Black Treacle Magazine (March/April 2013, Issue 2) (5 page)

Then again why
was he bellyaching? He brought it all on himself.

"Taylor, you
look like shit today. Here you have some mail," Carl said sliding
an envelope between the bars.

"I look like
shit every day."

Carl was the
only screw with any sense of humour, the others weren't worth piss.
Taylor even almost smiled watching Carl and his big butt make his
way down the hall.

Walking down
that hall was something Taylor would do only one more time on that
happy day when they took him to the gas chamber.

In the
meantime, nothing-- hours, weeks, months, years of nothing wait
ahead like some deranged purgatory.

He threw the
envelope onto his cot. Having exhausted all his appeals whatever
sat between that wrapping could wait. It wasn't a million bucks.
That was certain as the next turn of a key, not that a million, let
alone a billion bucks, could do his sorry ass any good.

Fate sucked;
if he could only live that day over. What if he’d gotten up two
minutes later or two minutes earlier? What if he didn’t down that
extra glass of whiskey? What if it was snowing? What if his car
broke down? What if the universe wasn’t made of what ifs.

Taylor stood
above the cot staring at the envelope noting there wasn’t a return
address on it when he heard Carl making his way back up the
corridor. The shuffling of shoes breaking through the silence was
always more pronounced there. It wasn’t just a matter of acoustics.
Quite appropriately, there were so few sounds of life on death row
that any sound made stood out more, from a whistle to the drip of
the faucet.

Carl hardly
ever whistled but he was whistling that day. When he reached
Taylor’s cell he poked his head in.

“Well, are you
going to open that thing up, or are you just gonna stare it all
day?”

“I think I’ll
stare at it all day.”

“Suit
yourself; you know why I like you Taylor? Because you are the
unluckiest son of a bitch in the world.”

Taylor grinned
with sarcasm, “Thanks, Carl. Have a nice day.”

“Only you
could make that sound like a curse. You have a nice day too,
Taylor.”

As he watched
Carl walk towards the doors at the end of the corridor his grin
fell and his mouth took on all the signs of a sadness that would
never die. Then a tear formed in Taylor’s eye and he cried. He
cried every single day. His words echoed across the empty hall,
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Sadness was
the only thing death row didn’t kill. He had bankrolls full of
limitless sorrow to spend.

Taylor stared
at the envelope again. He picked it up and ran it across his
nostrils like he was trying out a fine wine, and he tossed it down
on his mattress.

The mattress
looked worse every day. If he was destined to die there couldn’t
they at least provide a decent mattress? He kicked the side of the
bed, and then he stepped over to the toilet and spat in it with a
look of disgust on his face that would have turned the queen of
England’s head. He didn’t come from the streets. He wasn’t some
common thug. He had a Master’s degree. He had a life before all
this happened, before he fucked it up, like he always knew he
would, before he killed that poor child.

He sat down on
the cot, promising himself he wasn’t going to cry again. He grabbed
the envelope and ripped it open. Inside, a single page of unlined
white paper with the words written in black ink,
One day pass to
live that day over
stared at him like a ghost.

His hands
began to shake. The paper fell to the crumbling mattress as Taylor
lurched from the cot feeling the kind of fear one feels when they
think someone has just seen them at their most vulnerable. A memory
of his bedroom door swinging open when he was fourteen and Billy’s
face laughing at the sight of Taylor pleasing himself sped through
his mind.

Then anger
suddenly crossed his face; someone's idea of fun? Maybe it was Carl
teasing him? But would Carl do that? They both joked around a lot,
but not in a cruel way. Whoever sent this was either crazy, or
sadistic. Carl wasn’t sadistic, he may have been crazy, but he
wasn’t that crazy. No, Carl wasn’t behind this letter, but someone
was, someone out there was playing some kind of strange game with
him.

He felt a
slight tingling sensation fall over his arm as if the light were
changing in his cell. At first it was something he barely noticed.
He continued to brood, continued to stare at the letter, continued
to wonder who was behind it until off in the distance he heard the
sound of music, music he recognized, music anyone would recognize
as the kind that accompanied a Ferris wheel or a roller coaster, or
just about any ride in an amusement park.

