Prison Dreamcaster

On the shadowed rim of lost nightmares, haunted by visions of the Reaper and the Brothers Grim, it’s hard to find the distinction between what is real and what is an illusion.

Sitting on the edge of just such a pointless realization, I crushed out the last bit of my “rollie”, (better known as a cheap, hand-rolled smoke), and carefully tucked it into the worn-out Marlboro box that had served as my cigarette case for the past few weeks.

Things had gotten pretty lean.

The bail money, and the few dollars from family and friends, didn’t last long in the daily marathon of investing tobacco in card games and shooting lousy pool. Worse yet, protection was expensive. It had been all-too-easy to turn from “new meat” with some money on account to a member of the faceless scores with 18 cents and some cuffed rollies.

That half-smoked butt would taste like a little bit of heaven tomorrow morning after breakfast, when the “usuals” sat down to the daily ritual of “The Beverly Hillbillies”. I’d try to score some coffee from one of the new guys and for 30 minutes I’d try to forget where I was. I’d forget what I’d lost. I’d forget the woman I had left on the outside. Prison was bad, but not having her beside me was the worst price I paid for my stupidity. It was a daily fine that was collected piece-by-blessed-piece, like Shylock carving the pound of flesh… ripping little pieces from my soul.

With my half-butt safely stored in the Marlboro box and tucked under my pillow, I turned to the wall as “Lights out!” echoed through the cellblock. I pulled the rough, tattered blanket up under my chin and wrapped my arms around me, trying to shut out the din of nighttime jail.

On the edge of tortured sleep, I willed myself to surrender.

Somewhere, the last chants of the Reaper faded and like the fog retreating before the sun, my dreamland came into focus. The sun began to torch the sky in flames of red and orange… I could hear the soft calls of the loons and the water lapping at the shore. I could feel the warmth of the fading sun as it brushed the earth, chasing my shadow to hide among the great pines of the woods.

The wafting smoke of the hearth fire broke the thick scent of pine needles, crushing beneath my feet. The cabin was nestled deep within the wood on the shore of a long-forgotten pond that the two of us had discovered, shortly after discovering each other. She was 28, and an artist and teacher. I was a good deal older and had long since made a name for myself in business. We were newly in love and greeted each day with innocence and passion. Every moment together was discovery. Every discovery was a new milestone. Every milestone was a new marker in our young life together.

For the first time in my life, I knew what love was.

We had stolen a weekend together and had set out to explore the countryside in the northern part of the state. Playing a silly game of “Left, then Right”, we had let fate decide which way for us to turn every time the road forked, or we came to four corners. Our last right turn had led us down the dirt road that snaked through the forested countryside, and hugging the shore of the pond, deposited us in a clearing carved around the cabin. It wasn’t much to look at. Built in the twenties as lodging for one of the lumber barons that plundered the north woods, it had fallen into disuse during the war. Since then, it acted as occasional refuge for hunters, and even more rarely, as a weekend retreat for executives fleeing the city in search of a back-to-nature experience.

The cabin was constructed of great planks of cedar, piled and pegged together like a giant set of Lincoln Logs. One end boasted a fieldstone fireplace that covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. Set into it was a great, thick hunk of wood some fourteen inches thick that served as the mantle piece. Carved in the underbelly of the plank were the words: “Built by CS when I swet fur nothin”. CS had become the hero of the fables we spun for each other as we languished in front of the roaring fire, sipping wine, listening to the rain and making love.

The place was too right not to become ours.

After nearly a year of searching through county records, writing letters and making phone calls, we had bought the cabin and had signed the twenty-year lease with the Paper Company that owned most of the state. Once the cabin was ours, we had run away to our safe haven nearly every weekend. Every weekend that is, until court.

I had gotten stupid and greedy… and had gotten caught.

I hadn’t hurt anyone. I hadn’t stolen. I hadn’t even lied. What I had done was to front money for a couple of my former fraternity brothers to start a business that would offer quick returns. What I hadn’t known was that the business was smuggling dope. In the eyes of the court, being the Money Man equaled being the kingpin. It would be another 20 years before I could hope to return to my life. When that day came, I would be an old, old man.

Until then, I would have to be content with my nightly escape of the six by nine concrete room, when I sought the comfort of the cabin in my dreams.

