Roll Call and Shiny Aviators

Andrew Lee

Bennett P. 5

World Lit. H

20 April 2015

Roll Call and Shiny Aviators

  The loud buzz that woke me from my sleep was accompanied by the harsh, grating sound of the cell doors grinding open. I got out of bed immediately and steadied myself against the wall for a few dizzy moments before walking out of my cell and coming to a halt in front of the metal bars that usually kept me inside. The morning was cold and smelled damp, and I shivered inside my gray, worn-out prison shirt.

  I was the second one out, as usual. Tall Pete was standing in his place across the yard from me, a vacant expression on his thin face. He was muttering to himself and rubbing his hands together furiously. Nobody knew why he was always the first one out of his cell, but my theory was that it gave him a sense of pride, of direction. You needed that in a place like this.

I was surprised to see an inmate walk out of the cell next to mine. It had been vacant ever since Mikey had bashed his head in against the wall; he’d been lying in the infirmary in a coma ever since. The new kid was just that: it looked like he’d come straight out of high-school. When he noticed that I was inspecting him, he grinned eagerly, and I gave him a curt nod and turned away.

“James Schmidt, but you can just call me Jim. Extremely pleased to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. I shook it somewhat reluctantly: “Andy.” I wasn’t big on introductions.

“What are you in for?” he asked. I smiled inwardly; prisoners don’t make small talk, especially during morning roll call. Even so, I was starting to like the kid, and I entertained his attempts to be friendly.

  “Involuntary manslaughter.” I winced at the sound of the term; it made me sound like a killer. I was still haunted by memories of that night, driving at fifty through the seemingly empty city streets, my vision blurred by alcohol and the lure of sleep, unaware of the man hurrying across the road. For that, I was given a lenient one-year sentence, and I was now on course to be released in a matter of weeks.

  Noting my lack of elaboration, Jim nodded slowly, and he replied, “I’m here five years, for theft. You know, a grand theft, of the ‘auto’ variety.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Our conversation was cut short by the sight of the prison officer for our block, a man named Jackson. He was your stereotypical prison guard: tall, aggressive, and undeniably cocky. His slick blond hair was always neatly combed back, and he wore a pair of shiny black aviators that made it impossible to see his eyes. He was carrying a clipboard full of papers in his hand, and the sound of his polished dress shoes clicking against the tiled floor echoed through the open building.

  He came to a halt in front of Jim and regarded him with a cold stare. “You’re new here?”

“That’s right,” he responded with a smile.

  Jackson scowled and said, “That’s ‘sir’ to you, sonny,” as he wrote something on his paper. Must’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed today, I thought to myself.

  “Oh, my bad,” Jim hastily apologized. Jackson stepped forward until his face was just inches from Jim’s. He towered over the young prisoner, his muscles bulging through his uniform, and he cracked his neck threateningly.

“What did I just say?” He glared into the prisoner’s eyes, his breath heavy with the stench of cigarette smoke.

  “Oh, yeah. Um, sorry... sir.” Jim cast his eyes down to avoid the officer’s unwavering stare. He was shaking hard, the poor kid.

Jackson was beginning to turn away when another prisoner standing in line cleared his throat. He turned to face Jim again and shouted, “You say something, maggot?”

In a panicked voice, Jim responded, “No!”

Before I knew it, the guard had stepped forward and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and he said through clenched teeth, “I definitely heard something, mate. Are you calling me crazy?” I shook my head at Jim, but he didn’t see me. Everyone’s been in that position, unfairly called out by someone bigger or stronger. In prison, the prisoners are always guilty, and the guards always faultless; no trial by jury here.

Jim yelped and put his hands up pleadingly: “No! Somebody coughed, I swear I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” He shook the boy vigorously and pinned him against the wall. “For your information, I didn’t ask you to speak.” He was breathing heavily now.

For the love of God, shut the hell up, I thought.

In a desperate attempt to explain himself, Jim said, “No, I was just answering your question, ask anybody—”

He was cut off by a brutal punch to the stomach, then to the jaw. Jim grunted and doubled over, and Jackson’s clipboard clattered to the ground as he unleashed an absolutely merciless beating on the skinny boy. The other prisoners ignored the commotion and looked straight ahead, unwilling to share his wrath. We were all used to it anyway, this unwarranted violence. Jackson had complete authority over any prisoner in his jurisdiction, making the prisoners absolutely powerless to stop him. Some people in this world just want to see others suffer, I thought.

When he had finished, he picked up his clipboard, stood up, and straightened his uniform. His black wooden baton remained untouched at his hip. He walked over to me, still breathing hard through his nose. “And you, anything to say?”

“No, sir!” I lied, looking dead ahead. I did have something to say to Jackson. I wanted to call him a bastard; I wanted to tell him he was cruel, and unjust. I stayed silent, though, and waited for his anger to pass. He glared at me for a few moments more before turning back and walking briskly towards the other end of the hall and back to the main office building.

We remained in line until the buzzer dismissed us to breakfast. Jim was still lying on the ground, cradling his bruised head and whimpering softly. I wanted to help him, to console him. Instead, I hesitated slightly before stepping over him and heading to the mess hall.