He heard the
distinct and clear winding sound of amusement park music.

Taylor was a
rational man, he knew that wasn’t possible, yet even stranger, he
could smell fresh air as if he were outside, and then the most
impossible thing followed; he felt a breeze hit his face. He
couldn’t remember the last time he felt an honest to God breeze.
His body didn’t know how to react; to run for his life or to cheer
his imminent freedom.

Then suddenly
the light completed its change and Taylor found himself surrounded
by darkness. It was night. He was outside somewhere, somehow in the
night air. The music became louder and the bright lights of a
Ferris wheel sped past him close as if one of the cars were about
to sideswipe him.

He lunged and
rolled across what he knew was grass- real grass. The light from
the wheel raced across the ground. Taylor watched it flash over his
legs. His eyes shot up and he saw a roller coaster, a merry go
round, booths with stuffed animals, dolls, clocks. He saw tents,
all varieties of rides he remembered from his childhood spinning
and lurching-The Round Up, Tea Cups…Lights speeding against the
night, and the sounds of bells, of whistles, and the insane toy
music.

He was smack
dab inside some kind of amusement park. He didn’t know if he should
stay on the ground and hide, or get up and take a look around; none
if it was possible, none of it.

The sound of a
bell from a High striker rang through his ears. He looked up and
saw the back of a man in an overcoat taking another swing with the
mallet, and next to him in a shiny blue suit wearing a glittering
top hat Taylor saw a carnie barker man grinning. His teeth white as
sharks, the barker called out through a megaphone pointing to the
ground where Taylor was hiding, as the man in the overcoat pounding
the mallet hit the bell, “That’s right, Taylor you are a winner!
The brass ring! The grand prize! You, Taylor Mackey are no longer
the unluckiest son of a bitch in the world, you have a chance now!
One chance! Can you change that day? I know you can, Taylor!”

As the
barker’s words ended the music began to spin out of control. Taylor
covered his ears and cried. Dear god, where the hell was he?

“Make the
music stop! Please!” He raised his fists, rolling on the ground as
if the force of his movements would slow everything down, but of
course it didn’t. The music became louder, and more strained.

He pulled
himself from the grass. He had to make a run for it; to where he
had no idea. He had no idea where he was, or if he was anywhere.
Maybe that was it? Maybe they took him to the gas chamber and this
was hell? There was no time to think. Everything was going too
fast- the lights, the cars, the bells, his heart.

He was a
winner of what? You can’t live days over. You can’t change the
past. You can’t put a genie back in a bottle no matter how hard you
try, Taylor repeated in his head as he began to run.

Then the
barker called again, tipping his shiny hat towards the sky, “We’ll
slow things down a little, Taylor, don’t go anywhere. Come here you
have a prize to claim, a past to change, a boy’s life to save!”

Taylor got a
closer look at the barker. All that glitters is not gold, his skin
was jaundiced and his white shark teeth were green around the
edges, but his eyes glowed, they glowed with a glassy stare that
sent chills through Taylor’s veins.

A sick nausea
entered Taylor’s stomach as the music slowed down and changed to a
vaudevillian style.

The barker now
stood on a small platform stage with stripped silver curtains
suspended behind him. Taylor could see the Ferris wheel turn above,
its lights changing the image of the barker from bright to dull and
back again. Then from behind the curtain two females who looked
like they just stepped out of the Miss America Beauty Pageant of
1973, wearing bathing suits and pink sashes with the words (in
white lettering) We Love Taylor sprawled across them, stepped out
and joined the barker, one stood on his left side the other on his
right.

At that point
Taylor had almost given up looking for rational explanations. He
told himself he was too in it, and what if it was possible? What if
he could change his past, wipe his slate clean?

Then the
barker held a cane in his hand tapped it on the floor of the stage
and he and the pageant girls began to tap dance a soft shoe. Their
eyes stared at Taylor sending more chills through him. Everything
about the strange performers seemed too exaggerated; their
smiles--too broad, their gestures--too forced, and their
stares--too intense.

