Diversions

I saw Ryan's round robin fan fiction. If it had been post TMRT, I might have thought about chiming in a bit, but....I always took TMRT to be "official " canon, so will sit this out.
But I did write this. It's been pretty quiet around here the last few days, so I thought I'd drag it out and let anyone who is bored to tears get a few minutes of diversion.




“Shit!”
The fact that there was only a trace of dusk left shining through the broken blinds, left the conclusion that he was running late, yet again.

He pulled his baggy, ratty jeans from off the pile of clothes discarded from earlier in the day, and sloughed them on. The plaid shirt that was looking tired and thin came next. The socks didn’t pass the sniff test, but fork, there wasn’t time to dick around with it. Sneaks, belt, needed the belt, you’re looking pretty scrawny my friend. The watch on the chipped, Salvation Army night stand read 5:35, the same as the last time he checked it before lying down to catch a few winks, fuckalicious. No clue, but there had to still be time, the last meeting for the day was at 10:00, all was not lost yet.

He walked over to the sink, six steps away; this dump really was a Hilton in disguise, hey, hey. Looking back at him in the mirror was a real piece of work.

“Looking good, looking real good.” Oh course that was total bullshit and he knew it. He hadn’t looked good in years; the train was bearing down on him hard. The longer dirty blond hair that always reminded him of a surfer kid was just looking ragged. His eyes were patriotic tonight baby, the old red, white and blue. Running his hands along the stubble reminded him that he threw away his last disposable razor the day before, and had been industrious enough to actually take out the trash, so there would be no last ditch effort to look presentable.

Screw it, not planning on meeting the Pope anyway. His chuckle was the only sound reverberating back on him, and it sounded old, like his grandfather, dead and gone. No getting spooked tonight.

His stomach agreed by retching and gurgling, reminding him that a stale cup of $#it coffee, and the pitiful remains of a two day old roast beef sandwich was not going to cut it, and no matter how tight his chest might feel with his emotions, there was still the basics that had to be covered, and without much more delay, thank you very much.

“Yeah, yeah,” he thought. “I’m going.” It was a mixed blessing, no doubt. He was starving, so he hit the street….




The growing night was bitter cold, and he was only about a couple dozen steps into it before he realized that he would have been much better off with the jean jacket still hanging over the kitchen chair. The wind kicked up and pulled at him, and he tucked in his shirt even tighter and buttoned to the top. Too late now…


“Hey Ben, how’s it going?” Bernie the newsstand guy called out to him from the small, but relative warmth of his booth. Black as coal, with the gold front tooth, he fit every stereotype, but surpassed them all with his wit and style. His newsy cap covered his shining skull, and his hands were hard, lots of years of labor. Labor Ben wasn’t hoping to see himself.

“You know, same $#it, different day”. He could feel his nipples harden under his shirt, and he danced from foot to foot.

“Well, you going to be a frozen cracker if you don’t get where you going. But here, take the rest of my coffee, damn waitress gave me decaf, I can tell.”

Ben reached out and grabbed the steaming cup and felt a wave of dumb gratitude. His hands blessed the warmth.

“Thanks man, ‘ppreciate it.”

“Yeah, get out here.” You’re scaring away my customers.” He gestured out to the empty streets. Ben smiled sheepishly and went on his way.


Two blocks down, and left onto Madison, and he could see the stark industrial lights of the building he wanted.

283 Madison “The Center for Rehabilitation Control”.

The white lights cast a wet sheen on the sidewalk, masking the decades of spit and stamped gum. All dainty charm aside, it looked inviting to him, as he needed what was inside.

Before he could enter the front doors, he had to pass an entryway much like a movie theatre ticket counter. A bored looking cop leafing through a Jugs magazine looked up at him through thick bulletproof glass with a small oval cut at the bottom. The computer monitor in front of him cast a sick green glow, giving the officer wicked cat eyes.

“Name and serial number” He leaned over, chair creaking on its springs and grabbed the keyboard.

“Benjamin Haskil 98653950.”

“Crime?”

“Grand larceny, vehicular homicide”

“Your arm….”

Ben unbuttoned the sleeve and rolled the cuff up, watching his hair stand at attention. The cop made no notice of his goose bumps, but ran the scanner over the chip in his forearm, seated snugly between the bones. Nestled in tightly… where a prying scalpel couldn’t get to if that crazy idea entered anyone’s head. They showed the pictures of results of any attempts; it wasn’t pretty. The light flashed twice, the device gave the chirp, he was clear.

“Go on in.”

The heavy steel door buzzed and Ben was allowed inside. He ignored the rows of closed doors of confessionals and counseling, and went straight to the chow hall. The industrial school clock read 8:30, so traffic in the cafeteria was light. He nodded to one or two regulars he hung with. Got a tray and filled up with tonight’s special. A dour old lady with a tattered hairnet scooped out what could be dubiously known as “meat” in wan brown gravy. An ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes was next and some waxy green beans made for a splash of color. A triangle of bread was added as garnish, and while deliberating the pro and cons of milk or juice, a small carton of 2% was tossed to him, and he was dismissed.
“Next!”