In the dream, as the shadows lengthened and wrapped around the trees, mingling with the growing mist of dusk, I would enter the cabin. As always, I would find her silhouetted against the fireplace. She would turn toward me, a glass of white wine dangling from her fingers and a smile spreading across her lips. As she placed the glass on the mantle, I would walk over to her, sliding my arms around her waist. I would nuzzle her ear, and she would murmur. My blood would warm as I gently caressed her. My hands would belie my love and want.

I would watch our shadows dancing in the firelight, a tender ballet of motion… building slowly, first as two, then as one. Turning... moving... joining… then, joining again. Our shadows would arch and fall, melting into the slumber that follows passion’s toil. In the aftermath of that dance, we slept basked in the firelight.

The crackling of the fire began to fade as the cabin slipped from view.

I rolled over in the bunk, kicking the tattered blanket off from me. This hated part of night was neither dreaming, nor waking. It hung to the jagged edges of reality, whispering haunted promises of what might have been. All I wanted to do was to fall back asleep… to shut out the noise… to shut out the regret.

Each night was the same.

For a while, I had I blessed escape of my dream. Then came the waking: Toss. Turn. Squirm and toss again. Sigh. Gasp. Fidget. Sweat. Squirm-and-toss-again. It was the worst part of every day. There was no prayer of sleep. No escape. Night would slip into my bed and torture me until morn.

I was awake again.

My mind wandered through random things. I thought of my friends on the outside and our daily ritual of money chasing, skirt chasing and tail chasing. We all congratulated themselves on our mutual victories. All the while, our eyes were glued to the bottom line and the precepts of profitability. It was all bullshit! I was here and they were there and they didn’t have the foggiest idea of what was important. God, how I missed us! Berating us made me feel better. I was abandoned, and that angered me. It wasn’t fair! I hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet I was tried. Convicted. Dispensed with.

“Sir, your case has been dispensed with.”

“If we could dispense with any further interruptions.”

“We’ll dispense with any further actions.”

They could dispense with my ass!

I turned over in the bunk and looked around the cell. The lights were still off and echoing throughout the cellblock were the collective snores, sighs and rustled slumber of incarcerated men. I noted the difference in their sleep. “It must be something about these walls,” I mused. It had to be. On the outside, sleep is taken in satisfying bursts with the lungs drawing night deep within to mix with the soul. Here, each breath was taken in cautious reserve, like freely breathing was a crime… that stealing sleep was not tolerated.

“Stupid thing to be thinking about!” I muttered.

Shrugging off the thought, I climbed out of the bunk and walked over to the window. “Walked over to” was hyperbole extended. The room was small, jam-packed with my meager belongings. All was bolted to the floor: the footlocker, the bunk, the sorry excuse for a desk and, of course, the throne. I could stand in the middle of the room and touch all that existed within the walls… my world was six feet by nine feet and painted putrid green, cased in steel and concrete that reverberated with every thought, every movement.

I reached down and fumbled for the Marlboro box with the half-smoked rollie. This was one vice I was damned if I would give up. While the walls and all-too-pervasive eyes of this place had effectively eliminated the rest of my bodily cravings, this love affair with nicotine was not so easily ignored as were wine, women and song.

I struck a match and the shadows of the room came alive, dancing and wavering with the flame. Drawing slowly on the match, the smoke reached deep within my lungs. I exhaled, extinguishing the flame. I turned to the window and stared out at the black and blue of night. Thoughts of her started creeping back in... the loss… the separation. My eyes began to mist as the hollow pit of my stomach swallowed another piece of my heart.

“I can’t keep living like this. I need out of this hell. Please, God…”

I lapsed into silence as tears streaked my cheeks. The rollie was short and burned my fingers. I carefully stubbed it out on the concrete slab that served as a windowsill as I took hold of me, bridling in my emotions and sliding the half-inch butt back into the Marlboro box.

“I want sleep,” I thought. I climbed back into the bunk. I felt the tears welling up again. “Please, God…” I drew a slow, deep breath and shut my eyes. After a fashion, nothingness came. Then, mercifully, sleep.

The dream began to form…

The familiar watercolor sun began to torch the sky in flames of red and orange. I could again hear the soft calls of the loons and the water lapping at the shore. I could again feel the warmth of the fading sun as it brushed the earth, chasing my shadow to hide among the great pines of the woods.

