If He Hollers, Let Him Go

by Beth Harden

  “I want you to concentrate, that’s all. This is important shit,” I say. James is amused and keeps his eyes trained on my face as he throws back his drink. I flip my hair over my shoulder and wait for his answer.

  “Why limit ourselves at such a young age when we’re given a lifetime?” he asks.

  “So, why did you? You’re the one that’s married,” I reply.

  “I think marriage is a cultural concept that came about to promote control. The rules that govern marriage were drafted up by priests because they weren’t getting any.”

  “What I’m hearing is that you are in an unhappy marriage and are trying to justify relationships outside of it. This isn’t a new concept, Hastings. Nearly every guy in the Department already subscribes to this rationalization.”

  “You’re drunk,” he says with a smile.

  “So be it!” I say a bit defensively, but it’s true. My last ‘excuse me/ pardon me’ wobble to the ladies room had me thinking these old Revolutionary-era floors were warped with age; but come to find out, it was my off-kilter footing knocking purses off of chair backs.

  “Let’s keep it real, as they say. Tell me, then. Are you happily married?” I ask.

  “I don’t honestly know. I guess,” he answers.

  “But…?

  “But we don’t really connect on any important level anymore. Maybe we never did.”

  “How long have you been married, James?” I grasp the stem of my glass and swish its contents in small concentric circles before downing the last of it.

  “Eleven years. I was twenty-six when we tied the knot.”

  “Maybe it’s unrealistic to expect the male species to be faithful for life. I mean, whose big idea was that anyhow? Betty Crocker? The Pope?” I stammer. He’s clearly getting a kick out of my irreverent lack of filter.

  “You think that only applies to men?” he asks.

  “Yes. I’ve been with my significant other since I was twenty-two. Practically forever. We’re inseparable,” I profess. “Here, let me introduce you two.” James looks nervously over his shoulder as if he can feel the torch eye of a laser burning through his spinal column and knows he’s in the range of a jealous boyfriend. He turns back, puzzled when I hold out my right hand.

  “Well, say hello!” I giggle. He’s clearly confused for a few seconds and then it dawns on him and he bangs on the bar and spits alcohol on his shirt. This genuine, stress-releasing laughter is a side of James I rarely have a chance to observe. He clears his throat, takes the cocktail napkin, sponges off the spot on his front and orders another round.

  “I didn’t expect that to come out of such a classy gal,” he says. Two mint mojitos arrive and disappear in short order. The conversation wends its way to sports. I am surprised to learn that he doesn’t know crap about tennis. He can’t believe that I still can regularly rack up a 186 on the ten-pin lane. He’s afraid of rip tides and can’t stand the feel of dried salt on his skin. He doesn’t believe that I can barefoot ski over surf and have snorkeled with barracudas. He is an only child from a stuffed-shirt family in Westchester County, New York. I claim bragging rights to my roots as a red-neck clam-digger whose closest neighbor lived in a refurbished school bus. He adheres to a strict diet of high-quality meat and vegetables. No sugars, dairy or carbohydrates. I say, Why do you think God put potato chips on the earth? He can run a 5k in twenty-two minutes. I can throw a perfect spiral about sixty yards. He swears by a John Deere ride-on and I say it does a shit job compared to a push mower. He thinks Obama is a “high-yeller” catering to the old, white Republicans. I say he’s a great orator but I don’t believe in the two-party system. James doesn’t believe in God. I do. We have absolutely nothing in common, which is the instant glue that keeps us bantering and debating for another few hours before he grabs my hand and says, let’s go. We take a cab from Beacon Street to a club with dueling pianos and Dee-jays and a throng of young people dancing in groups. The girls sport towering heels and short skirts with hems that just clear the last wrinkle of flesh on their rear-ends. God forbid one of them drops her lipstick and has to bend over to retrieve it. I suddenly feel a bit dated, but James reads my reluctance and draws me in towards the crowd.

