Eureka Man: A Novel

by Patrick Middleton

  “Nah. I trust you. You know better than to play with my money.”

  Oliver hesitated and then said, “She won't even let me hold her with this fucking guy around. He's got to go, man.”

  “All right. I heard you.” Champ looked curiously at the calligraphy writing on the wall over Oliver's bed before he said, “I want to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “That meeting tonight. What'd you think?”

  “Man, I don't know. I don't think they can make that law retroactive.”

  “I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about how hyped up everybody got when we told them about all these changes that are coming down.”

  “Hell, everybody's frustrated, Champ, including me. But what can we do about it?”

  “Lot of people talking about making some noise.”

  “You can't blame them. They're making changes so fast, it's like they're asking for trouble. I don't know what good it's going to do to start a riot, though, if that's what you're talking about.”

  “Hey, don't put words in my mouth, Jack. I didn't say nothing about no riot. What would you do if they had one anyway, hide under the bed?” Champ giggled and Oliver smiled.

  “No. But I'd get the hell out of the way.”

  “You wouldn't get involved?”

  “For what? They wouldn't need me to help tear shit up, that's for sure.”

  “You're right. Keep your ass up in that school. Speaking of school, I saw you doing your homework tonight at that meeting.”

  “Nah, man, I was taking notes for a piece of satire I'm writing. About all this shit that's going on. I'm going to enter it in a literary contest over at the University. It might even get published.”

  “Satire? What the fuck's that?”

  “A literary technique. When you draw attention to a serious problem by suggesting some crazy ass solutions. And the beauty of it all is that the solutions aren't meant to be taken literally, so you can more or less say whatever you want to say.”

  “That's good. That's what we need.”

  “Yeah. I'll probably put it in the newsletter too. I'll let you read it when I'm finished. You want to catch a buzz while you're here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here. Light it up.”

  chapter fourteen

  ON MONDAY MORNING, pleased with his plans and armed with a four-page draft of parodies and diatribes, Oliver decided to check out the bakeshop before going to work. He turned right instead of left at the intersection of Tom's Way and Turk's Street and strolled past the chapel, the Young Guns Boxing Gym and the Free Yourself Law Library. Three yardworkers were cleaning up ice cream and candy wrappers along the sidewalks and between the buildings, while a chapel worker stood on a ladder washing the stained glass windows. Oliver watched a blood-red bird hop from limb to limb in the pear tree behind the chapel. When it flew away he looked up and saw a cloud ribbon swirling all the way across a pastel blue sky. It was a sight to behold, he thought. As were the clapboard buildings, the sidewalks that zigged and zagged, the shrubs and manicured flower beds, and the early morning silhouette of five boxers jogging around the courtyard. Why would anyone want to disturb this view? Except for a crack here, a chink there, everything in the prison was intact. There was no need to wonder if taking a wrecking ball to the joint would be a mistake.

  As he drew closer to the end of the street, he could smell the aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet sticky rolls in the breeze. When he arrived at the back door of the bakery, he called for Hambone whose albinism caused him to squint and blink perpetually as he opened the screen door and stared at Oliver in the bright morning sunlight. Hambone handed Oliver a warm bag of pastries, and Oliver dropped a fat joint into the palm of Hambone's hand.

  The rolls, smelling wonderfully, attracted the cat that lived under the steps. The cat jumped onto the landing, curled around Hambone's ankle and purred, though her eyes remained alert to predators-human and otherwise.

  “That's some good shit, Hambone,” Oliver said, eyeing the tufts of white hair above Hambone's red eyes. “A few tokes are all you need. See you around, my man.”

  He walked back up the street with no name and passed two storeroom workers who were unloading bags of potatoes from a beat-up Ford delivery truck parked beside the chapel. He always thought the chapel basement was a peculiar place for a potato cellar, though he imagined it was cool and dry down there. Over the years he had seen many shady characters coming and going from the cellar whenever he passed by. He had heard many loose stories about what went on down there, too-war stories; fist fights and who was triumphant; talks of trysts, interrogations and bondage. He pictured Fat Daddy pummeling some white boy on a stack of potato sacks while the born-agains were upstairs practicing “What A Friend We Have In Jesus” in flatted thirds and sevenths. And how those brothers could sing. Now that he thought about it, the born-agains could have been the source of inspiration for all the nefarious activities that went on down there.

