Spook night on steroids. Surreal. Off the wall. Z- rated. Pick a hood. Zoo-troit. Zoo York. A zoo for humanoids. As if the gremlin busted in, peeled walls of his brain, and chucked them in a frying pan. Just for the heck of it. Just to see what it looked like. That was prison. Welcome to the deal. The joint is one big head fuck. A gremlin's orgy. Holding time and sanity hostage. Warped, oozing out. Prison time clocked by Dali's melting watches.
Scram was pounding out the Yankees collapse when the warden scratched him from wood shop. Through his window, Tony spotted the pine casket he sanded in carpentry. Now occupied, resting on the bed of a pick-up truck.
Pops was a good bird. A lifer. No family or friends left on the outside. Gassed them all. But it's one to a box, on both sides of the walls. A pair of guards strode up to Scram's cell.
"Let's go Mangano--you pulled End-Zone duty."
"Open cell thirty-three," said his partner. Tony's grill slid open. The End-Zone. The prison's potter's field. The last stop. The big bunk. Tony joined three other inmates being led into the field.
Armed guards, cradling military sawed offs, paced the foursome.
The Ford 150 chugged behind. On the bed, Pops, in his pine casket. In the cab, another guard, and a priest, riding shotgun.
The inmates reached the grave site. The field, hemmed in by a highway and graveled path. Lustrium plates marked the grave sites. Names, numbers, and the year of death. There were never any visitors, or famous inmates to speak of. Tony often pulled rake duty. Garbage from the adjoining highway. McDonalds, Burger King wrappers often floated over, escaped from the rest stop, light years away. Spring sprucing, summer weeding, autumn leaves. This was his first burial.
The inmates carved a six foot alley. Picks and shovels. It was a nice day, milk the job. Not so fast. The guards, wise, yapped to snap it up. A flurry of pick axes, and shovels. The foursome climbed out of the pit, and readied Pops for the deep six. The inmates carried the coffin to the grave site. They placed it softly, strapping belts for the descent.
The priest stepped up, and recited a prayer in fast forward.
The inmates remained silent. The guards bored. The priest finished, and stepped back. The foursome straddled the pine casket, and began lowering it. Gingerly. After all, it was one of their own. It was Pops.
"Let's go ladies--we haven't got all day." One of the bulls said. The inmates didn't pep the pace. The casket would rest in moments. Nobody had the urge to drop it. When Pops finally bedded, the inmates pulled the straps.
One inmate returned the belts to the bed of the truck. Tony and the other two scrambled for the shovels. The inmate placed the straps softly. Any disturbance, echo from the strap buckles, would land him in the hole, in between an infirmary stint.
A cocked shotgun broke the soft wind. The inmates froze. A guard stepped up to the open pit. So did two others, right behind him. Two guards hung back, shotguns raised, ready to party. The inmates knew it. Felt it. They hung back, still.
The three guards over the pit continued. Each unzipped their fly, and one by one, they each pissed on Pops' casket. The inmates had to take it. Force fed. The priest, with no expression, stood still.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" A guard said to Tony.
Scram didn't take the bait, and looked away.
"Sorry father," the guard said.
The charade finally ended, and the funeral wrapped up. Later that evening, the foursome re-united. If only once, if only briefly.
The shared experience in this hell hole created a bond. If only for one night. These four lonely guys never met before, or would after, as a foursome.
"I wish I had the guts to pop that bull right in the chops. He deserved it." One guy said. He didn't seem to far behind Pops in the law of nature racket. A black guy chimed in. "Of all people.
Pops. The dude was like an uncle. A brother's brother." He sparked a Kool.
"This place just tears you down, piece by piece. Then, when there's nothin' left, they throw your ass right back over the wall.
No wonder guys come back."
The brother jumped in. "I'll never forget this. I ran into a cat.
He told me the same shit, man. We were on the outside. He said,
'Man--I miss prison.' This is a fuckin' free man sayin' this. I'm tellin' ya's right now--I'm never comin' back. What--to let some bull piss on my coffin. No fuckin' way Jack. Next time the po-lice box me in, I'm pullin' a pistol, and they could cut me down--right then, and there. Fuck that shit. They could leave my nigger ass in the street for all I care." The bro winded, and sucked down his Kool.
"He's right. What I heard, when a con kicks on the outside, they stick you with your relatives, whether they like it or not."
Spammed Pops' second in line.
"I'll get even with those rats." He said with a chuckle.
"I heard that too. There ain't no bells and whistles--they call the coroners, and stick you in the ground. They get you lost, real fuckin' fast." Added the other guy, a little younger than Tony.
Maybe Nicky's age, had he survived Nam. Another night, Scram might have wondered how the guy managed to make it, while Nicky didn't. Tony let it go.
The card game wrapped up. All winnings were returned to their owners. Kools, food vouchers. It was one of those rare times. A moment, if only for a few hours that Tony didn't feel like he was holed up in prison. A two-hour time module.
Tony finally sprang, and refused to acknowledge the same guards that joined him for End-Zone duty. The bulls scoped Scram. Eye language to go.
We know your type Scram. You'll fuck up really nice, and we'll meet again. The second guard joined in, Of course your takin' the straight, never comin' back. Never heard that one before. The third pissed too, And on the way out, when you make the big scram, we'll splash your casket with holy water.