Riots I Have Known
Page 12
I realize with surprise and a bit of shame that in the past six hours I have yet to get into the meat of my confession and official accounting of events, as they happened. The tête-à-têtes with Warden Gertjens over paper stocks. The lost “Portfolio” issue of prisoners’ drawings and sketches. Hell, my first week in New York City, freshly bribed visa in hand—courtesy of the Hilton Hotels advance man, true to his word—marveling at all the people, all the faces, all the loneliness.
Betsy’s now on Anderson Cooper 360°, the low resolution of her dashcam doing nothing to obscure her beauty, even now I must remark, despite my warring feelings about her traitorous past and traitorous present; I would not be surprised if she had stopped for a blowout before taking to the airwaves—though, if I am charitable, she has always had what women refer to as “great hair.”
She is telling Anderson, “Anderson, the story today is not about the security of our prisons, it’s about the security of our borders.” That old sawhorse. Now she’s courting the conservatives—they buy more books—and Anderson is wearing his usual stone face, always a pro, but he’s giving her extra time, this one’s a livewire and he knows it (such a pro), he’s forming a response when her feed cuts out. Now, the cell service up here is quite spotty, the screws carp about it constantly, it’s one of their top three complaints after the low pay and the postseason performance of the Buffalo Bills.
I’m not one for deathbed conversions, if I’m honest with myself I’m not one for much of anything; still, there is a frisson of karma, especially as it’s followed by a piercing exclamation from the south lawn, a guttural exhalation into a megaphone like a downshifting semi or a punk band’s blown-out amp. When I hopped up to the outside window to investigate the source, I could just make out a fistfight between the Appeals and the GSSR, a real bench-clearing brawl; the news crews loosened the grips on their tripods to swing their cameras around, one cameraman ran straight into the fracas with the self-sacrificing determination of a Navy SEAL. Kudos to WXHY, they alone intuited a medium shot was best—not too sensational, not too self-consciously framed. The rain doesn’t show up on air, but it’s really coming down, everybody’s doffing makeshift ponchos save for Bronwen Taylor, his white button-down stuck to his lean frame, the hem flapping around with the motion of his karate moves; I can’t determine the school or tradition. I would have thought the Cornell PhD student would be fighting back-to-back with Taylor, trading quips along the lines of “Looks like shit just got real,” but no, he leapt into the WXHY Action News Van, and—ah, I see, he’s crazed with revenge, some things you can tell by body language alone, even through the rain, even at a hundred yards. The Cornell PhD student careened through the Appeals’ base camp, doing very little to be what Ms. Hwang would call a considerate driver, I counted two bystanders and one craft-services table waylaid by his recklessness, his recklessness and speed—that Action News Van sure has some pep. Naturally he made a beeline for the Media Center; naturally the tower screws quickly shot out his tires. The van slowed to a crawl just outside the inner fence line, a most unenviable position; he opened the door, the screws volleyed a few lighthearted rounds at the mud, he closed the door. Then he pulled out his phone, he read something . . . and slumped down in resignation.
He never really had a chance, he must have known as we all must know, as old Lopez said that day in the yard. I don’t admit to feeling sympathy for the Cornell PhD student, perhaps just empathy—a big step forward for me, as Dr. Edwards would attest. The Cornell PhD student is boxed in, though perhaps not for long. His vehicular outburst broke the collective fever, and the two dozen state police are finally beginning their advance, with, I’m proud to say, a few of the Appeals in their wake. Everyone’s streaming into Times Square, it’s all riot shields, fog, and rainfall, maybe a few souvenirs for the fans.
Dear reader, I fear your digital entreaties (“Turn left! Turn left!”) will fall on deaf ears. The state police are in the middle of the scrum, in the middle and very outnumbered, I mustn’t entertain thoughts of rescue. No, it looks as though they’ve merely expedited my demise, the noise in the hallway’s picking up, including the return of that damn whistling. Looking past the computer monitor I can just make out the first wisps of black smoke. That can’t be a good sign. And yet, with this confirmation, the transition of theory into practice, one might say, outside of the Will and Edith Rosenberg Media Center for Journalistic Excellence in the Penal Arts, I find an unexpected calm about my present situation. Because me? I’m an optimist.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deep gratitude to Ira Silverberg and Marya Spence, for the rocket fuel; Justin Taylor, Scott Cheshire, and Will Chancellor, for the flashlight; Lashanda Anakwah and Clare Mao, for the assist; the Vermont Studio Center and the Millay Colony for the Arts, for the space; Paul S. Loeb, J. David Macey, Ann Putnam, and Steve Cwodzinski, for the wattage; and Summer Smith, for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© BEOWULF SHEEHAN
RYAN CHAPMAN is a Sri Lankan-American writer originally from Minneapolis, Minnesota. His work has appeared online at The New Yorker, GQ, Bookforum, BOMB, Guernica, and The Believer. He is a recipient of fellowships from Vermont Studio Center and the Millay Colony for the Arts. He lives in upstate New York. Riots I Have Known is his first novel.
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