A Bad Man

by Stanley Elkin

  “What do you want?” Feldman asked.

  “I don’t fix prices,” Mix said. “This is a new line with me. You don’t think the crappy fence would ask me what I thought a thing was worth.”

  Feldman tried to remember if he and the guard had had any dealings. In the early days he had made certain mistakes, but surely the guards took into account a man’s newness.

  “From the look on your face,” Mix said, “I’d say you know that feller. He’s got a quick temper. Look at that fucking red hair under his cap. That old Irishman sure hates the Jews.”

  “All right,” Feldman said, “say what you want or leave me alone.”

  “I’m a bad man,” Mix said. Feldman waited for him to go on. It was true, he thought; he could not make demands. He could only sneer his griefs and object and schnorr around for reasons. “I’m a bad man,” Mix said again, “and a heavy smoker, and I like my candy and my stick of gum, and most of the guys around here have radios and I don’t. Where’s my five bucks a month from the outside that the rest of you get? Is it my fault my old man’s a prick and pretends I ain’t alive? I’ve got expenses too, you know. And because I’m a bad man and still paying for this jerk suit”—he pointed to his costume, a satire on the new blends, which, dimly phosphorescent, shone on his pale wrists like fishskin—“I’m docked a buck a month in canteen chits.”

  “I’m a bad man too,” Feldman said. “They dock me.”

  “Fifty cents a month,” Mix said, ignoring him. “I could have asked for a buck.”

  “It’s ridiculous for me to buy you off at all. Why should that guard kill me?”

  “He’s seen your record,” Mix said. “He knows all about you.”

  That was true, Feldman thought. He was wondering if he should offer Mix a quarter.

  “Give me a dime,” Mix pleaded. “For two months.”

  “You haven’t sense, Mix,” Feldman said. He turned away from him.

  “I’ll tell,” Mix said. “I swear it.”

  “I know that,” Feldman said quietly. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Guard,” he called suddenly. “Guard. Guard.”

  “What’s that racket?” the guard yelled.

  “Hey, what is this?” Mix said.

  “I’m on Warden’s Business,” Feldman shouted. “I’m Feldman the bad man and I’m on Warden’s Business.” He took out the warden’s flag and waved it furiously. “Feldman the bad man coming through here on Warden’s Business,” he called. “Feldman the bad man on his way to Records and Forms in the supply wing, to pick up requisitions for the canteen. No more requisitions in the canteen,” he yelled. Some civilians and other prison officials from the administrative offices stared at him from beyond the barred gate. Feldman continued to wave his flag and shout. “Feldman the bad man on Warden’s Business for Lieutenant Crease. Feldman the bad man on Get the Requisitions from Records and Forms in the Supply Wing Business. Coming through.”

  “Cut out that screaming,” the guard roared.

  Feldman marched toward him, waving his flag.

  “All right, all right, I see it. Go on the hell through.” He unlocked the gate, and Feldman marched through. He looked back over his shoulder and winked at Mix, but the troubled man had turned away.

  In trouble: These were the words of Feldman’s dream. He awoke. He sat up. In trouble. As in atmosphere. Or in China. It was an ambience, a dimension. Sure, he thought, the turd dimension. Something in nature. Something inside and mechanical. Something inside and not mechanical at all. Doom, he thought, the house struck by lightning, the wooden leg in flames, the poisoned heart.

  Then why, he thought, why am I smiling?

  He had been awakened by a noise. Was someone escaping? Was a cell open? Had a prisoner thrust his hands through the bars to catch a guard’s throat? Would he be made to run with them? He listened.

  There was only the breathing in all the cells. It was a sustained, continuous sigh, the men’s breath going and coming like hissed, sibilant wind. Somewhere down the cellblock he heard a toilet flush. Someone wrenched up phlegm from a sour throat. In their sleep men turned uncomfortably on their narrow cots. Rolling, they groaned. He heard farts, coughs, the clipped, telescoped declarations of dreamed speech. No one was escaping. All cells were locked. They were cornered, all of them. No one could get in.