  We dance to Drake, separating to improvise a little freelance footwork then waltzing back to the middle to do a dirty little bump and grind. In between sets we reclaim our bar stools, fan the sweat from our necks with menus and take shots of Patron. At two o’clock a.m., we stumble out the door and flag a cab to South Station. My date looks out the left-side window. There’s a space of seat between us but the constant jostling of the taxi over rough asphalt and neglected frost heaves works us by inches towards the middle. At one particularly bad break in the pavement, James throws out a palm to steady his balance and grabs my knee instead. Or is it an intended breach in etiquette to get the ball rolling? Either way, I don’t ask him to move it. Once on the train, the steady metronome of the rails lulls us into a silence. My head rests on his chest; his arm is thrown around my shoulder. We both stare sleepily at the row houses and the dark parks and the flat marshes that tick by. James is suddenly tapping my arm to rouse me.

  “It’s our stop, Elise. C’mon, gal,” he urges. I struggle up from my nap and follow his lead down the steps and out of the steamy heat of the coach. There is something so adolescent and touching about his rough hand encircling mine as we walk back towards the two lone vehicles left in the commuter lot, both cozied up by the corner of the dumpster. I turn to thank him, assuming we are parting ways.

  “Uh-uh. There’s no way you’re in any condition to drive, Elise,” he says, admonishing my foolhardy attempt to force my trunk key into the driver’s side door.

  “Neither are you,” I say.

  “Yeah, true. But I have a badge and a gun that can talk us out of trouble should we get pulled over. C’mon. I’ll take you home and we’ll get your car tomorrow.” I accept the leg-up onto the saddle of this work horse Ford. My flowing gauze skirt gets wrapped around the gearshift momentarily. James carefully disengages the fabric and tucks it back under my thigh but leaves his warm hand tucked beneath as he drives judiciously by way of back roads to Brigham. I don’t question his sense of direction, but then it occurs to me that he seems to know where he’s going.

  “How do you know where I live?” I mumble.

  “There’s a lot I know about you that you don’t know I know,” he replies.

  “That sentence was all fucked up. Or maybe I am. Anyway, I had such a good time tonight, James. Thank you for the wonderful evening and for paying for my hangover.” He smiles, withdraws his hand from its nesting place and lays it on the top of my thigh.

  “My pleasure, beautiful,” he whispers. “You lean back and relax. I promise to get you home safely.” The next thing I recall is being lifted up by a very strong man and carried to the front steps of my house, then set down so he can fumble through my purse for a house key. The dogs are throwing themselves against the door. My mind clears instantly and the fog of this fantasy dissipates. As he unlocks the dead-bolt, I step around him and in the door first so I can calm the animals with a quick command. They drop to the rug in an ever-ready crouch with their keen eyes tracing every move this stranger makes.

  “I’d like to give you a goodnight kiss without an audience. May I?” James asks, almost shyly. I laugh, open the side door and usher his antagonists out onto the screened porch.

  “Here,” I say, lifting onto the balls of my feet with the intention of planting a kiss on my date’s chin. That’s as high as I can reach, but I’ve miscalculated the physics of passion that are already at play. The velocity of his desire has brought his mouth down to the dip at the base of my throat. I start to topple backwards, but James reaches out quickly and pulls me against him

  “Wait!” I whisper. “You didn’t specify what kind of kiss.”

  “Whatever kind you’re offering,” he says coyly.

  “This kind,” I reply. My tongue is quickly and fully entwined with
his. I have a clear sensation of déjà vu though this scene has never been played out before and certainly not with this man. He begins to slip his hands up the curve of my waist.

  “Hold on, James. I don’t want to cause trouble in your family. You know I’m not that kind of person, right?” As expected, the introduction of reality tempers the impulses and dampens the dream. He releases me and drops his head.

  “I do know that, Elise. Neither am I.”

  “Okay, then can I trust you to put me to bed?” I say. “I think all that liquid courage has got the best of me.” James leads me back to the bedroom where he very gently helps me slide my fully-clothed body under the cotton bedspread. He hands me a tumbler of water to drink and tenderly lifts the hairbrush from the night stand and runs it through my damp, tangled hair. I drink deeply and place the glass on the table.

  “Don’t misunderstand. I like you, James,” I say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw from cheek to temple. The look in his eyes has shifted like a dog whose initial crazy abandon at first sight has settled into the calm reassurance that its owner won’t be leaving again soon. He responds by touching his finger to the faded crease that mars the surface skin of my cheek and ends in a dimpled lump at the corner of my mouth.

  “Childhood accident, huh? Bike maybe?”

