The Earth is My Prison Page 4

  Philpott was ready with his chair and needle. Two Trustys came out, each wheeling a covered box. Tag and the crowd were joined in suspense to see what form the torture would take. The sheets were pulled away and Tag saw they weren't boxes but cages, one was tall and narrow, the other short and squat.

  "One of these will be your home for the next 24 hours,” the Chief said. “You have until the ink is dry to decide.”

  Dr. Philpott prepared the ink. It was the reverse of what he had witnessed with Crawford. People he'd known all his life screamed for his blood. Soon the cries of “Striker!” were joined by some sage advice:

  "The long one, go for the long!"

  "No, the short one is the best!"

  He wondered if they'd be so sure if they were up here. The long cage did seem like the better option. He tried to imagine what it would feel like after 24 hours. The short looked worse but maybe that was the trick. At least you could sit down, after a fashion. But in the long you could stretch to your full height. Long. Short. Long. Short. He had the sinking feeling that whichever one he chose he would regret it and that was probably the point.

  The buzzing of the tattoo stopped. It was time to choose.

  "Long," he said, just loud enough to be heard over the jeers of the crowd.

  ~

  The first few hours were the worst. That's when the fear of the pain to come was greatest.

  It was the pressure to relieve it by bending his spine that was the backbone of the real torture. His spine kept yelling at him, "hey, bend me already, you only get one spine you know!" He was afraid that when he finally did bend it it would snap like a dry branch, all the fluid having dried up.

  He had a few visitors. People would come, to sit and chat. They would refer to him, like he was an amusing piece of furniture. That surprised him. He had thought there would be some dignity in being tortured.

  ~ ~

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Barton and another Trusty came when there was no one else around and let him out. His spine was so fucked all he could do was shake uncontrollably. He was so grateful to be let out that he almost hugged them until he realized why.

  “Tag,” he said, “we can let you out now, or put you back for another 12 hours. Do you think you can handle it? Cause you look like shit.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You just have to answer a few questions. Like, who were you passing books to?”

  He remained silent.

  “Paul? Is that why you were up in the tower? Come on, man, nothing will happen, we just want to know.”

  “Put me back inside the cage, please,” Tag said hoarsely.

  Barton snorted.

  “Alright, tough guy, have it your way.”

  They bundled him back in the cage. At least he had had a little stretch. And a small victory over the forces that had put him there.

  ~

  He realized a couple of things in those 24 hours. One was that he could withstand more suffering than he ever thought possible. The other was that freedom meant nothing if another person could take it away. He knew he didn't belong in Prison and he decided he wasn't going to leave this cage just to walk into another one.

  12.

  At hour 24 they opened the cage and he plopped out like spam from a can. They lifted him onto a cart and rolled him to a tiny exercise yard. He got scared then because he knew that's where they burned the trash that blew in over the prison walls.

  There was a pile of it there now. On top of the pile were his books. So, an execution was to take place, just not of a man.

  He moaned in pain.

  Barton laughed.

  "Anderson, Anderson don't you know this stuff is bad for your health?"

  The books had already been mistreated, their covers torn, their spines as twisted as his own. He felt indignant rage even as he lay curled up in a ball, helpless to do anything. They were wet too, soaked through with some kind of noxious liquid.

  "It's trash burning day,” Barton said with a grin, “would you like to do the honors?"

  They rolled him next to the fire. Barton lit a match and placed it in Tag's hand. Tag let it drop. Barton grabbed him by the neck. His awful odor the perfect perfume for how Tag felt.

  "My orders are, if you don't cooperate, I'm supposed to throw you on there myself."

  He gave Tag back the match. The flame was almost at his fingers and the pain was getting cruel. The thought of his charred body topping the pile stole his bravery. He touched it to the paper.

  "Pity,” Barton said, “we could have destroyed all the trash."

  The fire was no respecter of history. He watched Fahrenheit 451 turn to ash, the irony lost on everyone but himself.

  The heat from the fire washed over me, reactivating my dead nerves. I felt a sense of relief, knowing they had nothing to threaten me with anymore. The books were bars on my cell and now they were melting away, giving me my first taste of Freedom.

  13.

  I had been surviving on handouts but I would have to find a new job if I didn't want to starve to death. I was the only person in Prison history to change Details so much but my luck was running out. I went to Nichols and begged him to put me on another Detail.

  I had worked for Nichols once, he and my Father had even been friends, yet he barely even looked up from his files when I walked into his office and prostrated myself.

  “You’re in luck,” he said, “we do have a position for you. Trash Detail, you start Tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  ~

  Trasher was the lowest Detail in the prison, although it was actually an important job. The whole building was reflective, making it difficult to see from a distance, except sometimes trash would blow in from the desert and accumulate on the side, giving us away.

  It was the Trashers’ job to go out, clean away the garbage and restore our camouflage. All under the watchful eyes of armed Trusties. I don’t think anyone would have tired it, as far as we knew the desert went on for miles and we’d die of thirst before we got anywhere.

  I didn’t know what to believe.