“I’m back,” I thought.

I felt anticipation mounting, as the awareness of what waited ahead seemed to creep into my consciousness. I looked around me. It was the same: the trees, the pond, the path that snaked up to the cabin. The shadows lengthened and wrapped around the trees, mingling with the growing mist of dusk. I entered the cabin. As always, I found her silhouetted against the fireplace. She turned toward me, the glass of white wine dangling from her fingers and a smile spreading across her lips. As she placed the glass on the mantle, I walked walk over to her, and slid my arms around her waist. I nuzzled her ear, and she murmured. My blood warmed as I gently caressed her.

I bent my face down, my lips seeking hers. She responded by pressing back with an urgency that bespoke her need for me. Our lips parted, the tip of my tongue reaching across to meet the fullness of her mouth… exploring… searching… asking silent questions.

My hands slid to the small of her back and she melted against me. I splayed my fingers out, tracing light patterns along her sides, my thumbs brushing against her breasts. I could feel the stiffening pleasure as her nipples pressed against the thin silk of her robe. I caressed her sides, letting my hands drift to her buttocks. I began to throb.

I quickly found the sash that closed the gown around her, loosened the cloth and let my hands slide over the milky softness of her skin. Her hands, in turn, fumbled with my belt, seeking to free me from my captivity. As her fingers brushed against me for the first time, I surrendered to my passion. I was hunter with prey… the knight and Genevieve… visions and dreams and lovers seeking each other’s souls…

Her gown fluttered to the floor, joined quickly by my clothing.

The fire sputtered and danced, and the soft, throbbing glow painted highlights along our hips as we joined and melted together. I watched our shadows dancing in the firelight, a tender ballet of motion… building slowly, first as two, then as one. Turning… moving... joining… and then, joining again. Our shadows arched and fell, melting into the slumber. The crackling of the fire began to fade, and the cabin slipped from view.

Another day assaulted me.

The clanging of the metal doors began to scream up and down the catwalk as the ever-present stink of prison filtered into my nose. I stumbled from the bunk, stretching and cursing. I started to reach for the Marlboro box, only to remember I had but one half inch of tobacco filled paper left. I teetered on the edge of want and discretion, and finally stuffed the box in my shirt pocket.

Time for the daily mental ritual: “Set your sights on the first good thing. So, what the fuck is it? Mail! Just after breakfast, there’s mail!”

Had she read my last poem to her, I wondered? Had she written something for me?

We had settled into a pleasant pattern of writing each other poetry. She loved words, and loved the music of poetry. She had first cajoled me. Then she pleaded with me. Finally I had consented to try my hand at it. “I think I’m getting better at it,” I mused. “There’s so much truth, here… so much pain.” I cruelly chuckled to myself. “And, so fucking much time!”

She had lovingly guided my efforts. The teacher in her had a new student, and the child within me so very much wanted her approval. I walked over to the desk and shuffled through the meticulously ordered pile of correspondence. If I received another letter today, I’d have to select one of these letters to send home. It was one of the arcane and draconian punishments extorted from the inmates. You could have no more than 12 pieces of mail at any one time. The guards happily enforced it, confiscating all your mail if you happened to keep one extra piece of blessed correspondence from the ones who still professed to love you.

I looked over her letters.

I read each of them again, and then carefully selected the oldest one, folded it into thirds and placed it lovingly inside the letter written over the past two days. Then I reached for notebook containing my growing poetic efforts and carefully tore out the page with my latest poem. I sat down on the bunk and read through my words, fearing once again that we would not be worthy of her. Or, worse, that she might see the transparent depression that was gnawing at me.

****************************************

I'm Not Joseph

Joseph wore a technicolor coat and God

was on his side when they threw him in jail

I wore a pinstriped suit and a silk tie

God and I hadn't spoken in a long, long time

Not true. I had spoken but He didn't return my calls

maybe I wasn't home -- maybe it doesn't matter

'cause I ain't Joseph

Nobody told me about the pain of blue skies

seen through chainlink fences -- mist sparkles

on razor wire designed to slice flesh from the bone.

Nobody told me the dawn hurts. Nobody told me

there were too many heartbeats to the minute.

