happen to several guys. It took about three weeks. They started by yelling back at them to shut up. After this failed they simply yelled all the time, like barking dogs answering each other.
Blake felt secretly grateful for the range heâd recently been assigned to, filled with Level Two inmates, who in the opinion of the guards demonstrated better attitudes and behavior than those on Level One. Levels Four and Five were the highest, of course, and supposedly entailed privileges like computers. But descriptions of Level Three remained vague, and no one seemed to know anyone who had ever been on Level Four or Five. And needless to say, asking a guard about it could get you bounced down to Level One.
My father would be proud of me, Blake thought, if he knew. He didnât, though, because about a year before, Blake had told him never to visit again. Still, it made Blake feel good to think of his father being proud of him, even if it wasnât true.
He wondered what Nate might be doing. His ancient Kenworth might be broken down somewhere in Montana, with him sitting beside it along the road. Or he might be at home, eating chicken and biscuits.
Blake smiled at the latter thought. No one loved good food more than his father, and he spared no effort in obtaining it. Blakeâs memories eagerly crowded togetherâaccompanying his father to remote farms, knocking on doors, asking, âExcuse me, but I heard you have some red peppers for sale, grown without pesticides. . . . Is it true you have air-cured beef? . . . My son and I would certainly appreciate your letting us know when these muskmelons are ripe. . . . Did you say corn-fed, walk-around-the-yard chickens without antibiotics? Brown eggs? No, we donâtgive a flying grommet whether youâre inspected or not. . . . Yes, we would be very interested in goat cheese if you had any to spare. Do you know of anyone who raises shallots or mills their own wheat? . . . Sorry for the intrusion, but I recently had a cup of cider made from windfall and cherries; is there any chance that cider came from around here? . . . Someone told me you smoke carp. Is that true? . . . Say, are those freshly woven garlic braids?â
11:46 p.m. Blake decided he should pray before falling asleep, rolled out of his bunk, and knelt on the concrete.
This posture always felt a little undignified to Blake, especially under the omnipresent eye of the security camera. It was the position the guards made you get into before putting on the shacklesâone of the reasons most inmates refused the once-a-day court-mandated optional exercise period in an outdoor cage. Yet almost everyone who claimed to have made some contact with God insisted upon it, Muslims especially.
Blake had at first complained (to himself) that a particular posture had nothing to do with how genuine his prayers were, and refused to kneel. If the legitimacy of prayers depended upon the physical arrangement of the body from which they were released, then the delivery system was more important than what it delivered, the law more valuable than the spirit. No, he wasnât going to do it. If God couldnât recognize true humility from the inside, then God wasnât God.
But eventually Blake noticed that his arguments against kneeling always seemed to come from an especially unreliable corner of his mind, where a well-known choir of dissidents greeted most things with scoffing contempt. A company of old boys, they automatically condemned anything new. And this more than anything else convinced him to discredit their voices. Who knew? A certain posture might play some role in praying. Perhaps it would help. Who could say? Heâd try anything and needed whatever help he could get, however he could get it. And after he became accustomed to kneeling he was quick to ridicule any attempts to pray in another manner. The unreliable choir of dissidents took up the kneeling practice, as committed to protecting one habit
Blake felt secretly grateful for the range heâd recently been assigned to, filled with Level Two inmates, who in the opinion of the guards demonstrated better attitudes and behavior than those on Level One. Levels Four and Five were the highest, of course, and supposedly entailed privileges like computers. But descriptions of Level Three remained vague, and no one seemed to know anyone who had ever been on Level Four or Five. And needless to say, asking a guard about it could get you bounced down to Level One.
My father would be proud of me, Blake thought, if he knew. He didnât, though, because about a year before, Blake had told him never to visit again. Still, it made Blake feel good to think of his father being proud of him, even if it wasnât true.
He wondered what Nate might be doing. His ancient Kenworth might be broken down somewhere in Montana, with him sitting beside it along the road. Or he might be at home, eating chicken and biscuits.
Blake smiled at the latter thought. No one loved good food more than his father, and he spared no effort in obtaining it. Blakeâs memories eagerly crowded togetherâaccompanying his father to remote farms, knocking on doors, asking, âExcuse me, but I heard you have some red peppers for sale, grown without pesticides. . . . Is it true you have air-cured beef? . . . My son and I would certainly appreciate your letting us know when these muskmelons are ripe. . . . Did you say corn-fed, walk-around-the-yard chickens without antibiotics? Brown eggs? No, we donâtgive a flying grommet whether youâre inspected or not. . . . Yes, we would be very interested in goat cheese if you had any to spare. Do you know of anyone who raises shallots or mills their own wheat? . . . Sorry for the intrusion, but I recently had a cup of cider made from windfall and cherries; is there any chance that cider came from around here? . . . Someone told me you smoke carp. Is that true? . . . Say, are those freshly woven garlic braids?â
11:46 p.m. Blake decided he should pray before falling asleep, rolled out of his bunk, and knelt on the concrete.
This posture always felt a little undignified to Blake, especially under the omnipresent eye of the security camera. It was the position the guards made you get into before putting on the shacklesâone of the reasons most inmates refused the once-a-day court-mandated optional exercise period in an outdoor cage. Yet almost everyone who claimed to have made some contact with God insisted upon it, Muslims especially.
Blake had at first complained (to himself) that a particular posture had nothing to do with how genuine his prayers were, and refused to kneel. If the legitimacy of prayers depended upon the physical arrangement of the body from which they were released, then the delivery system was more important than what it delivered, the law more valuable than the spirit. No, he wasnât going to do it. If God couldnât recognize true humility from the inside, then God wasnât God.
But eventually Blake noticed that his arguments against kneeling always seemed to come from an especially unreliable corner of his mind, where a well-known choir of dissidents greeted most things with scoffing contempt. A company of old boys, they automatically condemned anything new. And this more than anything else convinced him to discredit their voices. Who knew? A certain posture might play some role in praying. Perhaps it would help. Who could say? Heâd try anything and needed whatever help he could get, however he could get it. And after he became accustomed to kneeling he was quick to ridicule any attempts to pray in another manner. The unreliable choir of dissidents took up the kneeling practice, as committed to protecting one habit
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