  As he crossed Tom's Way, it and the side streets seemed to him as busy and noisy as ever for a Monday morning. Three of one-eyed Melvin's boys, five of Champ's, a couple of Homewood old heads, and three MOVE members dawdled on the corners, whispering among themselves. Oliver reassured himself with more force than confidence that all was well. Nothing he could put his fingernail under, just a gnawing sense of conspiracy. He had seen violence, been a part of it, had watched it up close when it was visited on others and felt it firsthand when it was visited on him. Meaning, if it came down to a riot, he knew that bodies would not just fall down, unmoving; they would be ripped apart, burned and pierced by men who took pride in that kind of work.

  Oliver saw Donnie Blossom waving at him as he was coming up the walkway. “Hi, Oliver. Mind if I walk with you?”

  “Nope, I don't mind. Where are you headed?”

  “The Arts and Crafts shop. I'm glad I ran into you. Those word problems are giving me a headache. I need some more one-on-one tutoring.”

  “I'd like to help you, Donnie, but today's out of the question. I've got an essay to finish this morning and a three-hour class this afternoon with Dr. Ray Garris, my psych professor. If you want, you can stop by my hut after supper.” Oliver liked Donnie, not because he was as beautiful and feminine as it was possible for a young man to be, but because he was smart and inquisitive; moreover, he wasn't obnoxious like the other queens in the prison.

  “I'll be there,” Donnie said. “You know, I never did like math, Oliver.”

  “That surprises me, as smart as you are.”

  “Yeah, right. I'm doing twenty to forty for two arsons. How smart is that?”

  “I've always wondered what you did to end up in here.”

  “Now you know.”

  “Never met an arsonist before.”

  “I set my father's haberdashery on fire.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as a heart attack, Oliver.”

  “He must have pissed you off something terrible,” Oliver said.

  “Not really. I just got tired of the way he treated me. His store was the only thing he ever cared about. His tweeds and cashmeres and fifty dollar ties. One night I just got fed up. I went in the place and doused the carpets with gasoline from one end of the store to the other. Then I hid in the alley across the street and watched it burn. It was the most exciting thing I had ever done in my life. It really was.” They stopped in the middle of Turk's Street and waited for a small red delivery truck to come to a stop alongside the food storeroom. “I don't suppose you've ever seen a mannequin catch fire and melt right down to the floor. Well, there was this one in the front window modeling a pair of red plaid pants and a ruby-red cardigan sweater. It looked just like my father until the head melted. When I realized it wasn't him, I got angry all over again. That's when I decided to drive to my parents' house and set it on fire too. They got out. I knew they would. Smoke detectors were everywhere in that house.”

  Dumbfounded, Oliver sta
red into Donnie's face and was certain he saw orange and red flames engulfing the bluest irises he had ever seen. “ You're not joking, are you?” Oliver asked.

  “I wouldn't joke about something like that.”

  “Sounds to me like you really like fire.”

  “I like the smell of gasoline even better. Hi octane. That's why I cut grass in this stupid prison all summer, Oliver. I love smelling gasoline.”

  Oliver stopped in front of the school door and noticed a woman in a long loose tie-dye skirt standing outside the library at the far end of Turk's Street where it intersected with C.I. Lane. She was writing in a spiral notebook while Mr. Mastros, the librarian, stood beside her talking. Each time the woman looked down, she cocked her head to the side to keep her shoulder length champagne blond hair from falling over her eyes. Oliver was sure he had never seen this woman before; yet she looked familiar.