  He lay back down again and tried to sleep. How long had he been there? Two months, three? Would they really let him out in only a year? They had to. That was the law.

  “Who’s up?” a voice asked suddenly, timidly. “Is someone up?”

  The words were clear; they had not sounded like a sleeper’s mutterings.

  “Is there someone awake in here?” It sounded as if the man were testing, like a soldier poking with his rifle into the rooms and corners of an empty farmhouse.

  Feldman remained silent. Why am I smiling? he thought.

  “Dear God,” the voice said. The speaker, someone two or three cells away from Feldman, had slipped out of his cot. Apparently he was on his knees. “Forgive my mistakes, God. Help me to think of a plan to get out of this place.”

  Then another voice spoke. “Dear God, forgive and forget. Wipe the slate. I need a chance. Give a guy a chance.”

  Another: “God in Heaven,” the voice said, “see the children get an education.”

  Men were awake throughout the long, dark cellblock.

  “Get the rat who squealed, who turned state’s evidence, Lord.”

  “Dearest Jesus of my soul, give me courage.”

  “Give me brains, God.”

  “I want to go back to Kansas.”

  “Make me lucky.”

  “Dear God, look after my wife. See she stays true.”

  “My kids, God.”

  “Kill my enemies, Lord.”

  “Please, help my mother to forget me.”

  “Help me to learn a trade, Lord.”

  “Dear God, please make the parole board see things my way.”

  “Help me, God, to give up smoking.”

  “To get ahead.”

  “Dear Jesus, I can’t stop thinking about women. Help me to forget women. Make me queer.”

  “Dear God in highest Heaven, let me win.”

  “Place.”

  “Show.”

  “Grant that society sees fit to abolish capital punishment, Lord.”

  “Teach me to get along with others.”

  “I need a drink bad, Lord.”

  “Dear God, give our leaders the wisdom and strength they need to guide us through these troubled times.”

  “Keep China from developing the capability to deliver The Bomb, sweet Jesus.”

  “Keep my daughter off the streets. Don’t let her run with a fast crowd.”

  “Show me, Lord, how to commit the perfect crime.”

  “Dearest Lord, don’t let them discover where the money’s hidden.”

  “Gentle the guards, Jesus.”

  “Sweet Jesus, protector of my soul, fix my life.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Feldman smiled. His joy was immense.

  In his dream he had left his cot too. He was on his knees. Like the goyim. He felt he owed it. He was very grateful. “For having escaped the second-rate life,” he prayed; “for having lived detached as someone with a stuffed nose, for my sound limbs and the absence of pain, for my power, for my hundred-and-ten-thousand-dollar home in a good neighborhood, for the tips on the market, for my gold hamper and all the dirty shirts in it, for my big car and good taste, for the perfect fits and silk suits, for my never having been in battle or bitten by beasts; for these things and for others, for the steaks I’ve eaten and the deals I’ve closed, for the games I’ve won and the things I’ve gotten away with, for my thick carpets and my central air conditioning, for the good life and the last laugh—Father, I thank Thee.

  “Amen.”

  10

  A short time after his monthly physical Feld
man received a note from the warden:

  Your weight is good, your lungs are clear, your specimen sparkles like a trout stream. But slow down. I tell you for your own good. You’re too nervous. You’ll never make it. The doctor is very concerned, and so am I. I’m no killer—that’s your department. I’m just a custodian, a sort of curator, and it grieves my collector heart if I have to lose one of you guys. You’re terrified. Of what? Of what, Feldman? You make your own problems. If I thought it was guilt—guilt’s good, guilt’s healthy, but your kind of guilt isn’t honest. It doesn’t do anybody any good. It’s diffused, unfocused. Anyway, slow down, play ball, calm down. Life is ordinary, Feldman.

  Fisher

  P.S. Here are the basic rules of this place. I’ll just sketch them in for you. I won’t be very particular, because you’re probably already familiar with the particular stuff. (We have an expression: “You bad men can’t see the ropes for the loopholes.”)

