Stupid is as Stupid Does

Someone slides a newspaper under my cell door so I twist around to reach it without leaving the bunk. Dad's on the front page, elbows propped on the arms of a chair, fingers laced, supporting his chin. Handcuffs peek out from under his shirt. The headline reads: Mastermind of father-son jewel heist team jailed.

His face is softer than I remember, his head shaved bald. I look for signs of stress but find none.

The article jumps from the page. I focus on what the judge said to dad before sentencing him to twelve years:

This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time.

The article concludes that during a robbery we threatened we'd kill the victim if he failed to report the robbery was committed by three black men.

I'm interrupted by the guards call over the loud speaker, “Canteen, A through M, pickup.”

The doors pop open. I’m sensitive to any and all stares, especially from the black inmates. Next door is Malakai and his cellmate Donovan. I argued with Donovan one night after he cut into my reserved phone time. He towers over me but is soft and perpetually sweating. A walk from his cell to the shower leaves him winded.

Malakai is surprisingly agile despite his gimp leg. He has no kneecap after his gun went off while he tried to pull it from his waistband. It missed his penis by inches before blowing a hole in the top of his knee. He’s the most boisterous voice on the block, pacing up and down the hall; spouting about the collective evils that make up the entity he calls “The Man.” The Man is racist and utterly corrupt. The Man is responsible for Malakai’s ability to procure a weapon and rob the convenience store that in turn robbed him of a normal gait. The Man is white.

He mills about the block, paying no particualr attention as I dart out the door.

I snatch up my canteen bags and hurry back to the block. I pass Donovan, sweating near the phones, the receiver pressed to his ear. Malakai emerges from his cell and limps toward me. I drift to the opposite side of the hallway to avoid him. He adjusts and meets me head-on.

“Excuse me.” I say and move to sidestep his intrusion.

“Where you going with my canteen, white boy?” he says.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“My canteen.” Malakai says.

“Our canteen.” Donovan reiterates over my shoulder.

“As a matter of fact you can drop that shit off every week from now on. White. Boy.” Malakai says, letting me know he read the article.

Other inmates take notice. My options disappear in thickets of dread. At the end of the hall is a door that connects the east and west sides of the building. A guard emerges, keys jingling from his belt.

I whisper, “I don’t want any trouble, you can have the bags. Just let me bring them to my cell so the sergeant doesn’t suspect anything.”

“Do that.” Malakai responds.

I rush to my cell and set the bags down. My hands shake. I pull a pair of socks from my locker and stuff one into the other then fill them with tuna cans pulled from the bags. With the socks wrapped tight around my wrist, I run out into the hall.

Donovan shouts out a warning, but it’s too late. I aim and take out Malakai first. The cans crash against the side of his head as he goes down.

Simultaneous with turning my sights on Donovan, the call goes out. The sergeant shouts into a receiver clipped to his shoulder, “Move team to east down, I repeat, move team to east down,” which means officers are suiting up in riot gear to take me by force to the hole.

The weight of the cans pulls my arm across my body. I wield the makeshift mace and aim for the porous flesh of Donovan’s shoulder but he turns expectantly and takes it in the chest. I swing them circular, gain momentum, and bring the cans down on his head.

I know the disciplinary committee will suspect this is a hate crime, perpetrated against a minority by a cold callous mind, so I turn the tuna cans on Ritchie, the closest Caucasian.

The ensuing quiet brings clarity. The shaking subsides. I kneel at the sergeant’s behest, interlace my fingers behind my head, and lay on my stomach per his demands.