  A movement over his shoulder took his attention, and as he turned, he glimpsed the backs of seven Muslims as they turned into Stickup Alley. Before he pulled open the school door, he turned to Donnie and said, “We've known each other for ten years, and I didn't know anything about you until now. We've got to talk more often, Donnie Boy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after he took two sticky rolls for himself and distributed the rest among the staff, Oliver sucked his teeth and pushed aside the books and papers on his desk. He picked up his blue ceramic mug of steaming hot coffee and took a sip before opening his loose-leaf notebook. Without hesitation he scribbled in the margin of the first page: “Capitalize and repeat key words often.” Then he wrote down the title of his satirical essay at the top of the page:

  HOPE FOR THE HOPELESS:

  A MODEST PROPOSAL TO THE LIFE PRISONERS OF PENNSYLVANIA ON THE PRACTICALITIES OF SELF-DELIVERANCE

  He shuffled through the loose pages of his draft and then reread the opening paragraph. After placing quotation marks around two similes by two of his favorite poets, Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Brooks, he started writing the final draft of his essay:

  “Surely by now all of you know that our well of HOPE dried up 'like a raisin in the sun' last week when Governor Tom Rigid signed House Bill 1725 into law. In sixty days the Board of Pardons will be renamed the Board of Crime Victims' Advocates, and any HOPE for future commutations or acts of clemency for LIFERS will be long gone. The victims advocacy board will still hold hearings for any LIFER who is gullible enough to pay the twenty dollar application fee that guarantees the applicant fifteen minutes of public humiliation, of being forced to sit and listen while his crime is sensationalized again and again; of being reminded that, despite the long passing of time, compassion and mercy are no longer a part of this state's lexicon.

  “So many Young Bucks have brought up the question, then what is left but to grow old and die a burden to our families and friends and ourselves? My reply to you, Brothers, is that we must face our demise like dignified human beings. If we must die here, let it not be like helpless, decrepit old men, unless that is the way you choose to die.

  “Based on a recent survey conducted by the Pennsylvania Lifers Association, all but 107 of the 403 lifers here at Riverview Penitentiary concede that we are going to die in prison. Of those, 42 are still grasping at appellate court straws, despite the fact that the Chief Justice of the State Supreme Court has publicly proclaimed that due process has become too subjective of a term to allow for any more reversible errors. Still, we want to wish you Brothers well, all of you. The remaining sixty-five, all of whom are Young Bucks under the age of twenty-one, angry and strong, like 'sores in the city that do not want to heal'--still believe the laws can be reversed and amenities regained through acts of INSURRECTION and ANARCHY, by, in the words of one gang of Young Bucks, the RANDOM SLAUGHTERING of prison officials on a daily basis. While we do not encourage such action, we wish you God's speed in your endeavors.”

  Oliver underscored the words insurrection and anarchy, then wrote empowerment and hope in the margin, drew a line under them, and continued:

  “For many hours I have turned my thoughts upon this dilemma of living without HOPE that we all share. For those of us who have come to realize we are going to spend the rest of our lives behind these walls and do not wish to continue day after day, month after month, year after year, in a perpetual state of living without hope, I wish to offer this proposal of HOPE and EMPOWERMENT to you.

  “I have been assured by a very high ranking member of the PSPCP (Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Prisoners) that SELF-DELIVERANCE is a viable and acceptable option for situations and circumstances where HOPE has 'spoiled like rotten meat.' Although obvious and many, the most important advantages of instituting a SELF-DELIVERANCE program are as follows:

  “First, our family and friends who have unselfishly and lovingly endured years of humiliation coming behind these walls to visit us, often to be patted down and fondled by the Jackboots who resent their coming in the first place, would certainly view our SELF-DELIVERANCE as an act of love. Our unselfishness could finally place them in a position where they could live out their lives without having to worry every day they wake up whether we are safe and well.

  “Second, creating an acceptable EUTHANASIA program would eliminate the horrifying failed attempts at SELF-DELIVERANCE we so frequently see, such as, slashing one's wrists across the arm as opposed to down the arm and through the veins; overdosing on all-too-mild sedatives only to wind up in a self-induced coma; jumping from the fifth tier of the cell block only to survive as a quadriplegic.

  “Third, providing a permanent way out for those without HOPE would greatly lessen the burden on this Commonwealth. In view of the fact that at present, it costs the state about eighteen thousand dollars a year to incarcerate one of us, and considering that the average age of our LIFER population is forty and the LIFE expectancy is seventy, even if only a fourth of our current LIFER population takes advantage of the SELF-DELIVERANCE program, the state would save two million, five hundred dollars in the first year, and a total of seventy-five million, six hundred thousand dollars during the remaining thirty years that these LIFERS would be expected to LIVE. These conservative estimates do not include what the state would save in medical costs as we LIFERS age and become ill.”

