iron bars lay his new home, a six-foot by eight-foot cell with a steel sink, a steel toilet, two metal shelves, two metal bunks—one on top of the other—and one fellow
prisoner, already inside lying on the bottom bed.
The guard opened the cell’s door and M.D. stepped forward, unsure of what to expect. He imagined a snarl or some profanity. Maybe a whole bunch of rules about how and when he could use the
toilet.
Rules he might have to renegotiate with his fists.
“Welcome. Been expectin’ you.”
The cell door slammed behind McCutcheon and an involuntary shudder wormed up his spine. The sound of iron bars locking him into a cage felt more haunting than he ever expected.
“Come on in. Make yourself comfortable. Plenty of space. Wanna cuppa coffee? Name’s Fixer.”
He had hair the color of snow, a slender frame, and arms that flabbed even though he wasn’t overweight. Guy seemed seventy, at least.
An old man? M.D. thought.
Fixer held up two pieces of exposed wire from a snipped brown extension cord that had been plugged into an electrical socket at the back wall, and McCutcheon watched as his new cell mate dipped
both ends of the shiny coil into a plastic bowl filled with water. By the time M.D. tossed his gear onto the top bunk, eyed the chipped paint on the ceiling, and spied the dismal spot where
he’d now be brushing his teeth, tiny bubbles started to rise from the bottom of Fixer’s container.
“They sell them hot pots in the commissary, but they don’t get hot enough for the water to boil,” Fixer said. “In a way, they’re kinda like my penis, supposed to do
one thing but they don’t.” The old man reached for two packets of instant coffee and two cups. “Guy like me supposed to be able to get a stiff one, you know, raise the ol’
flagpole, but not anymore. Can you believe I ain’t been laid in forty-seven years? Hell, if I saw me a vagina right now, I’d have to trade that sucker in for something more practical,
like a good pillow. You gotta a girl?”
McCutcheon didn’t reply. Instead he stood in the middle of the cell, stretched out both of his arms, and extended his fingetips. Each brushed the opposing wall and M.D. realized that yes,
he could indeed touch both sides of his new home at the same time.
“Thing about them hot pots is, if you boil up some liquid that there could be used as a weapon. Throw it at a guard or an enemy or something. That’s why they sell hot pots that
don’t get hot. Also why we gotta make ourselves these here stingers.” With the water furiously bubbling, Fixer reached for a paper cup. “You want sugar with your
coffee?”
“I don’t want coffee at all.”
Fixer, about to pour a fresh cup of prison java for his new cell mate, froze, stung by McCutcheon’s ungrateful, blunt reply. To M.D. it seemed fairly obvious that a worn-out old timer who
lacked muscles, speed, or strength did not own the skills to be any kind of threat to him.
Then a second thought crossed McCutcheon’s mind as he watched the old guy remove the stinger’s wires from the boiling water.
Or maybe he did?
“F ine, you don’t want coffee, no problem. But I’m sure you wanna eat. You gotta be starved by now.”
Fixer crossed to his shelf and pulled down a package of instant ramen noodles.
“I’ll cook us somethin’ dandy.”
“They gave me something to eat right here,” M.D. said, referring to the brown bag he brought with him.
“Oh, you don’t want to eat S.O.S.”
“S.O.S.?”
“Same ol’ shit,” Fixer said. “They been serving that rubber turkey since 1952. Don’t even know why they call it turkey. At best, there’s kitten meat in
there.”
Fixer tore open the package of dry food and searched his shelf for another bowl.
Ramen noodles? How many nights had I been forced to eat those with my sister, M.D. thought
.
After putting the noodles in a plastic bowl and pouring the unused hot water from the coffee over the top of them, Fixer crossed
prisoner, already inside lying on the bottom bed.
The guard opened the cell’s door and M.D. stepped forward, unsure of what to expect. He imagined a snarl or some profanity. Maybe a whole bunch of rules about how and when he could use the
toilet.
Rules he might have to renegotiate with his fists.
“Welcome. Been expectin’ you.”
The cell door slammed behind McCutcheon and an involuntary shudder wormed up his spine. The sound of iron bars locking him into a cage felt more haunting than he ever expected.
“Come on in. Make yourself comfortable. Plenty of space. Wanna cuppa coffee? Name’s Fixer.”
He had hair the color of snow, a slender frame, and arms that flabbed even though he wasn’t overweight. Guy seemed seventy, at least.
An old man? M.D. thought.
Fixer held up two pieces of exposed wire from a snipped brown extension cord that had been plugged into an electrical socket at the back wall, and McCutcheon watched as his new cell mate dipped
both ends of the shiny coil into a plastic bowl filled with water. By the time M.D. tossed his gear onto the top bunk, eyed the chipped paint on the ceiling, and spied the dismal spot where
he’d now be brushing his teeth, tiny bubbles started to rise from the bottom of Fixer’s container.
“They sell them hot pots in the commissary, but they don’t get hot enough for the water to boil,” Fixer said. “In a way, they’re kinda like my penis, supposed to do
one thing but they don’t.” The old man reached for two packets of instant coffee and two cups. “Guy like me supposed to be able to get a stiff one, you know, raise the ol’
flagpole, but not anymore. Can you believe I ain’t been laid in forty-seven years? Hell, if I saw me a vagina right now, I’d have to trade that sucker in for something more practical,
like a good pillow. You gotta a girl?”
McCutcheon didn’t reply. Instead he stood in the middle of the cell, stretched out both of his arms, and extended his fingetips. Each brushed the opposing wall and M.D. realized that yes,
he could indeed touch both sides of his new home at the same time.
“Thing about them hot pots is, if you boil up some liquid that there could be used as a weapon. Throw it at a guard or an enemy or something. That’s why they sell hot pots that
don’t get hot. Also why we gotta make ourselves these here stingers.” With the water furiously bubbling, Fixer reached for a paper cup. “You want sugar with your
coffee?”
“I don’t want coffee at all.”
Fixer, about to pour a fresh cup of prison java for his new cell mate, froze, stung by McCutcheon’s ungrateful, blunt reply. To M.D. it seemed fairly obvious that a worn-out old timer who
lacked muscles, speed, or strength did not own the skills to be any kind of threat to him.
Then a second thought crossed McCutcheon’s mind as he watched the old guy remove the stinger’s wires from the boiling water.
Or maybe he did?
“F ine, you don’t want coffee, no problem. But I’m sure you wanna eat. You gotta be starved by now.”
Fixer crossed to his shelf and pulled down a package of instant ramen noodles.
“I’ll cook us somethin’ dandy.”
“They gave me something to eat right here,” M.D. said, referring to the brown bag he brought with him.
“Oh, you don’t want to eat S.O.S.”
“S.O.S.?”
“Same ol’ shit,” Fixer said. “They been serving that rubber turkey since 1952. Don’t even know why they call it turkey. At best, there’s kitten meat in
there.”
Fixer tore open the package of dry food and searched his shelf for another bowl.
Ramen noodles? How many nights had I been forced to eat those with my sister, M.D. thought
.
After putting the noodles in a plastic bowl and pouring the unused hot water from the coffee over the top of them, Fixer crossed
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