If He Hollers, Let Him Go

by Beth Harden

  “So he didn’t really do anything serious then, you’re saying. Nothing that would warrant a termination from his job,” I state.

  She looks at me dumbfounded. I see the territorial lines being drawn like the heavy window treatments that hang from thick rods and are yanked by ropes over the wall of glass to close out sunlight and winter cold. It’s teacher against counselor and I’m on her turf now.

  “I dunno about that,” she says. “It’s damn serious business to me. Besides, I gave him a direct order and he disobeyed it.”

  “Mr. Pisano can't take a lot of over-stimulation like excessive noise or someone shouting at him. It’s a known fact. You can’t bombard his senses all at once. You have to come at him slowly and patiently.” She scowls her disapproval, turns her back on me and begins to straighten up the disheveled piles of paper.

  “I don't have time to pussy-foot with these guys. This isn't summer camp, you know?” she snips. Not a thank you for the heroic hustle to ward off an attack and spare her post-menopausal skin.

  “I still don’t understand, though. You and Tommy Pisano had a beef. How did this gentleman got involved?” I ask.

  “My peer mentors were still in the room cleaning up when this exchange happened. Mr. Eaton here, he said something to Mr. Pisano about being crazy like, ‘All your chairs ain’t pushed up to the table’. And Pisano punched him twice in the head so hard it took him off his feet and he fell onto the desk. He was ready to stomp his head to pieces if the others hadn’t pulled him off. Before I could call anybody, he ran off down the hall.”

  I want to doubt her. After all, there is no evidence to prove anything and no suspect; but I don't need eyewitnesses to confirm his guilt. Tommy has been demanding for weeks that he be moved back up to a Level 4 facility where he can be housed alone, not surrounded by a dormitory full of douche bags. What else is a feeble-minded, enraged simpleton supposed to do when the world gangs up and hands you a bogus deal? Pisano has two speeds: on and more on. Mr. Pisano’s outbursts are predictable and ironically endearing much like a naughty child that needs to be hugged and spanked at the same time. He simply wasn’t organically equipped to live in close quarters with his fellow human beings.

  Sadly, Pisano has just gotten his wish. If the system wouldn’t listen to his cries for help, then he’d help himself up out of here the best way he knew how. The dead silence awaiting him in the solitary lock-up will suit him just fine. People were the problem, people like this dim-witted shrew that didn’t have the smarts or the interest to try and understand his limitations and chose to come at him like he was some primitive brute to be chained and humiliated. People like her were half the reason that this man would eventually blast off and bludgeon someone. I accept the fact that prison is the only outcome for someone like Pisano who does not have the skills to live outside the walls for long. If he does leave, it is only a matter of time before he’s back in Admitting & Processing bagging up his empty wallet and shoe strings and heading to the showers again.

  #

  Later, I sit at my desk and try to define the measure of sadness that seems to have seeped in to my being. People keep leaving my life without those vital words of closure, no final I wish-you-wells. Pisano is just one more name on the list of people I have vested myself in that will drop off into oblivion. Columbus screwed up somewhere. The world must be flat because one step out over my horizon and they are completely gone. There is no coming back. It’s a persistent feeling with me, this longing for the missing. It started way back when young Lissa Braum abruptly departed while I slept, leaving me to befriend her imposter. Though we’d learned to get comfortable with one another over time, neither one of us trusted the other.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  James steps into to the small office. His head almost brushes the bottom of the mounted wall fan that’s gyrating on loose screws and blowing hot air down his back. He has not given up on trying to maximize the friend definition, redefining and stretching it to get the most mileage out of our relationship as he possibly can. We’ve seen each other a few more time since the evening I repaid his favor with a healthy round of kisses. It’s been safe things like taking a walk on a dusky park trail and coffee in a late afternoon café, benign activities that sidestep the slippery slope of commitment.

  “I’m okay,” I reply solemnly.

  “Heard about the fight down at the school,” he says. “I’m not surprised you were the first to lend aid to the other guy. Being the kind hug-a-thug that you are.”

