Doing Time (26 page)

“Man, I'm no fag!”

“You two were cellmated,” Willie went on. “You can't tell me you didn't get some mud on your turtle.”

“Man, just shut your fuckin' mouth!” Jimmie yelled, his cheeks redder than normal.

“Watch your mouth, bro,” South Philly said, scooping up the cards. “We didn't invite you over here, so if you want to cop an attitude, take it back to bed.”

“And don't get defensive,” Willie added. “None of us got in this dorm by sharing a needle or getting a blood transfusion.”

“Man,” Jimmie shook his head. “I just don't want to die like this. This place stinks like a busted meat locker, people dying every other day, we're fenced off from the rest of the compound, and all we can do is wait to die. I don't want to die like this, I want to die like a man!”

“Shut up, punk,” South Philly hissed, rising up on bony legs hidden in nylon pa jama bottoms. “This
is
how a man dies. Look at me. My mother writes me every week, but here I am, I got myself locked away from her and dying. You think she's proud of me? You think I'm proud of myself? My father has Alzheimer's, and she's trying to take care of him, and she probably wonders every day who's going to die first, me or my father. But this is how a man dies, with the Ninja or Alzheimer's, or cancer. If you wanted to throw yourself on a grenade and save your buddies and die a hero's death, you should've joined the Marines.”

“South Philly, stop running your jaw,” Wyman Reed said, walking through the maże of bunks toward them. “If Deathrow comes back and catches you waking up his patients, he'll gag you and tie you to your bed.”

“You guys are waking the dead over here,” Carl “Smokey” Dukes said. “Can't you keep your voices down?” Both men wore their blankets over their shoulders. Like Jimmie, who had on a sweatshirt over his pajama top, they couldn't put up with the cold air in the dorm. The heaters were in the ceiling instead of the floor, and the slow-turning ceiling fans couldn't quite get the warm air down. Willie and South Philly both had fevers that night, and sat on their bunks shirtless, their ribby chests like washboards.

“I'm sorry, Smokey,” Willie said. “We won't holler and hoot again. This was supposed to be a quiet party. Go ahead back to sleep.”

“Hell with that,” Wyman said. “Deal me in.” He held up a pack of generic cigarettes.

“You up to a game this late?” South Philly asked, shuffling the cards. Wyman nodded. “Smokey?”

“I'm all out, homey. I'll just watch.” He pulled an empty wheelchair closer as Wyman sat on the bed next to South Philly. Wyman was a tall black man who hadn't yet shown signs of the virus, but three long bouts of pneumonia had weakened him. He couldn't live in open population anymore. Sometimes he'd go outside and stand by the fence, watching inmates play basketball in the distance. He never stayed out long, because it was only a matter of time before he'd be noticed and become the target of insults and catcalls. This irritated him no end: At least a third of them were also infected, though outwardly healthy, and they, too, would be landing in the AIDS dorm.

“You know they took Pinkston and Calloway out tonight,” Willie said, rolling a cigarette.

“Hospital?” Smokey asked.

“Morgue,” Willie answered.

“Two?” Wyman whispered. South Philly nudged him to cut the cards. “Jesus Christ, that's not good.”

“Don't take the Lord's name in vain, man,” Smokey said.

“Save your church for Sunday,” South Philly snapped.

“Philly thinks someone else will go before the dawn comes up,” Willie said.

“This is too morbid,” Jimmie whispered.

“Why three?” Wyman asked.

South Philly began dealing. “It goes in threes, Wyman. If two die during the week, it's a sure bet a third will go before that week is up. Just listen.” He held up his hand for silence. The sounds of snoring men, mixing with the whirring of the fans and the steady tattoo of rain on the roof, but behind it was the rattling, deep breath of several men struggling through pneumonia.

“You hear that?” South Philly whispered. “We got Death waiting in the wings. It's that kind of night.”

“Man, you're getting a bad attitude,” Smokey said. He was feeling uneasy, as were Wyman and Jimmie. “You're not psychic.”

“I don't know,” South Philly said. “But that's the way it goes, people die in threes. I used to work in a nursing home in Pennsylvania. Weeks would go by, and then three old people would go in one week, It was strange, no reason for it, but there you are.”

