The Room (10 page)

And then the sound of the chairmans voice. The committee was in session. Above the hum of the cameras he could hear, again, the rustling of paper, the scraping of shoes on the floor and the various squeaks and creaks as people adjusted themselves in their seats. He carefully and casually crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair slightly and looked intently at the chairman as he spoke.

And I feel it incumbent upon me to state, at this time – and I speak not only for myself, but for the other members of this committee as well – that this is not a pleasant task we have before us, but, regretfully, a most necessary one. And, I might add, a most urgent one. I would also like to comment, at this time, on the insinuations that have appeared in a few minor publications. I want to state categorically that this investigation will be neither a whitewash nor indictment of any political party, but rather a fearless search for the truth and let the chips fall where they may. I would also like to state, and again I speak for my colleagues as well as myself, that we very much appreciate that the gentlemen here today to assist us in our inquiry have made themselves available to this committee. He nodded his head, along with Don and Stace, in acceptance of the compliment.

As the proceedings started Stace read a prepared statement, with the consent of the chairman and the other members of the committee. Actually it was more than a statement – it was their manifesto. It stated the humane reasons for their campaign, referring briefly to the facts that would be presented. Their statement/manifesto ended with a note of thanks and appreciation to the commitee for replying so rapidly to their request for an opportunity to present the results, to date, of their investigation. When he finished reading Stace removed his glasses, putting them carefully on top of the statement, and said that he would like to extend his and Mr Prestons appreciation to the third, and most important, member of their campaign. No praise can
be too high or too complete. What this brave and fearlessly honest man has done to help try to correct so egregious a wrong is unparalleled.

He modestly lowered his eyes and listened, half-dozing and not trying to maintain the crystal clarity of the image, but rather letting it float around him, being warmed by the tribute being paid him, wanting to prolong the statement being made by Stace, but then people were taking his picture and shaking his hand and the chairman and other members of the committee were talking with him and those fucking cops were asking for help – begging for his forgiveness – and his body felt luxurious with the weight of tiredness and he and the image became one and he drifted gently into a sleep.

He stirred as the door clanged open, but the sound was muffled by his sleep and as he fully awakened even the sounds in the corridors seemed almost gentle. He stayed on his bed vaguely aware of the sounds and commotion, ignoring what he was aware of. Nothing bothered him. He felt light, detached and strong. He wasnt smiling, but all his muscles were relaxed and he knew his eyes reflected his feeling of quiet fearlessness and strength. His body didnt pulse with this feeling, nor did it flow through him. It was simply there, his entire body alive with it.

He got up and washed and inspected his pimple after drying his face. He looked at it briefly, touched it with the tip of his finger, aware that it was more sensitive, but quickly turned his attention to his entire face. Actually it was his expression, his countenance, that he examined. He studied his face from various angles, noticing the angle of his jawbone, the slope of his cheeks, the shallow lines on his forehead and all the time aware too of his eyes, knowing from the inside that their expression never changed, but continually confirming the fact from the outside. No matter what part of his face he examined or what aspect of his expression he scrutinized, the reflection of secretive knowledge in his eyes never changed.

He didnt walk to the mess hall with buoyancy in his step, but with a very conscious awareness of solidity. Each step was firm with knowledge
and direction. Just as firm as the concrete upon which he walked.

As he stood in line in the mess hall, aware yet undisturbed by the noise and commotion, he knew that the others were aware of him, glancing at him from the corners of their eyes, yet he didnt feel self-conscious. He realized he was conspicuous, as much so as if he were 7 feet tall with orange hair, yet he wasnt disturbed. He simply accepted it. He realized he had no choice. There was no hiding how he felt. He knew too that the buzzing of voices was due to their speculating about him and he was almost tempted to tell them who he was and what he was going to do. He wanted to tell them how he was going to help them beat the fucking law, but realized this was not the time or place. And anyway, they would know. Someday. So he moved along in line hearing his own distinct steps above the shuffling of the others.