  From the start I didn’t get on with the other men in the Detail. They were all full of false bravado. All the better, I thought, to hide their true lack of worth. They made jokes about women. One of the guys made a joke calling rape "a cuddle with a struggle." Everyone laughed their heads off while I didn't even smile.

  I wasn't popular with them but I didn't care. I didn't need the respect of these men. I held on to the belief that I was better than them even as I did the same work , scraping trash off the walls in the blazing mid-day sun.

  I hadn't received anything from Sophie in a while. If the other girls made fun of her for dating me before imagine what they would say now. Maybe the best thing was to never see her again. I thought about sending her a letter but when it came to it I couldn't do it.

  I was nearing the end of my shift when I noticed one of the men hide a plastic bottle in his overalls. Curious, I asked him what he was doing.

  "The Bonies, man, they use this stuff, you can get a lot of cigs for it."

  The old society had prison to send people to, we had the Boneyard. It had once been the part of the prison used to treat prisoners who had a psychotic break. Once the War started, psychotic meant anyone who didn't believe in the Effort. It filled up with people, becoming the most overcrowded part of the prison.

  Men who fell too far behind on their work, women who cheated on their husbands, sexual deviants, all called it home. I'm probably one bad decision away from there myself, I thought sombrely.

  The Board had an uneasy relationship with the Boneyard, they tolerated it while making sure its mischief stayed contained. You could get anything there; sex, drugs (they had a plentiful supply of anti-psychotic drugs) books (including some of mine probably) and cigarettes which while never smoked functioned as an underground currency.

  Even Sophie had been there. She informed me there was a brisk trade betwe
en the women of G-Wing and the Boneyard. Many women had come to the prison from outside and had brought some luxury items like clothes and makeup which had gradually found their way there.

  I had not thought of the place myself much (when your life was going okay you tended not to) but listening to the other Trashers tell stories snagged my curiosity.

  "And those Boneyard chicks will do anything for a pack of cigs," the man said, laughing.

  He disgusted me. You didn't talk about women that way. You were a good guy, you worked hard and you got married. That was how it was supposed to work, anyway. But the more I lost hope of hearing from Sophie again the more I lost faith in that simple philosophy. My disgust turned into curiosity, then into desire, and finally into an urgent need.

  14.

  Walking into the Boneyard was like stepping onto another planet. The people looked like characters from my books and it was hard not to stare. The men had dyed their scrubs purple and black. Many had the forehead x but had adorned it with other symbols as well. They had hard faces and the look of men defeated by life.

  Somehow the residents had found a way to fit a densely packed city into an exercise yard. There were buildings inside buildings inside buildings. All made from scavenged materials.

  There were a lot of plastic jugs that were repurposed to collect rainwater. True to its name one of the materials used were large humanoid bones, they were all that remained of the mutants who had attacked in ‘52.

  There were hints of a vast network of side streets and alleys connecting to a main street, a kind of Bazaar thronged with stalls and vendors who fought for my attention. There were even food stalls serving up dinner in massive skillets, it smelled good but looked like charred octopus tentacles and I decided I wasn’t hungry.

  ~

  Feeling that I was in the tourist district, I wandered off the beaten path into the side streets. I felt like a brightly colored sheep walking into the lion's den. I didn’t know what I was looking for until I found it. There, in a shadowy corner where the outer walls met, was a tent made of red canvas.

  I heard the sound of female laughter coming from inside and immediately I knew what kind of place it was. Nervously, I kept on walking even as something inside pulled me towards the tent. I leaned against a wall to catch my breath. My heart was beating so hard I thought it would be audible to anyone listening.

  When I looked up I saw a couple of guys loitering a few meters away from me. Their faces were covered with scabs and bad tattoos. One man was more shambolic than the rest. He had to hold his pants up with one hand he was so thin. As I watched he turned to his friend and bit him full force on the shoulder.

  The victim threw his assailant to the ground whereby the whole group proceeded to kick the shit out of him. Only when the guy looked dead did they stop and start laughing like it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

  I took that as my cue to leave.

  ~

  There’s a short story by a Spanish author that I read once. It was about these objects that are so perfectly made that when you see them you can’t stop seeing them.

  They stay in your mind’s eye, blotting out everything else, until you go blind. The tent was like that. It got lodged in my mind and I couldn’t get it out.

  The next few weeks went by quickly. I worked long hours under the sun without complaint. As my plastic collection grew so did my excitement. Passing by Paul's watchtower, I kept my head down so he wouldn’t be able to see my face.

  15.

  I gripped my bag of plastic tightly, sure the fear must be coming off me in waves. I had a good haul made up of disposable cups, old soda bottles, and straws. The old seller woman sat cross-legged on the ground in front of a sheet covered with contraband.

  "I buy," she said in a harsh voice.

  "How much?" I asked.

  "50 cigs."

  "Ehhh," I said, trying to work out if that was fair. “Okay sure.”

  Haggling was not my strong point. At least by dealing with her I could avoid someone even scarier. Besides, I could always collect more plastic. The old woman inspected each item with practiced distrust before reaching into her bag.

