Читать книгу The Graybar Hotel - Curtis Dawkins - Страница 11

DAYTIME DRAMA

Arthur wore a cape in the county jail. He fashioned it from the dark gray wool blanket given to each inmate, and the knot from the tied corners rested on his Adam’s apple. November was a cold one in the jail and the cape kept him warm, plus the dark, brooding superhero effect was not lost on Arthur. He looked at himself in the dull, scratched metal mirror above the stainless-steel toilet, flashed a toothless grin, then turned around with a swoop and sat at the steel picnic table bolted to the floor of our cell.

The other three men slept. The television on the wall was dark, silent, and dusty. There was a thick, dingy window to the left of the TV, and the first rays of the day cut a shaft of light through the cell, lighting the corner.

He wanted to do some push-ups. He could feel one of the guys watching him, so it was a show of primal strength that, despite some extra pounds, he was much stronger than the average man. Not in the middle of the room, though—too obvious that he was putting on a show. In the space between the bench seat and the wall instead. It was a tight fit, but he would make it work. He closed his eyes and thought a moment. He thought of the strength running through his blood, his veins, rushing through his chest and arms. He wondered why they took his fucking false teeth. Fucking fuckers. That was good. Rage was good. Watch this.

“What are you doing?”

“Praying.”

“Looks like you were trying to do a push-up.”

“Nope.” Arthur glanced up. Don’t stare, though, not at first. But what in the hell was that flicker? Like he’s got a candle in his mouth. No white guy could pull it off; it’s the dark skin that makes it pop, like stars in the night.

Arthur stood. “Can I see your teeth?” He also really liked the young man’s hair, neatly braided and laid in rows with the ends in short rubber-banded ponytails.

“You want my teeth? You gone give me the eggs off your breakfast tray?”

“Deal,” Arthur said, and went over to the young man. The other two men slept soundly. The teeth were crystal clear and the young man clicked them together several times, creating a sound like a wooden cane tapped against the floor. The front two teeth were inlaid with gold, initials CJ.

“Can I try ’em out?”

“Where’s your grill?”

“They took them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They’re just plain white, though. I didn’t even know you could get teeth like that. How much did they cost you?”

“Two,” the young man said.

“Two hundred?” It was the wrong answer, Arthur knew. He felt very white.

“Two thousand,” the young man said, and suddenly Arthur was back in Manhattan again. There was a narrow brick building on Orchard Street in Chinatown that manufactured Chinese sausage. Ten-foot strands of red, raw meat twisted into links every six inches hung in the window. Even in the cell Arthur could smell the gin they used. Around noon the laborers lined the counter, picking thick noodles from chicken broth with chopsticks. On the street he could hear the Jews five doors down, talking to passersby, asking them to come into their store and try on a shirt.

Two thousand sausage links hung in the window. Had to be. But the lady came out and said, “You go now.” And he did, because he didn’t have to count them anymore—he knew. And when the Jewish man with psoriasis on his forehead grabbed his elbow and said, “Come in,” Arthur did. The man measured the width of Arthur’s shoulders and slipped on a dark gray knee-length coat handmade in Italy. The sleeves were too long, but could be tailored, the man said. Still, in the mirror Arthur saw a young man—a child—imagining a place in the world that might fit him perfectly with just a few alterations. He looked at himself and wondered how exactly one might make alterations to an oversize, ill-fitting world.

Was he taking too long, standing there silently? The young man with the CJ teeth looked uncomfortable with the waiting. But Arthur often had problems with time. There were minutes that stretched on like bridges, while whole days swept by like water underneath.

At the end of infinite rows of dark wool shoulders, he was positioned in front of the store’s floor-length mirror. He may have been a child but he could become anyone in that coat. “Would you like some coffee, tea?” the Jewish man asked. “Have a seat over there and let’s talk coats.” Arthur sat, and the coffee was canned and stale.

“I wore a coat once,” Arthur told his cellmate, “that was two thousand dollars and I once counted two thousand sausages in the window of a sausage store. Now I’ve met a man with two-thousand-dollar teeth.”

“The fuck you saying?”

Arthur wondered if he’d just lost his chance to try out those teeth. He was about to ask again when the new hippie-looking guy in the top bunk near the door sat up. “What time is it?” he asked.

“About breakfast,” Arthur said.

“Well, that’s pretty early. Your talking’s not very considerate, now is it?”

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” Arthur said. “You have the coolest look—carnival, I think, with your shaggy hair and beard. You look like you just got shot out of a cannon. You should see yourself. I wish I looked like you, but with this guy’s teeth.”

“Thanks, you fucking weirdo.”

“You’re welcome,” said Arthur. “Hey, do you want to act like we’re humping next time the guard comes around?”

“It’s a little too early for fun and games, isn’t it?” The man rubbed the callused tip of his thumb with his index finger. Arthur could smell the remnants of butane and cocaine issue from the friction. “Are you gay too?”

“I wish,” said Arthur. “You must dream of going to prison someday.”

“No, I don’t think I dream of prison.”

“You should,” Arthur said, not knowing exactly why. He could feel his thoughts slowing now, about to give way to those not his own. If he could just last until after breakfast, they’d walk him down the hall and the nurse would be there, the meds would come and the world would spin faster again, so his own voice could outrun the others.