He sat down in his traditional spot and glanced over at the people who were not quite friends, but comfortable to be around. There was a new kid though. Short and skinny with a set of birth control glasses perched precariously on his greasy complexion.

Ben never wanted to be thought as unsocial, so he offered his hand first.

“Meetcha…. I’m Ben… five years out.”

Glasses looked carefully at Ben’s hand before shaking it, as if bubonic plague might still be around and catching. A couple of quick pumps and he took his hand back. Ben wanted to wipe the clamminess away, but thought it might be considered rude.

“ I just got out today. ”

“Where you from?” Ben sincerely was interested. His stretch of experience hadn’t seen him south of Baltimore.

“Miami.”

“What your skinny butt doing up here?” One of the other cons quipped up. “Shit, I’d be laying out on the beach right now.”

“Yeah sure you would Frank. Just right after you sprouted a set of wings out of your ass!”

Frank shook his head at the ribbing, but let it pass. The group laughed, and glasses relaxed a bit.

“Jacked a car, and financed our trip up with a little b&e. Since it was my first offense, and nobody was home, I got the chip for 5 yrs.”

“You didn’t get the juice?” One of the other cons leaned in on him, crowding his style.

“Well, no. They said if I ever got sent up for anything else, I would, but I guess it helps I’m just past juvie. I still have to come to the centers though.”

“Shit kid, you got nothing but a slap on the wrist, you know dat, don’t you.”

Glasses got a little tense after that.
“Yeah, I know.”
He paused. “So what is the juice? I never really understood.”

Frank leaned in again. “Well, how bout I let Ben tell you, he used to be smart once, weren’t you?”

“Funny guy… dip wad.” Ben flicked him the bird. Then settled down to tell the story.

“The juice… as we call it, was supposed to be a cure for Hyperatremia. Do you know what that is?”

As expected, glasses hadn’t a clue. He shook his head.

“Sodium imbalances. Your muscles and nerves need a proper balance of sodium and potassium to work correctly. Certain concentrations of one or the other are necessary for muscle fibers to contract, for nerves to fire. The juice was supposed to help people who had problems, but they fucked it up. It left you permanently in need for regulation. The body couldn’t absorb sodium alone anymore. You need the juice for a catalyst. Not a lot, just a little, but you need it everyday. Don’t need a shot or dialysis or anything. Just a little bit digested everyday was enough to keep you …regular… shall we say.”

“Muscle fibers… so you get paralyzed if you don’t take the juice?”

“Not right away, first you get stupid… confusion… stuff like that. Then you get weak, and it gets harder to breathe. Your muscles weaken, and well, your ticker’s just a great big muscle. If your heart muscle stops working, you’re in a whole world of hurt.”

“Man that sucks…” Glasses was suitably in awe.

“Well, it’s a life sentence, but not as bad as it could be. There’s a center in just about every city, and the food is free. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not rolling in dough. A free 3 squares a day sounds not too bad to me.”

“But the chip…?”

“The chip is just to make sure you stay a good little boy. I don’t think it’s much more than the chip they give cats and dogs from the pound. They want to keep track of you. You’re not stuck going to the same parole officer everyday, and you’re not taking up a cell better used for some kiddy rapist. You’ve got freedom to move. But you’re going to remember everyday at least once a day what horrible things you’ve done to deserve this. The really violent folks, well, they stay locked away. But us, the inbetweeners, they just want to keep track, and keep you reminded.”

“Yeah, I wondered why they asked me that before they buzzed me in.”

“Just keep it on your mind. And by the way, don’t be a picky eater. I heard that Vasquez had to spend a week in the hospital cause he didn’t feel like eating anything but oranges.”

“Have you ever thought of leaving?” Glasses watched him appraisingly.

“Yeah, it’s possible. Set up a time aside from your weekly confessional; make out a map, a plan. Don’t plan on taking a trip out in the woods though. 72 hrs is all I say we’re good for on our own.”

“Ever been to the beach?”

He thought about it. “Nothing besides the toxic Jersey dump. It might be nice for a change. What’s your idea?”

Glasses thought it over. His brow knitted tightly into a brown squiggly caterpillar. Most of the group had moved away into one of the counseling rooms, so they were alone at the table.

“My folks own a cottage on the keys. They have a realtor keep an eye on it. They go out maybe one or twice a year. Might be nice to drive down, get a job bussing tables at a Tiki bar, check out the babes.”

Ben thought it sounded really fine. He was tired of the armpit of the upper east coast. Tired of looking at himself wasting away in a town he never really liked but never left because of habit. He was tired of thinking no more ahead than the next meeting, the next plug of juice.

The clear blue water and sand so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; that sounded mighty fine.

A prison doesn’t have to be a place where people hold you, but a place you hold yourself.