He didn’t know the name of the surgery he’d had on that shit knee, but it was done with wires thinner than human hair. And under the local anesthetic he could hear the lasers hum and watch them flicker red, like police strobes glinting off the polished silver of the surgical light. He wondered if he should have been wearing some sort of welder’s goggles, or at least sunglasses or something, you know, for eye protection. Well guess what, he said, he was going to keep an eye out (ha ha) for any future problems with his sight, and then sue those big-shot bastards into the Stone Age.
Had I ever seen The Six Million Dollar Man? You know, with Lee Majors? He’d told people that with all the lasers and the tiny titanium additions, and the round of cortico-what-have-you-steroids, he was part bionic. Not six million dollars bionic, but about ten grand bionic.
He’d said to call back anytime. But his number was gone under that sickly green. This was before I got my pen, a jail-approved ballpoint given to us by the Gideons. The pen was a slender, ink-filled insert wrapped in a thin tube, flexible, so you couldn’t stab anyone with it. We called them “broke dicks.”
I’ve always felt guilty for not calling Kitty-Kat again, like I’ve hurt his feelings. I try it every day, 349-something.
349-1234: The person at the number you dialed did not accept, or the call was received by an automated answering device.
349-1235: The person at the number you dialed did not . . .
349-1236: The number you dialed is a nonworking number.
I don’t have certain numbers to call, you see. I have every number.
349-1238: The number you dialed is a nonworking number.
349-1239: The number you dialed is a nonworking number.
Tomorrow I’ll start with 1240.
Oh, I’m so glad you called. I was just thinking of you. Now where were we—After these things I looked, and behold the temple of the tabernacle of the testimony was opened in heaven . . . and she did not repent . . . I will kill her children with death . . . I will give to each one of you according to your works—Oh, wait just a minute, son, my pie is done.
She put the phone down, I imagined, on the kitchen table, and I heard the oven door open and heard her praising the pie’s flakiness and aroma, the simple perfection of it. And through the phone I could smell the hot, sticky blackberries and the golden crust. I heard the song of a grandfather clock and a semi rumbling past. I closed my eyes and sat at the table in the kitchen of this old lady who loved to tell me about the end of the world in her sweet old-lady voice.
I think she forgot about me, which was perfect. I listened to her hum some tunes I didn’t recognize, and she talked to her blackberry pie as if it was a small child or a puppy: “Oh, you are a nice little yummy thing, aren’t you. You are just perfect . . .”
The computer-voiced operator cut in—you have one minute remaining. Sometimes that minute seems long and drawn-out, and sometimes it is over much too quickly. “You are a little golden circle of sunshine, aren’t you—” and the connection ended.
I hung up just as a skinny, black, effeminate man called Peanut came into the cell, looked around, then fell to the floor and had a seizure. The deputies rolled him in a wheelchair down to the nurse. He returned about an hour later and we were all nervous, thinking every noise was Peanut falling to the floor again. Little D said we were all seizure-shy, like a nervous dog forever jumping at loud noises. I took my seat at the phone.
This call is from Heyitsme at the Kalamazoo County Jail. It is subject to monitoring and recording. Thank you for using Global Tel Link.
Who is this? Fuck it—never mind. Lone Ranger’s on. You ever watch this shit? This geezer channel shows ’em every goddamn afternoon. The original one. The black-and-white one, not the later bullshit ones. You know those ones where he wasn’t allowed to wear his goddamned mask? He had to wear sunglasses because the mask is trademarked or some shit. You believe that fucking political correctness nowadays? Everybody’s feelings—turning us into a nation of pussies.
It’s probably a legal issue, I said. Trademarks and stuff.
No, it’s all bullshit, man. We’re a nation of pussies, mired in bullshit.
A lot of people here watch that station, if that tells you anything.
Who does? The police or the jailbirds? Fuck that anyway. Listen—I’m going to my niece’s first communion at Saint Jude’s this weekend, even though they didn’t invite me. Bunch of bastards. Body of Christ. That priest has always had it out for me. She’s in the second grade, my niece.
What’s your phone number there?
Why? You’re the one who called me.
I know, but I keep forgetting to write down the numbers. Most of these numbers don’t work, and when they do work I get wrapped up in talking, then forget.
Fine. 349-1302. Did you write it down? Just don’t call me all the time, dude. But call sometimes. Next time I’ll tell you how I knew Lance Armstrong was doping because he had cancer in his balls. Just common sense, man.
I will.
Now listen—I’ve been waiting to tell this to someone and you called right on time. I’m at the mall, right? I’m at the bus stop outside Ruby Tuesday’s at Crossroads mall and this fat, old, bearded guy sits next to me, making small talk about what brought me to the mall, the gorgeous weather, the Tigers’ prospects, and the high cost of gas and whatever. So, what do you do for fun? he says.
And I tell him, I like to hunt.
Oh, wonderful, he says. What do you hunt—dove, rabbit, deer?
And I look right at him and say: Fat, white, bearded bastards.
Peanut walked around our cell in a sort of daze that one of the deputies said was malingering with the intent of getting sent to the hospital. He would Malinger With Intent around our four-man cell saying what people say when they answer a call from the county jail. Who is this? he would say. Who is this?
I was jealous that Peanut was said to be Malingering With Intent. It really sounded like something to be.
For the time is at hand! He who is unjust, let him be unjust still; he who is filthy, let him be filthy still; he who is righteous, let him be righteous still; he who is holy . . . I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End, the First and the Last . . . The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen. And that, my friend, is the end of the Bible. It’s like the whole thing is a very long prayer, how it ends with Amen. You get that?
I did. But how does it begin?
It’s a fucking assault on the Second Amendment, is what it is. If they can take away the Lone Ranger’s mask, they can, and will, take our guns. That doesn’t mean shit to you, but you might want to know what’s going on out here. I know a couple of militia types, and they are crazy. But Timothy McVeigh, he was framed, you know. A patsy.
There was silence between us for a minute. I could hear a television commercial in the background: Drive a Ferrari like the rich and famous . . .
And then he changed, like a station on TV.
I’m going to come and get you, kid. I fucking swear to God. You’re in there thinking, How’s he going to do that? He don’t know where I lock, he don’t know my name. But I got ways. It’s easier than hell to get in there—you know that already. It’s getting out that’s hard.
Here’s what I’ll do: at my niece’s fancy fucking communion, I’m going to punch the priest and get put in a cell with you, and then I’m going to eat you up like a greasy soup. And while I’m gobbling