  1. Lights out at 10 o’clock. The day begins (adjusted, of course, to seasonal dawn) at 6:30. That means you can get eight and a half hours’ sleep if you work it right. Bankers don’t get that much, ship’s captains don’t. Guys who have lumberyards in Ohio get less. Actually, it’s an hour more of sack time—this is supported by many sociological studies—than is put in by the average U.S. citizen. Penologists are beginning to think that a greater sleepload is a very important factor in rehabilitation, an aggressive dream life being a major element in holding down violence. (Also, if it’s carried over into the outside would, it gives you jerks less man-hours on the streets.)

  2. Keep a neat cell. There’s no real complaint here.

  3. Silence at meals. Sit at your assigned table. There’s no real complaint here.

  4. You already know the mechanics of permission slips and passes and so forth, so I won’t go into that here except to say that it’s to a man’s benefit to learn to live with nuisance. Accustom yourself to it. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for an annoyed man to enter into Heaven.

  5.Work. THIS IS MOST IMPORTANT! I can’t emphasize this too much. Develop a good work ethic. The most difficult thing you will have to face up to here is the problem of sharpening your work ethic in the absence of a profit motive. But this is very important. I assure you, Feldman, if you can overcome your qualms in this area the world will absolutely open up for you. You will begin to understand how ordinary life is. What do you need here that isn’t provided? Food? We give you food. Shelter ditto. Likewise plumbing. If you need an operation or an aspirin tablet, ask and it shall be given. What’s left? Movies? We show subsistence-level movies once a week. Live with an edge on. I don’t say suffer. Repress, repress. Have Spartan sensibilities. Be always a little uncomfortable. Then, when pain comes—and how often does it come? real pain is very rare—it won’t matter so much. I’ve already said more than is necessary. (I don’t owe you anything.) Work hard at your job. You’re in the canteen. These men have a limited amount of money to spend. Still, you’re a merchandiser. See what you can do to improve business in your department. Let’s make that more positive. I want to see improvement over last month’s figures, or else!

  6. Sex. There’s no complaint here. I’m no prude. I don’t know what your tastes are and I don’t want to know. What’s okay by consenting adults is okay by me.

  7. Free time. This is up to you. You can read, play sports, work in the model shop—whatever. It’s a good idea, however, to make a friend. Many of the men here develop lasting relationships that enrich their lives. Now I know that you’ve been listening to several of these men recently and letting them tell you about their troubles. All I can say is, that isn’t exactly what I mean. You were selfish there, Feldman. You did that out of morbid, unhealthy curiosity and to achieve a basis of comparison for your own comfort. That must stop. (Some of them were putting you on, anyway.) Life is ordinary. Mine is, his is, yours is. I could give you literally hundreds of examples that come readily to mind, but right here on my desk now is the file of Rudolph Held. Held is in this prison for arson. (You’ve probably seen him. Rudy’s the trusty who runs the projector.) Now you might think that arson is a sick, dramatic, extraordinary crime, and for some perhaps it is, but Rudy gets no hard-ons from setting fires. He doesn’t wet his pants when he hears a siren. Rudy’s a looter. He starts a fire and is there on the scene when it takes. He’s always been very athletic, fast, a champion sprinter in high school, and a superb broken-field runner. However, Rudy didn’t have the opportunity of going on to college to develop these interests. He might conceivably have been offered athletic scholarships, but his father died when he was very young—of a perfectly ordinary coronary—and he had to remain with his mother and support her. Actually, he didn’t even finish high school, need was so pressing. Well, this was the Depression, and there wasn’t much work available for a boy like Rudy. He found a job delivering groceries in a wealthy part of town, but then his mother became ill—these things happen—and he needed extra money for an operation. He remembered those wealthy homes and the valuable things he had seen in them. What was more natural for a loyal, dutiful boy than to think of stealing them in order to obtain money for his mom’s operation? But how could a kid delivering groceries, limited mostly to the kitchen, grab anything of value? He knew he’d have to go back at night, to break and to enter. In a wealthy home there are always plenty of people around—servants, guests. It was too risky. (Again, self-preservation is a perfectly normal, ordinary motivation in human beings.) If it was to do himself or his mother any good he had to find some sure-fire way of getting into these homes and stealing the stuff. He asked himself: under what conditions will it seem normal to force your way into a home that is not your own? And the answer came—perfectly rational, perfectly normal: when that house is on fire and it looks like you’re going in to save someone! So Rudy would start a fire and then bust through a window and go in and take what he needed. He made so much noise he was actually responsible for saving many lives, and then, with his God-given talent for broken-field running—and what’s more natural than making use of your talents?—he’d dodge around in the flames and burning rooms, grabbing up whatever he needed. So you see? When you understand the background, there’s a reason for everything. Nothing is strange. Consecutive, the world is consecutive. It’s rational. Life is ordinary.