  She produced a small pink box and handed it to me. I went to thank her but she had already moved on to someone else. I slipped around a corner and did a quick count. 48, not bad for a rube.

  ~

  Outside the red tent my mouth felt dry and I had the need to urinate. My mind told me to go home but my body wanted to stay. I cleared my throat to let them know I was there. The curtain was pulled aside and a woman stood there. She was about my age, tall and lanky. She had two stretchy pieces of dark material, one for her pouting breasts, the other pulled low over her hips allowing me to see the little puff of hair running under her belly button.

  "Are you coming inside?" she asked in a sweet tone.

  "Yes," I croaked.

  She took me by the hand and led me inside. I saw the tattoo on the small of her back: "SLUT" Women who were caught cheating were branded that way.

  "What's your name, honey?" she asked.

  "Tag."

  "My name's Olivia."

  She smelled like incense and earth. She was wearing sandals. Her toenails were painted red and I could see that one of her little toes was bent sideways like it had been broken.

  "First time, honey?"

  I nodded.

  I thought of kissing her big toe and got another twitch. I knew that it was some chemical in my brain making me totally irrational but I didn't care. There were 3 other women in the tent as well. They were attractive but they gave me a cold look that shook the cardboard set of my illusion. Olivia drew another curtain, locking them in their own private world.

  There was a mattress on the floor, covered in cushions. I sat down next to her. For a second, I thought about Sophie. If I'm experienced I'll make a better husband, I rationalized. Olivia gently stroked my arm.

  "It's forty, okay?"

  I handed over the cigs and she slipped them under the bed. There was a small fortune there already. So, this was nothing special.

  "Lie down," she whispered.

  I sunk back on the mattress, surprised at how exhausted I felt. It was a nice feeling, like the curtain she had pulled was a barrier that nobody could get through. She lay beside me and stared into my eyes. I felt like crying, unprepared for the feeling of intimacy.

  "Can I smell your hair?" I asked.

  She let me and I breathed in her smell deeply.

  "Can I kiss you?" I pleaded.

  She shook her head softly and pointed to her neck. I kissed her there and she moaned, a bit theatrical but it did the trick. I started clumsily pulling off my clothes, throwing them to the floor. She slipped easily out of her hoops and placed them neatly to the side. She pulled me close and I could feel her breasts pressed into my chest.

  "By the War!" I said, almost involuntarily.

  She took me between her thumb and forefinger, expertly stroking me into hardness. The thought of all the men she had done this with only made me harder. I navigated her body, breathing in the perfume of her flesh, feeling like a pig in delicious filth. There was only her body and the feeling of pleasure.

  "Don't stop don't stop," I said.

  She started moaning and pumping harder. The bitch, I thought with a spark of anger, she's doing that on purpose. In a few shuddering spurts it was over. I groaned loudly, my face buried in her hair. Coming back to myself, I felt embarrassed that it was over so fast.

  "Sorry," I said.

  "That's okay, baby," she said and gave me a gentle kiss.

  I lay there like a burst balloon. The room was cold and I could feel the stickiness where my semen lay on my chest. She threw me a towel and I dried myself. I thought about Sophie and felt a stab of regret. There was laughter from the girls outside. I felt outraged. I had paid my money, surely I deserved some respect? Before long my sense of entitlement wilted along with my erection. I picked up my clothes from their untidy heap on th
e floor.

  Olivia was sitting on the bed, already dressed.

  "Do you want me to walk you out?" she asked.

  "Okay."

  I followed her out, ignoring the mocking looks from the other girls. Now the sexual spell had worn off I could see how grim the place looked, just a threadbare tent with a few pillows. Olivia looked different too. Older somehow. Only her voice was girlish.

  "I hope you had a good first time," she said.

  "A very memorable experience," I said.

  She laughed and closed the curtain. I sighed and headed home as quickly as I could. Back in my cell I turned the encounter over and over in my mind. Trying and failing to make sense of it all.

  16.

  At first, losing my virginity seemed like something to be proud of but that soon wore off and I was left with hard questions. Why hadn't I waited for Sophie? That’s what a good man would have done. It had been a month since I'd seen her. I wondered what Dad would have thought about this.

  Dad was asthmatic, wore glasses and would trip over his own feet standing up. He didn't fit the image of a prisoner. Other men respected his job but not him. We never talked much. I could never have told him about the Boneyard. My Father had only one lesson in life: don't make waves. The sad part was he couldn't follow his own advice. It was like the crab who tells its child to walk forwards.

  Usually Dad took any abuse on the nose. He would laugh unconvincingly and walk away. But the day he died was different. Another Prisoner made a remark about my Mom and he threw a chair at them and had got dragged to Solitary. The 6 by 8-foot dusty cell was not good for his asthma. During the night the guards heard coughing. When they went to check on him the next day he was dead.

  He could have told them about his asthma but he didn't want to cause a fuss. That was Dad. Dead from lack of assertiveness. I was angry about it for a long time, asking questions, trying to get justice. It was during my fourth stint in the hole, dying of a cold in the same cell as my Dad, that I realised I would never get justice. All I would get is a similar death.