He picked up his tray and passed along the line silently accepting the food then walking to a table and sitting at the end. He ate slowly almost ignoring the taste of the food, but enjoying the eating of it. He also enjoyed his hunger. It wasnt a panicky hunger, but a very natural one that was easily satisfied, diminishing slowly with the swallowing of each mouthful of food. It was a hunger of strength, a strength that increased as the hunger ebbed.

As he ate he raised his head imperceptibly and glanced around the room and as his eyes passed from face to face he noticed their expression change to one of hope and understanding readily recognizing the glimmer of understanding in the many pairs of eyes that met his. He allowed the faintest of smiles to alter his expression, knowing that those eyes were looking to him for reassurance, for strength. Even the eyes in the most distant corner of the mess hall were looking to him sensing somehow that he would be their salvation. He knew he was the focal point of their despair and frustration. And he knew, too, that though he sat there silently and slowly eating in the midst of the clanging of tin trays and cups that they found the reassurance they needed in his eyes. He was the hope of the hopeless.

When it was
time to go back to the cells he could feel the dignity in the way he stood and walked, and when the door was clanged shut behind him it was just another sound, a sound he didnt have to ignore because it was no longer important.

He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the wall with an amused look of indulgence. The wall was there, more or less, but it didnt matter because the distance between him and the wall was vast and temporary and easily tolerated for now. And that door that clanged open and shut from time to time was nothing. A big nothing. And just as far away as the wall.

Actually he enjoyed sitting in his cell, his little 9×6 room. It was all a part of something, his being here, sitting on the edge of his bed. He felt a comfort and a sense of power. It was hard to describe to everyone just how he felt, but the feeling was strong and confident. His feeling of enjoyment didnt simply come from the knowledge that he would soon be out, but what was going to happen when he got out. And who was going to get him out.

Actually he hoped he didnt get out too soon. It would be a good idea if he stayed there a while. It would add more power to his story. He was glad he didnt simply bail himself out immediately. It was much better this way. He would stay here as long as necessary and endure all the hardships and privations necessary to help him accomplish what he had to. And they would pay many times over for what they did to him. For every second of misery spent in this hellhole he would see to it that they spent a year in hell. A living hell. They would suffer torment and anguish so deep they would plead for mercy. They would beg him to let them die. O no. They werent going to die. Not yet, the fucking bastards. They had to suffer. When those fucking cops go home and tell their wives they got kicked off the force and all the newspapers and magazines and television networks carry the story and their pictures theyll wish to krist they were dead. When their kids go to school and all the other kids point at them and laugh, and their kids come home crying, I hope they think of me. I hope they never forget that Im the one that did it. I hope they live a long, long time and spend every minute of every
day hoping to die and remembering me.
Me
, you rotten pricks. Dont ever forget me because Im never going to forget you. Not as long as I live. Yeah. Thats a good idea. Every xmas I/ll send them xmas cards. On easter too. Maybe even on columbus day. Or maybe some nice picture post cards from Hawaii or Acapulco or Paris or the Riviera. Having wonderful time. Wish you were here.

