Solitary Man

I awoke curled in the fetal position on my bunk, my vision still too blurry to fully take in my surroundings.  When they brought me into the reception area at the Paso del Norte Agententiary last night I was pretty groggy.  I asked one of the marshals if I could have a cup of coffee to keep me awake, and he willingly obliged.  There must have been a narcotic in my cup of joe, though, because I remember hardly being able to stand as they practically dragged me down a hallway toward a vacant cell, two burly law enforcement officers supporting me with a hand beneath each of my armpits.  Inside, they maneuvered me directly to the bunk, and I conked out before I could properly thank them for their help.

As my eyes cleared, the first thing I saw was the desk and chair--barely the skeletons of real furniture--and atop the desk a brand spanking new computer, a McBook Author Series 3.  Obviously they cared little about an inmate's physical comfort, but they spared no expense in providing for the mind, only the best writing machine ever invented.  When I sat upright I noticed the old-fashioned analog clock on the wall, nearly at eye level above the computer.  When I puzzled for a moment over the why of this kind of clock I had a sudden lucid moment of theoretical certainty:  they wanted you to see the agonizingly slow sweep of the second hand, to understand how excruciatingly slowly time would pass if you were determined to occupy it without writing.

The hatch at the base of the solid metal cell door bolted upright noisily, and a tray containing my meager breakfast slid a few feet across the antiseptically white tile floor.  The hatch door slammed shut.  I sat for a moment staring at the green fiberglass tray trying to decide if I was hungry enough to eat the steaming bowl of oatmeal, laced, it seemed, with prunes the size of obese raisins.  At least the coffee, half of which had sloshed out onto the tray surface, appealed to me.  But when I collected it and took a sip I nearly retched.  It wasn't coffee at all, but the concoction called JogJag, a brew distilled from recycled Post-It notes.  I downed it anyway, deciding I needed the synthetic caffeine.

While I was tilting the last splash into my mouth I spotted the small metal tube close to the left-hand corner of the far wall,  Walking over to examine it I saw that it was a kind of eyepiece, like those used on old-fashioned telescopes and microscopes.  Normally I use my right eye to look through such devices, but I had to use my left since the instrument was so close to the wall.  What I saw was beyond puzzling, a flickering video of people interacting at a great distance.  There appeared to be three individuals, but I couldn't make out if they were men or women.  One sat at a table, and the other two took turns approaching and moving away.  After I stood watching for several minutes I realized the video was on a continuous loop, and I was no closer to understanding what I was looking at than when I first started.

I was distracted from the peep show by the sound of the cell door opening. When I turned I couldn't believe my eyes.  Standing before me was a petite Asian girl dressed in one of those provocative high-school uniforms:  white blouse tucked into a short blue-plaid skirt, bone-white knee-high socks and brown saddle shoes.  It was the kind of outfit that forced the mercury to rise up the thermometer of every red-blooded American male.

She let me stare at her for a while--the thinnest hint of a smile on her ample mouth, thickly coated in glistening red lip gloss--before saying, "I Nanime--you tutor."

The absurdity of the situation robbed me of my ability to speak, and I could only continue staring while she unstrapped a tiny fanny pack from around her narrow waist.  She unzipped it, removed a pocket-sized zPhone, examined its screen and said, "You Rowe, Lee."

"The name is pronounced 'row,' as in 'row your boat,' not 'row' as in 'fight.'"

"You fighter?"

"No, a lover," I said, realizing immediately how ridiculous it sounded.

"You fight me, you lose."

"I wouldn't fight you," I said, "but a little wrestling might be in order."

Why was I saying these things?  It was almost as if the words were coming out of somebody else's mouth.

"Time for work," she said, walking over to switch the computer on.  As she did so she leaned forward just enough for me to glimpse the bottom elastic of polar-bear-white underwear beneath her short school-girl skirt.  When she turned to face me she was smiling openly.  "This how I get you started," she said.  "Come sit down and write."

"What shall I write about?"

"No matter," she said, "but must have plenty sex."