  You’ll be getting another examination in a month. If you’re no better then, stronger measures will have to be taken.

  Fisher

  Sure it’s ordinary, Feldman thought, awakened the next morning by the flash of sun on the bright mirror surfaces of the bars Lurie had shined. Sure it’s ordinary, he thought, plunging his arm deep into the toilet bowl to polish it. He looked up and down the long line of cells. Men sat on the sides of their cots, their shoulders slumped, their heads in their hands. Sure it is.

  “Good morning, fellas,” he said to the cellblock at large, to the murderers and robbers of banks, “how’d you sleep?”

  “Stow it, big mouth,” warned a convict in another cell. “Watch your step, pig creep. Fuck with me and I’ll get you on your way through the foundry to deposit the chits. I’ll crack your skull with a shovel and stuff your body into furnace six.”

  “These things happen,” Feldman said.

  He would give the warden his way. When in jail, he thought. It was a matter of indifference to him. Life was ordinary. Only what happens to you, he thought, not entirely clear what he meant. Then he thought: My crime, one of them, was that I thought the world itself was happening to me. And when it didn’t, I tried to make it happen. Ah, he thought, like the other bad man—like Mix.

  That warden, he thought, shuddering, he’ll pull me apart. The thing to do is to play ball. The warden was a great man. As great a man as he had encountered. As great as his father. Greater. To use his health like that, to scare him into docility! The man used the character of the opposition. To fright he applied fear, to greed dreams of surfeit, to courage (the complicated possibilities of h
is system of silence in the dining hall) encouragement. It was important to know what he thought of you. Feldman remembered his file. What was in it? Ed Slipper had let him down. Slipper had been in the infirmary nine days. Had the warden anything to do with that? Incommunicado. When he was there for his physical, Feldman had bribed an orderly to get a report on him.

  Higher purposes. He was all higher purposes, the warden. Feldman knew that, and the warden knew he knew. That probably explained the warden’s note, the explanations that explained nothing, the warden’s fear that Feldman was on to something. (Sure, fear. The son of a bitch was on the run. You didn’t understand fear that well without having known a fair amount of it yourself. You couldn’t manipulate greed unless you’d been there.) Then—he had come a long way today—this: he’s one too. The warden. He’s a bad man too!

  Maybe. Higher purposes. Nobody understood the prison. Rules, exceptions to rules. The world as tightrope. Feldman didn’t know. Does he want me to understand? Does he not want me to understand?

  Anyway, okay. The warden said be calm. He’d be calm. He was calm. There were certain dentists you could trust. They said, “This won’t hurt you,” and it didn’t. That was no guarantee you wouldn’t die from pain on the way home, but you knew you were safe just then. That’s how he felt. Safer, for the time being at least, than at any time since he’d come. That’s why he had spoken out his greeting like that. He was pretty happy. What couldn’t he do now that he was safe for a while?

  “Bisch,” he told his cellmate, “watch my smoke.”

  The first thing he did was to get Wall’s power of attorney. Then he got Flesh’s. Sky’s was more difficult. “Authority isn’t authority until it’s deputed,” Feldman said. “Responsibility doesn’t mean anything until it’s delegated.”