Yeah, wish you were here. Right here. O would I fix your fucking asses. A nice long, thin hot needle in the eardrum. Or maybe a hot cigar in the eyes. Nothing fancy. Or maybe some of that old indian shit of cutting the eyelids off, or some hot lead up the ass. And then listen to them scream. O what sweet music that will be listening to those fucking pricks screaming. Should really do it in a hospital with doctors and nurses to make sure they dont die. Yeah, that would be great. With microphones and the volume turned all the way up so it would sound even better. And all the time theyll be seeing my face. Yeah, with their eyelids cut off they cant close their eyes. Theyll have to look at me. At me with wide-open eyes. Eyes that cant close and a nice bright, hot light shining in their eyes. And every now and then a light gets a little closer and a little closer and brighter and hotter. Burning hot until theyre almost blind. But not quite. And then some nice cold water on their eyes to soothe them. One drop at a time. Maybe every 5 seconds. Yeah. Every 5 seconds for a while until they get used to the timing and then every couple of seconds. And then none for 10 or 20 seconds or even longer until they think its all over and then let the water start dripping again. Just until theyre almost out of their minds. Have to be sure they dont go completely out of their minds. They have to last a long, long time. And they have to know Im doing it. And then we can dry their eyes with a nice bright, hot light. And then cool them. And warm them and cool them. Just for a couple of weeks. A little vacation in the country. A nice quiet little rest home. A private sanitarium. Yeah, that would be nice. Just long enough to make them a pair of vegetables. Yeah, and I/ll water the vegetables, hahaha. A couple of lumps with their tongues hanging out and spit dripping down their chins. And maybe put a dog collar around their throats and lead them with a
leash. Yeah, after all, theyll need some exercise. Have to keep them away from trees and fire hydrants though. Yeah, on a fucking leash. With their fucking badges stuck through the tips of their noses. And their fucking wives can greet them with open arms. Here children, say hello to your father. This is daddy. Woof, woof. O, what a nice daddy you have. Comeon. Say hell to

the fucking sonsabitches. O I/ll get those rotten motherfuckers if its the last thing I do. I swear to krist I/ll get them.

Fuckem, the rotten pricks.

His fists were clenched and his nostrils flared. He could hear the grinding of his teeth. He stood for a second, shook his head, then walked to the mirror. He stared into the mirror for many minutes until he felt his body relax. His finger patted the pimple and toyed with it, teased it, then he nodded and walked back to his bed. He sat on the edge and stared at the wall. The wall slowly moved back. He smiled and nodded again. I/ll just bide my time. Theres plenty of time to get those pricks. And when I do I/ll getem good. The longer I wait the better itll be. O, you bet your sweet ass its going to be good.

He stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, and let the overhead light penetrate his eyelids. He could feel the light on his eyes and now and then he would open them for a second and look at the light and when they started to water and smart he closed them and smiled. The water from his eyes felt cool and smooth as it gentled itself down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes tight until it was as dark as possible then opened them suddenly and let the light slash into them and scrape them with heat then closed them and felt the caress of the water on his cheek. He played the game over and over until his eyes started to pain and then he just closed them and relaxed, flowing deeper and deeper into himself and the comfort of the future as the pain slowly subsided. The bed was soft. The breeze cool and gentle. The moonlight peaceful. He flowed deeper and deeper into himself, wrapped in the comforting strength of hate.

It didnt take too long to train the dogs. At least it didnt seem to take very long. Actually he wasnt certain how long it took, but it seemed like a short time because he enjoyed it so much. Especially forcing them to sit still, absolutely still without so much as a twinge or a whimper, as he pinned their badges to their noses. Of course it took quite a while, now that he thought about it, to get the palms of their hands and their knees calloused and hardened. God, what a supreme joy that was. To watch them crawl on all fours over gravel and broken glass and then when their palms were hardened so they could plod along as rapidly as possible the callouses were peeled off and they had to start all over again.

And the races on the cinder path chasing a mechanical bitch and a spotlight following them around the small track, their naked bodies shining in deep-dimensional relief and every time they passed the small box their families were sitting in – every living member of their families jammed together as tightly as possible – they stopped and assumed their begging positions and barked and then he would whip them on their bloodied and bared asses and the race would start again. And sometimes he would trot after them whipping them, laughing, and urging them on and sometimes he would declare a rest period and they stayed on all fours, their heads hanging, their tongues hanging, and he could see the pain as they struggled for breath, their chests constricted with unbelievable pain, and he would rub salt and vinegar into the slashes on their asses and into their bloodied hands and knees and then the race would resume with the lashing of his whip and they would once again race around the cinder track until they fell from exhaustion and were dragged to their
kennels, unable even to whimper as their skin, from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes, was ripped, scratched, burned and torn by the cinders, gravel, the glass and concrete they were dragged over and through.