  I look up from my keyboard and smile. No matter how hard he tries to convert me to his agnostic ways, I will remain my convicted self.

  “You’re telling me you wouldn’t help a person who is down and injured? Isn’t that a normal reaction we all should have?” I ask him.

  “Not if it was an inmate. And certainly not without gloves on. You should have had yours with you, Elise. You could catch a host of diseases doing that. I worry about you, you know that. I hope you washed up well and sanitized your hands.”

  “I promise to be careful. When a crisis hits, my mind just jumps into auto-pilot. Instincts take over, you know what I mean? I can’t help it,” I confess.

  James crosses the few feet between the doorway and my desk. A tall bookcase filled with curriculum manuals hugs the corner wall by the bulky air conditioner that leaks air out in the summer and in during the winter. There is little room to maneuver in this tight space that already holds two desks, two chairs, two printers, a pair of waste baskets and boxes for shredding. Add in the solitary scanner and it’s pretty apparent that this spot was not designed for social calls from a six-foot two-inch friend.

  “I wouldn’t want you to be any other way. Your sweetness came as a complete surprise to skeptical me. I have come to believe that like you, reality can be surprisingly beautiful.”

  A flush radiates down the sides and front of my neck. My scalp prickles with heat. An ill-defined longing creates an ache in my core. James reads something in my hesitancy to respond and places his warm hand on my wrist.

  “What’s wrong, Elise?” he asks with concern. I shake my head as tears well into view. The sight of blood, the shrieks for help and the pitiful treatment of human beings one to another is all too much. People say this prison has a unique darkness. Even when the sun is out and flooding the nearby fields, it shines differently on this place, as if the walls suck in all the vitamin sunshine and reflect only a yawning weariness. Souls have departed here; not just the sick and elderly prisoners who perish waiting for parole or a pardon, but others who have sat in the hot seat or had hell’s potion injected into their bloodstream. A sense of anguish and gloom is ever present. The sucking need and the overload of negative gravity that can break men down. The weightiness of it all is just too much at this moment.

  “Hey, how about tonight?” he asks. “Can I come be with you?”

  “What did you decide at home?” I whisper. My voice is feeble and hoarse.

  “I work a double today. I’ll swing by after second shift and you can tell me what is bothering you. Okay?”

  I nod ever so slightly without looking him directly in the eyes. My brain is trying to overrule a heart gone haywire, but it is still feeble in its formation of systematic stop-gaps. A trembling ripples out from the center like a seismic quake moving old plates of soil and a layered past, building in intensity as it moves away from the original schism that parted my soul into two disjointed fragments – the before and after me.

  CHAPTER 12: ARM’S LENGTH

  James steps tentatively into the foyer and carefully wipes the soles of his boots on the mat by the door, as if he can scrape away the filth of the last sixteen hours that still clings to him. He looks tired and hasn’t had time to change.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink?” I ask.

  “Thanks, I’m all set. I took my dinner break on the late side,” James replies.

  “Well, come in then,” I say and wave him in towards the interior. He sm
iles sheepishly, scoots around me and takes a safe seat in the solitary captain’s chair in the dining room. He’s still wearing his utility belt with cuffs and chits that rattles against the wooden slats as he stands back up and reaches to undo the cumbersome buckle. An unfamiliar awkwardness arrived at the door with him. This unease is not resolved in words. We both know he didn’t come here to talk.

  The belt slides to the floor with the weight of its accessories. James leans down to pick it up but my hand on the top button of his trousers stops him. He looks up at me puzzled, trying to decipher any mixed messages. The tug and purr of his zipper being lowered ever so slowly makes it very clear. No time for indecision or change of heart. He stumbles slightly as I take his hand and start to lead him back towards the comfort of my room. His pants begin to slide down but he hooks a belt loop with his free hand and does a little shuffle and slide down the hardwood floor in the hallway. Once seated on the edge of the queen bed, he reacts quickly and frees his feet from the clumsy work boots that are holding up everything else. He strips down to his bulging briefs and extends his arms in an eager invitation.