Four meals came in heavy plastic trays. Arthur gave his eggs to the young man with the expensive teeth. The fourth man slept through the meal, and his food was divided by the two men on the top bunks. They all ate, then lay back down. Arthur lay down with his cape and looked at the underside of the bunk above him. Some of the faded splotches of dried toothpaste still held pictures: glossy school photos of boys and girls, magazine clippings of airbrushed models. There was a pencil sketch of an old wooden cross, a crayon drawing of SpongeBob SquarePants, nude sketches of busty women, a neatly drawn calendar from some July with half its days crossed off.

Arthur had the little tube of toothpaste given to every inmate, but no teeth. He had nothing to paste to the underside of the bunk either. He closed his eyes and was calculating how much toothpaste it would take to attach his body to the underside when a tall deputy with a goatee opened the door.

“Hey, Superman, you gotta see the psych,” the deputy said, twirling keys around his finger.

“I need to wait for the nurse.”

“Today you see the psych first. Leave the blanket here.”

Arthur sat in a room made of yellow cinder blocks with one wall of yellow iron bars. There was a long table in the center and a green chalkboard on the wall. It was the Bible study room, Arthur could tell from the faint, erased chalk words ghosted on the board: Be patient; establish your hearts, for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh. Arthur closed his eyes. He felt good and warm there with the remnants of those words.

Doctor Stan, the psychologist, was always in a hurry and Monday was the busiest with all the weekend influx. To make matters worse, his pretty young intern, Jill, was halfway through a pregnancy. Her body was swollen, she wore no makeup, and there was a large, swollen pimple about to burst between her eyes. Doctor Stan seemed her exact opposite—pale and rail-thin, with a patchy beard that made him look sickly, as if he lacked nutrients or something essential.

“So you know why you’re here?” Doctor Stan said.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me why you’re here?”

“I’d like to order a lobotomy, please.”

Doctor Stan and Jill exchanged glances.

“Why do you think you want a lobotomy?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “I think it’d be nice to have only half a brain. I’d really have an excuse then. I could say something stupid and people would say, ‘Figures,’ or I could just hang a little chalkboard around my neck—I have half a brain. Though it’s probably not half, maybe a tenth they take out. They’d just have to get the right part, the part that’s gone wrong. But you’re the one who’d know about that—you’re the professional.”

“I don’t know anything about lobotomies, actually.”

“Well, regardless. I’d like it out. You probably don’t understand the perils of a torturous brain.”

“Is that an insult?” asked Doctor Stan.

“Is it?” Arthur asked Jill, who shrugged.

“Don’t direct your questions to her, and don’t answer my questions with a question of your own. I’m here to look out for your safety. And frankly, your attitude smacks of suicidal tendencies. We can put you on C-Wing, you know. But I’ve heard you’re a sleeper, so I doubt you’d like that.”

“Doctor Stan, I’m not going to kill myself. But I am tired. So if we’re done—”

“Today is different, Arthur. They’re going to come and get you for your video arraignment. I’m here to assess your mental state for the proceedings, so you need to answer my questions. Again, do you know why you’re here?”

“Because of what I did.”

“That’s good. That’s pretty much all I need. We’ll talk more later, Arthur. Maybe.”

Doctor Stan nodded to the deputy, and the deputy then swung the steel door open with a loud squeak from its hinges. Arthur walked out, stood against the wall, and waited as the door shut, locking the two clinicians in.

He was left in a small room with the deputy where a table held a color television set with a miniature camera on top. There was a fax machine on another table behind him. On the TV screen was a live shot of a desk and empty chair, a Michigan and an American flag, another desk with another fax machine, a neat stack of bright white paper.

Arthur stared at the empty office for so long he was actually surprised when the judge walked in, robed in black. He sat in his leather chair and tapped the microphone. “Can you hear me?” he asked. He wore halflensed spectacles and his hair was white and short. His assistant entered and sat at the fax machine. “Can you hear me?” he repeated.

“I can hear you,” Arthur said. “You’re coming in loud and clear. Bravo, X-ray, marshmallow. Romeo Romeo wherefore tango.” There was no end to the words he could hear himself saying—like rabbits from a hat. “Alpha, bravo, calypso, sangria, doctor, doctor, yellow, night-light.”

The judge’s assistant fed a piece of paper into the fax machine, and the machine behind Arthur began to beep and spit out the same piece of paper at him. The closed-circuit television, the real-time fax relay, the hum of the paper rolling from the machine—it made him feel as if he was being executed by lethal injection. He closed his eyes and imagined the warmth of the serum surging through his body. So calm, so nice, it was hard to care that you were about to die.

His uncle Jimmy Ray had died that way. In Texas, right? No, Kansas. He had uncles in prison all over the country. It might have been Stateville, Illinois—regardless, he had gone with his mother. She could barely walk, and there were no chairs in the witness room, only the window. His uncle looked tiny in the brightly lit room. His arms were strapped to the sickly green gurney. A microphone hung from the ceiling and a red phone stuck to the wall. Jimmy said, “I’m real sorry for all the pain I caused.” Arthur’s mother cried. Between sobs she kept saying, “He was so good. He was so good.” She may have been talking about Jimmy, or she may have meant her other brother that Jimmy had killed.