  Oliver stopped, put down his pen and, covering his eyes with his hand, rearranged the details in his head before he went on.

  “With the PSPCP's support, I have taken the initiative to study the feasibility of providing EUTHANASIA kits for sale in the prison commissary. A very respectable entrepreneur I know, who also happens to be sympathetic to our plight, recently provided me with a description of four dignified EUTHANASIA kits he has designed and packaged for demonstration purposes. This gentleman, who is a lawyer and member in good standing of the American Hemlock Society, has agreed to meet with a powerful member of the state senate in the near future to discuss the practicalities and feasibility of instituting a SELF-DELIVERANCE program for LIFERS across the state. This distinguished senator is, I have been assured, most supportive of the idea of EUTHANASIA for those of us without HOPE. I will keep you informed of the outcome of that meeting. Meanwhile, I wish to describe here the four EUTHANASIA kits our sympathetic entrepreneur has already designed and packaged for us:

  “DEATH HOLLYWOOD-STYLE KIT: This kit comes with a syringe filled with 150 ml of air to be injected directly into the vein causing an embolism and rapid death. This kit would be most suitable for drug addicts and former addicts. It would not be recommended for someone with little or no knowledge of how to inject a needle directly into one's vein. This kit includes a sealed syringe filled with air, an instruction manual, and a Last Will and Testament. It would sell for $10.95.

  “HANGMAN'S KIT: This kit consists of a heavy-duty ten foot rope tied in an efficient, professional noose, an instruction manual, and a Last Will and Testament. The kit would sell for $9.95.

  “SUPPOSITORY KIT: This kit consists of three rectal suppositories containing 1 g of sodium Ph
enobarbital in each suppository, an instruction manual, and a Last Will and Testament. This kit would sell for $29.95.

  “GAY PRISONER'S KIT: For you homosexual prisoners who wish to die with a good feeling, this kit comes with a nine-inch vibrator that time-releases a lethal dose of barbiturates deep inside the rectum, like warm semen. The kit includes the vibrator loaded with a lethal barbiturate drip, an instruction annual, and a Last Will and Testament. This kit would sell for $39.99. Batteries are not included.

  “Other kits are currently being tested for their efficacy, including a self-asphyxiation kit, which I have been assured shows great promise.

  “While many among us continue to argue that condemning a man to LIFE WITHOUT HOPE is just as cruel and unusual as condemning him to death by lethal injection, our legal representatives have warned us that the issue is a moral one, not a constitutional one. And therein lies our dilemma. Since a moral appeal is out of the question, our only recourse is to appeal to the logic of practicality. With the shrinking of the state treasury due to the enormous costs incurred in building five new prisons, there is but little doubt that the legislators will agree to draft and unanimously pass the necessary legislation to make legal a EUTHANASIA Program for LIFERS who have otherwise lost all HOPE.

  “In conclusion, I ask you all, LIFERS everywhere, to exercise patience and whatever iota of HOPE you have left. EMPOWERMENT is on the way.

  “'Or does it explode?'”

  Oliver stopped and rubbed the blister on his middle finger. His elbow and shoulder were numb, too, from gripping the pen so hard. He gulped down the last of his coffee, sat back in the chair and, feeling he had crafted a provocative essay, carefully read the final draft.

  THE NEXT EVENING B.J. Dallet's high-heels clicked along the main corridor and when the clicking stopped, the high lilt in her laughter echoed throughout the building as she stood talking to a group of students. The prisoners were enjoying the crease in her behind, which was so clearly defined in the bright fluorescent lights. They looked at her body with outright admiration as she told them about her recent travels, one offering, “I was in D.C. once,” and another, “My aunt, she stay in Atlanta.” They did not ask her what they really wanted to know: What did she do to stay so beautiful and how much did her perfume cost? B.J. smiled, drank from the water fountain, and the worshipful stares of these men made her long to be in Oliver's presence.