back to his shelf and sifted through some personal items. Though
hungry, the smell of bland ramen noodles boiling in prison water that had been heated by the tips of exposed metal wires, didn’t exactly rev M.D.’s taste bud engines.
BAM!
With the heel of his shoe Fixer stamped down on a package of peanuts and twisted his foot side-to-side grounding the contents of the packet into smithereens. Once satisfied with
his efforts, Fixer took another plastic bowl and two spoons down from his shelf and began moving around his small space like an actual chef: nimble, fluid, and in total command of his kitchen.
Fixer mixed the seasoning packet from the ramen noodles together with a squeeze of mayonnaise and then dropped a few fat plops of Furnell’s Furiously Flamin’ Hot Sauce into his
evolving concoction. After a dash of something M.D. couldn’t quite make out, Fixer added the package of smashed peanuts to the bottom of the bowl and began blending all the ingredients
together with a ladle that he’d obviously stolen at some point from the penitentiary’s commissary.
“This one of my specialties right here. I call it Prison Pussy Pad Thai.” Fixer smiled wide.
M.D., unimpressed, didn’t return the grin.
“And now, for the highlight.” McCutcheon’s new cell mate crossed back to his supply shelf and pulled down a small silver tin. “White chicken meat. On a special occasion
like this, nothing but the best.”
M.D. wrinkled his brow. “Why a special occasion?”
“A new cellie of your stature? This is practically a holiday for me.”
“What do you mean, ‘my stature’? How do you know about me?”
Fixer gazed at the ceiling as if it were a blue sky in a sunny meadow. “Little hummingbirds. They flutter everywhere in here. You just need to know where to listen.”
Fixer waved his hands magically across the sky and then shuffled to the sink. After draining some water from the ramen noodles into the toilet he opened the can of white chicken meat and
combined everything from the two bowls into one.
A surge of steam, spiced and flavorful, exploded from the hard plastic dish as the hot water and noodles hit the mashup of Fixer’s ingredients.
“
Mmm-mmm
, you gonna love this.”
An involuntary swallow of saliva swelled in McCutcheon’s throat. “Why would I love what I’m not going to eat?”
“And why ain’t you eating?”
“I don’t want to owe anyone for anything.”
“How can you owe for what’s already been paid for?”
M.D. squinched his eyes. “Paid for by who?”
Fixer shook his head, turned, and reached into a basket under his bed. “So many questions. I guess for young people”—Fixer held up a shiny red apple—“a piece of
fruit like this is so much more than just a piece of fruit. But for a geezer like me, with a penis that doesn’t know how to sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’
anymore”—Fixer bit into the luscious red fruit and a spritz of juice sprayed from his mouth—“an apple is just a fuckin’ apple.”
Fixer extended his hand. “Wanna bite?”
McCutcheon stared at the offering. The apple looked crisp and sweet, but M.D. didn’t reach out to accept the gift. In prison,
free
did not exist, and owing debts was a sure recipe
for problems down the road. Convicts had been shanked over as little as the nonrepayment of a candy bar. Best to keep to his own, M.D. thought. Stay focused on the mission.
“I’m good.”
“Toss me your mustard.”
“What?”
“Your mustard? From the S.O.S. It’s the only thing worth a shit in there, anyway.”
M.D. reached into his bag and handed over his two mustard packets. Fixer grabbed them, went back to his shelf, took down a metal plate, and then set a flat silver dish on top of the
stinger’s wires.
“Fried mustard’ll make my penis play the electric guitar.”
“Is everything about your penis?”
“Pretty much. Ever since it died, that is. Then again, don’t all of us want what we can’t have? Have I
hungry, the smell of bland ramen noodles boiling in prison water that had been heated by the tips of exposed metal wires, didn’t exactly rev M.D.’s taste bud engines.
BAM!
With the heel of his shoe Fixer stamped down on a package of peanuts and twisted his foot side-to-side grounding the contents of the packet into smithereens. Once satisfied with
his efforts, Fixer took another plastic bowl and two spoons down from his shelf and began moving around his small space like an actual chef: nimble, fluid, and in total command of his kitchen.
Fixer mixed the seasoning packet from the ramen noodles together with a squeeze of mayonnaise and then dropped a few fat plops of Furnell’s Furiously Flamin’ Hot Sauce into his
evolving concoction. After a dash of something M.D. couldn’t quite make out, Fixer added the package of smashed peanuts to the bottom of the bowl and began blending all the ingredients
together with a ladle that he’d obviously stolen at some point from the penitentiary’s commissary.
“This one of my specialties right here. I call it Prison Pussy Pad Thai.” Fixer smiled wide.
M.D., unimpressed, didn’t return the grin.
“And now, for the highlight.” McCutcheon’s new cell mate crossed back to his supply shelf and pulled down a small silver tin. “White chicken meat. On a special occasion
like this, nothing but the best.”
M.D. wrinkled his brow. “Why a special occasion?”
“A new cellie of your stature? This is practically a holiday for me.”
“What do you mean, ‘my stature’? How do you know about me?”
Fixer gazed at the ceiling as if it were a blue sky in a sunny meadow. “Little hummingbirds. They flutter everywhere in here. You just need to know where to listen.”
Fixer waved his hands magically across the sky and then shuffled to the sink. After draining some water from the ramen noodles into the toilet he opened the can of white chicken meat and
combined everything from the two bowls into one.
A surge of steam, spiced and flavorful, exploded from the hard plastic dish as the hot water and noodles hit the mashup of Fixer’s ingredients.
“
Mmm-mmm
, you gonna love this.”
An involuntary swallow of saliva swelled in McCutcheon’s throat. “Why would I love what I’m not going to eat?”
“And why ain’t you eating?”
“I don’t want to owe anyone for anything.”
“How can you owe for what’s already been paid for?”
M.D. squinched his eyes. “Paid for by who?”
Fixer shook his head, turned, and reached into a basket under his bed. “So many questions. I guess for young people”—Fixer held up a shiny red apple—“a piece of
fruit like this is so much more than just a piece of fruit. But for a geezer like me, with a penis that doesn’t know how to sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’
anymore”—Fixer bit into the luscious red fruit and a spritz of juice sprayed from his mouth—“an apple is just a fuckin’ apple.”
Fixer extended his hand. “Wanna bite?”
McCutcheon stared at the offering. The apple looked crisp and sweet, but M.D. didn’t reach out to accept the gift. In prison,
free
did not exist, and owing debts was a sure recipe
for problems down the road. Convicts had been shanked over as little as the nonrepayment of a candy bar. Best to keep to his own, M.D. thought. Stay focused on the mission.
“I’m good.”
“Toss me your mustard.”
“What?”
“Your mustard? From the S.O.S. It’s the only thing worth a shit in there, anyway.”
M.D. reached into his bag and handed over his two mustard packets. Fixer grabbed them, went back to his shelf, took down a metal plate, and then set a flat silver dish on top of the
stinger’s wires.
“Fried mustard’ll make my penis play the electric guitar.”
“Is everything about your penis?”
“Pretty much. Ever since it died, that is. Then again, don’t all of us want what we can’t have? Have I
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