The old
fashioned music changed from pleasant sounding to a deranged
version of itself, the notes bent, the rhythm sputtered. The lady
on the right side of the barker lifted a bottle of whiskey in the
air, and said in a Kewpie doll voice, still tapping her feet to the
strained beat, “We should drink a toast to you, Taylor, to wish you
success on your mission," and she puckered her lips.

Then the girl
on the left side of the barker held four glasses in her hand and in
the same saccharin voice eked out, “Yes! I have a glass for each of
us, you too, Taylor.” She puckered her lips too.

The barker
grinned and said in a mocking tone, “But if Taylor drinks he’ll get
drunk and run that boy down again.”

The two girls
sighed loudly, swooned and moused out in the same mocking tones as
the barker, “Poor Taylor, poor, poor Taylor.”

The notes of
the music became more bent, more dissonant. The barker and the
pageant girl’s grins increased in exaggerated intensity growing
insanely surreal like a Fellini film gone mad.

Terrified,
Taylor covered his ears, and he screeched out, “It was an accident
I swear!”

“No it wasn’t,
but we love you anyway, Taylor.” They sang too sweetly, smiling too
broadly, still tapping to the swirling sickening refrain.

Taylor
screamed out, “Stop the music! I can’t take it anymore!”

Sweat beaded
on his forehead, his shaking hands tried to wipe it away. If he
could wipe everything away. He kept telling himself this wasn’t
happening, but he knew it was, somehow it was. Suddenly, he found
himself longing for death row.

He should try
and make another run for it but inside he knew there was nowhere to
run. Wherever he ran he would wind up right back in the strange
park that existed everywhere and nowhere. How could this desperate
place possibly give him the chance he needed? How could this
wretched dance change that day? He stepped away from the stage and
began to walk in the direction of a tent that seemed to be calling
him.

Strangely
drawn, not knowing why, he made his way to the tent just a few
yards away from the stage. His steps were slow. He didn’t want to
set the barker off, but he had to see what was in that tent.

As he neared
the entrance and pulled the white burlap back, he heard the barker
call, “it’s okay, Taylor go see what that tent has to offer. We’ll
all still be here waiting for ya.”

The barker
sadistically grinned in Taylor’s direction and puckered his lips,
just like one of the beauty pageant girls. They all stared at
Taylor, lips puckered, blowing kisses, as he made his way into the
tent.

The toy music
sped up again.

A few bare
bulbs hanging by wire from the wood frame ceiling of the tent gave
off the only light Taylor had to make his way through the
relatively small, but wide edifice. Several old splintery wooden
crates and trunks lined the side walls of the structure otherwise
it was bare, with the exception of one small oak table and chair
which sat in the center of the tent.

The music
still edged his every nerve, but what he had to do was sit in that
chair. He had no clue why but he had to, and so Taylor inched his
way to the table, sat under the dim light and waited for what he
did not know. One thing he did know; the idea of changing that day
seemed more and more tangible. Maybe he could do it? After all he
was brought to this crazy place for just that reason even if it
didn't make any sense. Maybe he could change his destiny, only two
things had to occur; the premise had to be the absolute truth, what
the note said, what the barker said had to be real, if it was then
all he had to do was stay sober. Surely, he could accomplish that
small task, anyone could.

No sooner had
Taylor thought the words when a bottle of scotch appeared on the
table. When his eyes caught the bottle he nearly jumped out of his
chair. Its appearance, though out of nowhere, shouldn’t have
stunned him any longer, not in that place, but it still did.
Obviously it was some kind of test that that Barker had planned.
He’d pass it with flying colors why not? He hadn’t had a drink in
years. He couldn’t; he was in prison. Oh maybe he could have
obtained something when he was with the general population, but not
since they sent him to death row.

He didn’t want
to drink anyway; it was his drinking that brought him here.

He was finally
alcohol-free just in time for his impending execution. Taylor being
Taylor didn’t miss the sad irony of that, he wallowed in it, like
he wallowed in everything.