  “Something like that,” I reply, hoping he’ll be content with the mystery in this ambiguous response.

  “Poor girl,” he whispers. “I think I love you.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re drunk, my good man.”

  “Which if true, means I’m probably telling the truth,” he says, grinning.

  “Or you’re just another scuz-ball talking up a good line.”

  “I don’t want to talk at all,” he replies.

  “Then you may kiss me just once. As a friend, of course,” I tease. Delight courses through his body as I reach up and pull him firmly down on the mattress beside me. His hands stay above-board, running over the bulky outline of the bed linens like a blind man who must imagine the shape of the curves and crevices with his fingertips. Our mouths connect and explore one another cautiously. The act of restraint is intensely exciting, as if I am once again a lusty teen in the grip of arousal on the straw mattress in the top shed with my parents only steps away from discovery.

  When I awake an hour later, James is still there rocking me slightly back and forth like a child he doesn’t want to wake or ever see grow up. The next time I open my eyes, it is to a powerful hunger and a full sun spreading across the pine board floors. And he is gone.

  CHAPTER 8: STAND CHOW

  It’s not a job most would volunteer for. I mean, who wants to watch two hundred men at a time file in and out of a cafeteria room for a twenty-minute feeding? Much like a livestock auction, the specimens are paraded by. Staff including counselors, teachers, even the elderly principal line the walls along the mainline with arms folded and feet splayed in a ready stance. Most of them are shooting the crap about the past weekend’s antics and paying little mind to the various breeds on display. For their part, the prisoners assume a multitude of poses as they ramble on. Some hang their heads, look straight down and shuffle nervous feet; others stare and throw their heads back in defiance. A little balking is tolerated but straight-up disobedience will earn them a prod from the cap stun dispenser. A few stop to impress the counselors with their newfound conversion which overtook them in Sunday chapel, the same salvation they accepted last bid and the one before. Nobody’s buying. Some of the best looking men I’ve ever seen walk these corridors. Sometimes I think maybe in another time, under different circumstances but then I quickly squash that notion. You never know what you’re getting until the deal is done and you lead the rangy buckskin out of the corral on a knotted rope only to discover he’s got foot thrush and strangles. Each man makes his way to the stainless steel counter, accepts his tray of slimy mystery meat and metallic-tasting macaroni salad, and then quickly claims a seat with arms huddled over his plate like a mutt guarding his bowl. Any time there is mass movement, the element of danger increases. The chow hall poses a particular problem for officers despite the effort to limit the mix of multiple units. Time and efficiency dictate that the two adjacent cafeterias be filled to capacity and cleared out in a systematic manner. The inmates are wary. Chow is one of the best times to carry out a hit or exact a quick shot of retaliation. The officers are outnumbered thirty to one at best. The bustle of big bodies getting up and down gives inmates ample time to pass kites of cryptic code messages from one gang member to another. Though no one likes to admit it, the only reason we get to leave here and go home to our families at the end of a shift is because the inmates allow us to. It would be nothing for them to take over a block.

  The counselors are staggered along the four walls at intervals. We’ve been recruited by the Warden to join our brethren in blue as extra sets of seeing eyes. So we watch and wait and the inmates watch us. Like a middle-school staring contest, each one waits for the other to blink. Last year a mouthy counselor who regularly insulted the men in his caseload was sitting on top of one of the chrome tables with hands in his pockets gabbing with his boys. Minutes after E-block was ushered into the chow hall, an inmate with a grudge punched him violently off his perch and repeatedly pounded his head against the concrete wall. While the seriously injured counselor was heralded as a hero when he returned to work, everyone knew that it was premeditated payback on an asshole.

  I claim my spot along the inside wall facing the windows to the north. The floors are a peculiar manure brown tile (a color that was likely discontinued before I was born) and carry a film of grease that cannot be dispelled. We keep a special watch out for the ’slip-and-fall’ inmates who fake an injury and instantly run to the phone to call their attorneys. A steel railing runs parallel to the walls and effectively forms a cattle chute that separates the animals from the herders. I nod and say an occasional hello, more to separate myself from the overtly hostile majority than to be courteous. If shit goes down in here, I’m betting on the fact that these guys in their hurry for revenge may just brush by those who have been decent to them.