“C'mon, man, let's play cards,” Wyman said. “Your talk's getting too creepy. And I don't believe it anyway.”

“What?” Smokey whispered. “That someone else will die tonight?”

“Far as I'm concerned, that's a given,” South Philly said. “I propose we each bet on
who
will die.”

“Man, you're sick,” Smokey growled.

“Ashes to ashes, dustballs to dustballs,” Willie said. “Even the Bible admits that, Smokey. I read my King James daily, too, you know.”

“So we pick someone in the dorm?” Wyman said. “One of our sick patients?”

South Philly slowly set his cards down, his face serious. “No, that's too easy. Way too easy. I predict it will be one of us here.” The other men gazed at him in silence. Even Willie looked shaken. “I say we bet one pack of tailormades each, we each choose a different one among us, place our bets, and wait for the dawn.”

A dreadful silence fell over them, a silence like an arctic night. Smells of the dorm wrapped around them, smells of sickness and sweat. “It's sinful,” Smokey said.

“Sin got us here thus far,” Willie mimicked, “and sin will lead us home.”

“Don't try me, Willie!”

“You fucked a punk like the rest of us,” Willie said. “Don't give me any of your self-righteous crap, Smokey. South Philly has hit on something, I don't know what, but I'm game.”

“You want to die?” Smokey asked. “Is that it?”

“No, it's not,” Willie said. “But I'm going to die anyway, whether I like it or not. And if I gotta die, I might as well play one last game with Death himself.”

Wyman nodded. “Yeah, maybe. But I don't think no one's gonna kick off in our little circle. What if it happens, Philly, and it's not one of us?”

“Then nobody wins, and we all keep our cigarettes, and die of lung cancer instead.” South Philly looked from man to man. “In fact, the way I see it, winning and losing are both desirable. You win, you get the cigarettes. You lose, you get out of the goddam dorm.”

This time Smokey didn't complain. Jimmie was looking into his lap, gripping his wheels. At twenty-five, he looked like a little boy awaiting the whipping of his life. Wyman looked from man to man, intrigued but scared, as though he had just been invited to play a game of Russian Roulette, and he knew he was too tempted to refuse, “All right,” he said. “Let's go for it.”

“It's not right!” Smokey yelled.

“Shut the fuck up!” someone yelled from across the dorm. “I'm sleeping!”

“You're all a bunch of fools!” Smokey whispered. “No wonder you're in this mess.”

“You're in the same predicament, my man,” Willie said. “And you fall as short of the pearly gates as the rest of us. I know more about you than you might think.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don't have much leeway to complain about anybody else.” Willie took off his glasses and stared at him. “Now, if you don't like what we're doing here, go back to bed, I'm tired of your mouth.”

Smokey was silent, but he stared back until Willie looked at the others. “Boys, I don't know how real this all is, but I swear I feel spirits in the air. I've been scared of dying since I popped out of my momma's womb, but just tonight I'd like to look Death in the eye and prove I'm a good sport.”

He put his glasses back on. “Now there's science and there's the spirit world. According to science, we are mostly made up of water, but we are what's known as a carbon-based life form. Carbon is that black stuff left over after we burn something, and a friend once told me that no planet naturally has carbon on it anywhere. Carbon comes from the sun and other stars.”

“So what's your point?” Wyman asked, still holding his cards.

“My point,” Willie said, examining his hand, “is that we are made of Stardust. And when we are dead, our carbon molecules go into the soil and become part of other life forms. So you see, part of us goes on, just like the carbon molecules of other living things that are in us now, and all of it comes from the big burning stars in the sky.”

“So there's bits and pieces of dinosaurs in us, too,” South Philly said.

“Something like that,” Willie agreed. “But now we're heading slowly back to our old carbon selves. I like to think we're heading back to the sun myself, we're going back to be cremated into nonex-istence, nothing but that damn Stardust. And if I go, I might as well play over the sunspots, and this little bet is how we can do it, how we can be feathers on the solar wind for awhile, floating and dancing on the music of the cosmos before the final incineration.”