Too many hours. Too many days.

The sound of the watch ticking on my arm

bangs slowly in the back of my head

some caller in a minaret sounding off the hours

with deadly precision. Nobody told me

it hurts when your heart is out of step.

Nobody told me pride stings when they search you

strip down -- bend over -- smile

Nobody said it hurt to say your name.

I ain't Joseph.

She cried when I left. So'd my mother

each tear scratching hollow veneer. I can handle it,

one more tear -- one more silent whimper

I can handle it.

Metal bars slide to the left, clawing the soul

only the sound calls out S-I-N-N-E-R

as it lumbers to a stop. Silence -- I can handle it

silence. Nobody told me

the sound of the stars in the night

is loud enough to burst the eardrums

as if everyman who had gone before was singing in concert

a fugue flickering to moonlit madness

too loud -- too goddamn loud.

Nobody told me the pain of the first visit

or the ones after that. You see it in their eyes

the separation -- the hurt in silent hugs

You hear their eyes deny the forgiveness

that trickles from their lips. How do you say

you saw another man get raped

and you couldn't do anything

Or the cluster party -- the slow-motion beating

of someone as frail as you feel

they drop like a blanket folding over itself

only the blood doesn't make a sound.

You talk of nothing. Nobody wants you to worry

you talk of nothing 'cause they cannot understand

you talk of nothing and the words hurt.

Nobody told me words can rip bits of your heart away

or dreams can haunt you like a cruel lover

sneaking into your bed. Nobody told me

the walls and eyes and ears of this place

swallow you until nothing remains.

Nobody told me the ones you love, watch.

Everything is fine. Don't worry about me.

Did you get my letter? Will you write to me?

I'm fine.

****************************************

I took a deep breath, and exhaled. “Let your words be honest. Let me hear your voice.” Wasn’t that what she had said? I carefully slid the poem in beside the letters and sealed the envelope. Thankfully, the state allowed each inmate one stamp per day. I had scored two stamps from one of the other inmates for sweeping the common room for him. With today’s stamp allowance, I had enough to mail this letter. Tucking it carefully into my pocket, I awaited for the call for breakfast.

A half an hour later, I had choked down the powdered eggs and lousy coffee. On the way out of the dining room I had posted my letter.

The next few days were the same mindless torture of the minutes slowly creeping by. First, came night and the promise of sleep, then the tender release of the dream followed by the waking. Each morning I had gone through the daily ritual: “Set your sights on the first good thing. So, what the fuck is it? Mail! Just after breakfast, there’s mail!”

Each morning, I waited. Each morning, the guard finally appeared with the stack of letters and began calling out each name. With perverse delight, he called name after name. If you had a letter, he would announce how many. If you had none, the guard would grin and say: “You get nothing.”

Each time the midway point of the alphabet was reached, I mentally began to count down to my name. “Two more… one more... me.”

Each time, the guard looked at me and grinned. “You get nothing.”

Each time, my heart fell.

Each time, I girded myself for the next 24 hours… the mindless torture… the arrival of night and the promise of sleep… the tender release of the dream followed by the waking. With mindless sameness, I had gone through the ritual: “Set your sights on the first good thing. So, what the fuck is it?”

The guard finally appeared with the stack of letters and began calling out the names. “Two more. One more. Me.” The guard looked at me and grinned. “You get nothing.”

My heart fell… again.

The ensuing deluge of fear and loss, worry and rampant paranoia flooded over me. Was she all right? Did she forget? Why hadn’t she written? I surrendered to the depressing litany of questions and trudged back to my cell. I spent the remainder of the morning in pointless pursuit of answers. I had tried to score a cup of coffee from several other guys, but all reminded me that I still owed them for cigarettes, or coffee, or stamps. I cursed my luck and jailhouse poverty.

I tried to write another poem. I tried to read. I wandered the common room. I thought about playing cards, but I had nothing to gamble. I retreated to the six by nine piece of real estate that the state had condemned me to live in for the next twenty years.

I was morose.

I grabbed a small slip of paper and began to mindlessly doodle, my thoughts playing hide-and-seek with my spirit, and my soul was losing. In a subconscious effort to bring order to my rampant depression, I began to play with numbers, muttering to myself.