  The meal is uneventful for the first fifteen minutes; but suddenly there is an explosion of raised voices on the far side of the room. Two officers make a run in that direction and a scuffle begins. I leave my posted position and hurry over as a secondary responder. As I draw nearer, I recognize the irate convict. It’s Mr. Noble-I-Am on a full head of steam. He apparently has thrown down his tray and splattered his neighbor’s trouser leg with a clump of spaghetti and meatballs. The guy on the receiving end of the assaultive pasta has squared off in a boxing stance and is ready to go. I approach the skirmish.

  “I got it. I got this one,” I announce loudly. “What’s the problem here, Mr. Noble?” The man is a bull on a tether, inflamed by rage and intending to charge.

  “I said no fucking meatballs,” he yells.

  “Okay, okay. No meatballs,” I say, trying to placate him.

  “I don’t eat fucking pork. I’m a Muslim,” he seethes.

  “Muslim, my ass,” says his sparring partner. “I seen you eating pork rinds on your bunk.”

  “Fuck you, man!” shouts Noble, shaking off the officers who are trying to pin his arms in an escort position. “I asked for goddamn common fare. I’m a vegetarian. And they give me this shit!’

  “This can be corrected. Back down, Mr. Noble,” I order firmly. A code has been called in to Control. I can hear the crackling signal reception on the radio.

  “Hey brother, you’re good,” announces a fellow seated at the table to our far right. Mr. Zimmer is leaning back, assessing the situation with a quizzical grin. “These aren’t meatballs, anyway. It’s TVP. Textured vegetable protein. You don’t think the government would feed us real meat, do you?”

  “Huh?” Noble pauses to consider this information. His distrust of the system is greater than his distaste for the food. The slight moment of hesitation gives one guard time to p
in him up against the wall and mace him before he regains the momentum to overpower them. He continues to thrash and cough, then quietly succumbs to their orders as the mucus begins to flow from his eyes, nostrils and mouth. They cuff him and begin a rough pat-down in case he has any crudely-fashioned weapon in his pocket. Out comes an apple, two slices of bread, and a fistful of sugar packets. Bingo! They’ve got him now. Caught red-handed stealing the ingredients needed to ferment a batch of Pruno in his foot locker. In ten days’ time, they would have had a drunken brawl on their hands. As Noble continues to struggle, his shirt pulls out from under his elastic waist and out rolls a suspicious plastic cylinder. A rookie officer jumps to the rescue, believing he has just confiscated the rudimentary barrel of an intended bomb. He snaps up the object but stands foolishly holding a container of Adobo, the garlic-salt that can be ordered off commissary and is routinely shoved down prison briefs and bras in order to season the tasteless food.

  “Can I have that?” asks Zimmer. “These meatballs taste like shit.”

  The sheepish officer throws him the spice. Although Noble is the kind of guy that is on every teacher’s least wanted list, still it is sad to watch him get dragged from the room. This infraction will likely keep him sequestered in segregation long enough to miss out on the remaining groups. But in prison, nothing is guaranteed. Things can turn bad quickly. A promising morning can become a deadly day. It’s pass or fail and not much in between.

  #

  Wednesday is money day. The inmates start forming a pecking order around the time the sun makes its first attempt to squeeze through the rectangular slats of impenetrable glass. They need to make certain that Auntie So-and-So was fed enough guilt to go wire in some Western Union cash. Since they are not allowed to congregate near the officer’s post, they create an informal numbering system like a deli counter. This is serious business and any guy with balls big enough to circumvent the line might possibly get his cut. The name, Inmate Trust Account implies that some bleeding-heart philanthropist or wealthy relative bequeathed a large sum of money to their unfortunate kin. Ironically, there is absolutely no trust in the system they believe is shortchanging them for a pack of beef jerky or a bag of Skittles. It is pure capitalism within an undemocratic society. Those who have something have some clout. Money buys commissary and commissary equates to leveraging power. Guys with a full trunk of crap can buy friends and favors. Those that have next-to-nothing are indebted to everyone else. And just like our national welfare system, the indigent (or those who scam to be) are rewarded with free stuff and a shoe-in to a job. The one-dollar-and-thirty-five-cents-a-day salary bumps them quickly up the economic ladder. With that new position comes power and with power comes the entitlement to belittle those below. It’s the American way on the inside too.