“Willie, you sure know a lot of big words and ideas for a black man,” South Philly snorted.

Willie grinned at his old friend. “If it makes you too uncomfortable, Philly, I could talk like Aunt Jemima for a while.”

“It's still all a lot of bunk,” Smokey said.

“If you think so,” Wyman answered, “then you make the first bet.”

Smokey opened his mouth, about to refuse, when he looked around. “A pack of smokes, you said?”

“Exactly,” South Philly answered. “But you got to pick one of us.”

Smokey stroked his chin. “Okay, I bet a pack of rip that old Willie here will die first.”

The other men looked at each other.

“Man, that's slimy,” South Philly said. “Just because he told you about your ass…”

“He done right,” Willie said. “And he chose well, I look like I'm halfway to the crypt, the way I see it.”

“And who do you choose?” South Philly asked.

“I place my bet on Wyman,” Willie said. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Wyman answered, though he looked a bit shaken. The game was too real to him.

“Wyman's the healthiest one here, and I got the feeling too much health is not always a good thing,” Willie explained.

“That's crazy,” Smokey said.

“Yeah, it sounds sorta crazy, but I figger I'll go against the odds.”

“And you, Wyman?” South Philly asked.

Wyman looked around from face to face. “I don't think any of us are going
to
die, leastways not tonight. And I'd hate to name someone and actually have them die and me win cigarettes on their body. I just don't know.”

“Yeah, it feels a little dirty, I admit,” Willie said. “But I feel the spirits kicking tonight, and me, I gotta dance with Death, just one slow dance. If you don't feel up to it…”

Wyman shook his head. “Philly, I put my pack on you. God knows, I hope I lose, but I'm gonna play this game.”

South Philly smiled at him. “No hard feelings, brother. Tonight I don't feel afraid. I don't even care. But I put my smokes on Jimmie.”

“Oh, no, man,” Jimmie gasped. “Hell no, man! I'm not gonna die tonight!”

“Well, if you don't, then I lose. You got nothing to worry about.”

“Change your bet, Philly. Change it!”

“You're my pick, bro. Now your turn.”

“I'm not gonna.”

“Smokey's left,” South Philly said. “Though he looks like he'll live a good long time, but you can never tell.”

“Backoff, man,” Smokey said. “The boy doesn't need any help.”

“Man, I'm through with this shit, “Jimmie said, and wheeled off.

“We scared him,” Wyman said. “Maybe we shouldn't have done this.”

“It's dom*,” South Philly replied, “‘[‘he boy needs to cope with what's happen nit;.”

Jitnnnc's wheelchair clipped a steel bunk as he turned and headed for the shower room. They watched him disappear through the door.

“Sinus is high in the sky ronight,” Willie mumbled, “and ihe natives are restless.”

“Sirius?
¹
' South Philly asked. “What's that?”

“Sirius, rlic Dog Star, the harbinger of death. The brightest spot in the sky, if the moon isn't out.”

“Putting out carbon molecules,” Wyman said, picking up his cards. “Maybe if we get enough carbon molecules, we can all be made whole again.”

I he shower room was a long hallway illuminated by filthy neon lights. The walls and floor were covered by worn white and tan tiles. A chest-high wall ran along the middle, with sinks and mirrors on both sides, lo the right were a dozen stainless steel toilets and an equal number of metal urinals. To the left were a do/en showerheads, with two specially built showers to accommodate the handicapped.

Jimmie rolled his wheelchair through the meatlocker-cold room to the farthest sink. I le looked into his own haunted eyes in the bent steel mirror, his rash-covered cheeks. He turned on the cold water and let it run while he reached beneath his sweatshirt and pulled out two bottle of pills — Pinkston's pain pills, which he'd stolen before the officers had come to take Pinkston away. When he heard somebody come in, he quickly stuffed the bottles out of sight between his legs.

One of the showers came on. Someone couldn't sleep, he thought. He was shivering from the cold, but he got one of the plastic bottles open and poured six pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth and leaned over the sink, scooping water into his mouth. He had dumped six more pills into his hand when he noticed steam filling the room.