokes and his boys, they ain't seen much of life and what they seen they don't like. You grow up like that, most times, you grow up feelin' empty. And that's what they are. Empty. Nothin' inside. Nothin' out.'

'What about the warden?' I asked, leaning the mop handle against the rail. 'The people on his staff. They've got to know what goes on.'

'But they act like they don't,' Marlboro said, taking still another drag. 'Same as the town folk. Nobody wants to know. What happens to you don't touch them.'

'So they dummy up,' I said.

'That's the jump,' Marlboro said. 'And don't forget, from where those folks stand, you the bad guys. Nokes and his boys, they ain't gonna break into people's homes. Ain't gonna hold 'em up at gun point. You the guys pull that shit. That's why you here to begin with. So, don't expect no tears. To them that's free, you belong inside.'

'You've got all the answers,' I said to Marlboro, pushing the water pail further down the center of the floor.

'If I did I wouldn't need a state check every two weeks,' he said. 'I just know what I know.'

'I've got to finish up,' I said, pointing down to the rest of the corridor.

'And I gotta get me some more cigarettes,' Marlboro said. 'That give us both somethin' to do.'

He moved away with a wave, a snap to his walk, his baton slapping against the railing bars. A small pattern of crushed cigarette butts lay in the spot where he had stood.

'You know there's no smoking on the tiers?' I shouted after him.

'What they gonna do?' Marlboro turned to face me, a grin spread across his face. 'Arrest me?'

EIGHT

My hands were folded behind my head, resting against my pillow, a thin sheet raised to my chin. It was late on a Saturday night, one week after Valentine's Day. Outside, heavy snow fell, white flakes pounding the thick glass. I was fighting a cold, my nose stuffed, my eyes watery, a wad of toilet paper bunched in my right hand. My throat was raw and it hurt to swallow.

I thought about my mother, wishing I had a cup of her ricotta to take away the aches and chills. She would fill a large pot with water and set it to boil, throw in three sliced apples and lemons, two tea bags, two spoonfuls of honey and a half glass of Italian whiskey. She boiled everything down until the contents were just enough to fill a large coffee cup.

'Put this on,' she would say, handing me the heaviest sweater we owned. 'And drink this down. Now. While it's hot.'

'Sweat everything right outta you,' my father would say, standing behind her. 'Better than penicillin. Cheaper too.'

I tried to sleep, closing my eyes to the noises coming from outside my cell. I willed myself back to my Hell's Kitchen apartment, sipping my mother's witches' brew, watching her smile when I handed her back an empty cup. But I was too tense and too sick to find rest.

A number of the inmates, as tough as they acted during the day, would often cry themselves to sleep at night, their wails creeping through the cell walls like ghostly pleas.

There were other cries too.

These differed from those filled with fear and loneliness. They were lower and muffled, the sounds of pained anguish, raw cries that begged for escape, for a freedom that never came.

Those cries can be heard through the thickest walls. They can cut through concrete and skin and reach deep into the dark parts of a lost boy's soul. They are cries that change the course of a life, that trample innocence and snuff out goodness.

They are cries that once heard can never be erased from memory.

On this winter night, those cries belonged to my friend John.

The darkness of my cell covered me like a mask, my eyes searching the night, waiting for the shouts to die down, praying for morning sun. I sat up in my cot, curled in a corner, wiped sweat from my upper lip and cleaned my nose with the toilet paper. I shut my eyes and capped both hands over my ears, rocking back and forth, my back slapping against the cold wall behind me.

The door to my cell swung open, thick light filtering in, outside noise coming in on a wave. Ferguson stood in the doorway, beer bottle in one hand, baton in the other. He had a two day growth of beard on his face and his thin head of hair looked oily and in need of a wash. His heavy eyelids always gave him a sleepy appearance and the skin around his thin lips was chapped, a small row of pimples forming at the edges.

'I just fucked your little friend,' he said, his speech slurred, his body swaying.

He took three steps into the cell.

I rolled off the cot and stood across from him, my eyes on his, toilet paper still in my hand.

'Take your clothes off,' Ferguson said, moving the beer bottle to his lips. 'Then get back in bed. I wanna play with you for awhile.'

'No,' I said.

'What was that?' Ferguson asked, taking the bottle away from his face, smiling, his head at half-tilt. 'What did you say to me?'

'No,' I said. 'I'm not taking my clothes off and I'm not gettin' into bed.'

Ferguson moved closer, his feet sliding across the hard floor.

'You know what you need?' he said, smile still on his face. 'You need a drink. Loosen you up a little. So, have your drink. Then, we'll play.'

He lifted the beer bottle above my head and emptied it. Streams of cold beer ran down my face and shirt, my mouth and eyes closed to the flow, puddles forming around my feet. Ferguson wiped the beer from my face with the fingers of his hand.

He put his fingers in his mouth and licked them dry.

'There's all kinds of ways to drink beer,' he said, throwing the bottle on my cot. 'And there's all kind of ways to fuck.'

Ferguson threw his baton on the cot and watched it land inches from the bottle. He turned back to me and undid the buckle on his belt and lowered the zipper of his pants with one hand.