  I shed my shirt and any former apprehension about committing cardinal sins along with it. The silk blouse slithers off my arms and onto the floor. I step closer. James reaches around behind my back and deftly unhooks the bra, pushing the buckled undergarment up over my sternum in his eagerness to mold and form the breasts under his cupped hands. They are fuller and rounder than he imagined, I’ll bet. He whips back the quilted covers, pulls me onto the sheets beside him and smothers me with his teen boy body. His mouth covers mine, tongue parting and then prying open tight teeth. He touches everything, everywhere like a child set loose in a novelty store, so many alluring playthings that he wants but can’t choose from. His fists are in my hair gently smoothing and tugging. He licks my earlobes and my cheeks. A consuming weight of warmth presses me down and wraps me up. I reach up to embrace him but he pushes my hands away, pinning my arms back down. My pulse takes off at a gallop. I can only catch shallow little gulps of air. Flight or fight. Free yourself, screams my adrenal gland. I take a deep breath and resist the impulse to tag out and flee. James seems to sense the internal tension building below. He takes it as a sign to continue with more fervor. Calm down! This is your choice. There is no going back now and neither of us wants to.

  He means to ravish me completely and attends to this purpose with a maniacal attention to detail. I lie still and allow the physical worship to continue uninterrupted. James is up on his elbows now with his feet close together like a human tripod. The protrusion in his briefs presses with increased determination and force against the fabric of my panties. Someone is moaning. Someone else is breathing in rapid gasps. He lowers back down and moves with his mouth, leaving a trail of slick saliva as he migrates slowly southward over smooth terrain. At certain stops, he lingers. He is an experienced traveler that knows where he is headed and how to pace his movements. Finally his cheek comes to rest on my left thigh and his legs ensnarl with my feet. Again I reach down to touch him and he again he pushes my advances away, intent on pitching camp without distraction. I rest my palm on the top of his head and comb my fingers through his curls. Relax. Don’t flinch. Hold still. He toys with the elastic that holds my panties tight in the crease between thigh and pelvis. He defies the resistant nylon and lifts my bikini bottom up and slightly over. The peek at pink flesh excites him. He pushes the panties to one side by increased increments until there is nothing left to cover the budding rose petals underneath. Beyond them, a wet steaming playground where he rushes to play with abandon and then takes me along with him, pushing me higher and higher until I launch up and out with limbs splayed and mouth wide open. There’s that one split-second sensation in the drop of my stomach and then I’m falling feet first into a perfect landing; again and then once more until we’re both too tired to play a minute more.

  “Why are you crying, sweetie?” James asks. He is confused by this response to his lovemaking.

  “Don’t worry. It’s all good,” I say, reassuringly. I’m weeping over nothing, over everything but it is only healthy feelings springing back to life. The destructed nerves have been partially fused back together. I cannot find an explanation to accompany these emotions as he might want me to. Those words are buried so deep no man will ever find them. Only one man ever did. James doesn’t ask again; instead, he draws me against his side and rocks me ever so gently.

  “I loved that,” James says sleepily. The energy has gone out of him. I can feel his muscles slack and jerk as he succumbs to the sleep he so badly needs. There are questions pressing into my view, thoughts of a worried wife burning up their family minutes trying to track him down. Am I a mistress? Is this an affair? Does it matter? I have staked my claim. He is with me now. I listen to him take shallow sips of air and then release it in lengthy drawls. I hold my breath waiting for something to go wrong, but the night carries on with the subtle trill of peepers and the rustle of poplars in the breeze. The thoughts I am happiest about having are the ones that come to me in contented silence and are never spoken. Better that the heart be without words than my words lack heart like the ‘I (almost) love you’ that stays cuddled in my craw for another time and place.

  #

  “Time to say goodbye to this greasy fat fuck,” announces Dent. He looks ten pounds lighter today though he claims no change in his honey-bun diet. It suddenly occurs to me what the difference is. The weight of oppression has just been lifted. A man stands far taller when he’s facing freedom.

  “What up, man?” asks Noble. “You bouncin’?”

  “I e.o.s. tomorrow,” replies Dent. End of sentence. Finit. As of midnight he will officially be on Ex-Offender Status.

  “Congrats, man,” says Serge with the slight reservation that those who must remain behind always feel. For some, the sight of a bunkie heading to Property for his departing photo is often just too much. It’s not uncommon for envy to erupt into a provocation to fight as a feeble attempt to sabotage their comrade.

  “What about you, dude?” asks Dent. “You gonna get outta here any time soon or are they rollin’ you out in the casket?” Zimmer laughs his dry wheeze and self-deprecating chuckle.

  “They want to send me to inpatient. But how the hell am I gonna get my hands on some real chicken parm in rehab?” he says.

  “You like Italian food?” asks Serge.

  “Shit, yeah,” answers Zimmer.

  “You come see me, my friend. Down in Manhattan. We’ll hook you up with the best pollo cazzo in New York. The country for that matter.”

  “Pollo cazzo. Does that have red or white sauce?” asks Zimmer.

  “Translation: best fucking chicken, my friend. Family recipe.”

  “You mean family as in your Mamma or as in Mafia? You wrapped up in organized crime, hit men and all that Godfather shit?” says Zimmer.

  “Let’s just say, ladies, I was involved,” Sergio confesses with a wink.

  #

  I keep looking at the clock and wondering what’s going on in the airtight conference room in the back of the visiting room where the parole hearings are held. It’s been over two hours now and no sign of our resident gadabout. I’d know it if he’d come back to the unit; a buzz of chatter follows him everywhere. This morning he was up at daybreak fixing his limp hair and penciling in his eyebrows with a nub of charcoal pencil. Despite several postponements, Gemini finally has his chance to sit before the Board. After twelve long years of preparation, he’s beyond ready. The man has been voracious in digesting every sweet opportunity to add to positives accomplishments to his portfolio. And in truth, all of what it contains is pure fact.

  I’m busy printing off time sheets when Gemini stamps back into the block, flings his pass on the floor, storms down the steps and into his cell, demanding that the officer lock him up immediately.

  “Don’t lock it yet,” I yell the block officer as I hustle down after him. By the time I reach his bottom cell, Gemini is
already face down on the bunk blubbering. He has the privilege of a single cell given his sexual vulnerability, so crying is definitely an option in here

  “What happened? Gemini, tell me what happened in there,” I say. “C’mon, hon. Get up and talk to me.”

  He finally obliges, rolls off the mattress pad and comes to the doorway. His face is blotchy and flushed pink. One of the penciled-in eyebrows has been wiped off on the pillowcase.

  “I showed them everything, Counselor. All my certificates, program completions and the college degree. Not only that, I told them all about the volunteer time I’ve put in. You think it counted for anything? No fucking way.”

  “What about the other thing?” I ask. And yes, he had saved the best proof for last, pulling out the meritorious award he received for saving the life of his vocational instructor when the maintenance supervisor inadvertently came into contact with a live wire and was being electrocuted. Gemini used a broom to knock the man down, breaking the current that had paralyzed his muscles and rendered him unconscious, then performed chest compressions until help arrived.

  The Board members listened carefully while rifling through the copies they had in front of them for review. Mrs. Tilton, the chair of the proceedings was an elegant but aloof white woman who seemed to take special interest in his story. When the interview was over, she asked Gemini to leave the room so that they could confer on their decision. Forty-five minutes later, he was summoned back in.

  “Mr. Briggs. We have come to a conclusion on the matter of your Parole,” announced Ms. Tilton with perfect diction. “And I will allow you…” There was a significant pause, during which Gemini crossed and uncrossed his legs, wet his lips and leaned forward with anticipation. “…to serve out the remainder of your sentence within the Hazen penitentiary.” The words were sharp and snapped with indifference. It took him several minutes to comprehend what she had just said and the cruelty of it. Jumping to his feet, Gemini looked the Parole Chairman in the eye and gave his own closing statement.