Chapter Thirty-Four #3
Subdued by what’s turned into one hell of a shiner, Manny hangs back and partners up with Lobo.
Once again, my buddy is Boudreaux. As we head off, he says, “Hey, Ledbetter, the post office is open.” What’s he talking about?
“The post office, man. It’s open .” He points down at my unbuttoned fly.
When I close it up, he nods and says, “?a c’est bon.
” I tell him half the time I don’t know whether he’s speaking English or Swamp.
He says it’s not his fault if we people “up the bayou” don’t talk right.
Our four o’clock supper is meat loaf, mashed potatoes, canned carrots, bread, and cake: enough carbs to bloat us up and a sodium level so high we could all have strokes.
Austin’s at the far end of our table, eating fast and talking to no one.
Manny’s at the other end. For once in his life, he’s not saying much either.
An argument breaks out at a table on the other side of the room, but Anselmo shuts it down before fists fly.
I find an undissolved protein pellet in my meat loaf, which means there’s more cereal than meat in there.
I concentrate on the potatoes, bread, and carrots instead, thinking my mom would probably faint if she saw me eating carrots without making a fuss.
Boudreaux, seated across from me, keeps eyeing my cake.
“Jesus Christ, just take it,” I tell him. He makes the grab.
When Goolsby yells that time’s up, I look at the clock on the wall. He and Anselmo have given us seventeen of our twenty minutes to eat. Not bad.
Manny, Boudreaux, and I are walking side by side out of the hall when Anselmo tells me to hold up.
The other two stop, too. “There’s a salt shaker missing from the table where you guys were at,” he says.
“You swipe that, Ledbetter?” I tell him no, that there was only an empty pepper shaker where we sat down.
“But this wouldn’t be the first thing you ever lied about, would it? You know the drill. Let’s go.”
“Hey, come on, brother. He didn’t take nothing,” Boudreaux says.
Anselmo gets in his face. “I’m not your brother, brother. Keep moving.” The Ragin’ Cajun shakes his head and does what he’s told.
I’m about to be patted down and there’s nothing for me to do but comply, so I stare up at the ceiling as Goolsby does the honors.
His hands move from my shoulders down my outstretched arms, then up and down the rest of my torso.
“Step aside, Officer Goolsby,” Anselmo says.
He pats down the outsides, then the insides of my legs.
When he’s up around my groin, he clasps his hands together and knuckles me in the nuts.
I wince and cough but force myself not to cry out or double over from the pain.
I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the reaction he wants.
“I’m thinking he might have stuck it up his butt,” he tells Goolsby. “A lot of these artist types are into that kinky shit. Drop trou, Ledbetter.”
Some of my peers are still filing past on their way back to the cellblock. “Full strip searches are supposed to be done in private,” I remind him.
“There he goes again,” Anselmo says. “Telling officers what they should and shouldn’t be doing.
He got his picture in the paper, so now he thinks he’s buddy-buddy with the warden and the deputy warden.
Maybe you should write me up then, Picasso.
Make sure you spell my name right. It’s F-U-C-K-Y-O-U.
” He pulls out a pair of latex gloves and snaps them on.
“Officer? Excuse me.”
I look around and realize that Manny’s still here. “I was at that table, too. There was no salt shaker when we sat down.”
“Is that right?” Anselmo says. “Ain’t that sweet, Officer Goolsby? Twinkle Toes is sticking up for his cellie or his boyfriend or whatever they are to each other. How’d you get that black eye, Twinkle Toes? Someone’s dick slap you in the face?”
Goolsby orders Manny to get back to his tier before he writes him up for interference. He looks to Anselmo for approval.
“Or we could always go over there and shake his cell down,” Anselmo says. He hits the jackpot with that threat.
“Sorry, Officer,” Manny mumbles. Walking away, he turns back and shouts, “But there was no stinking salt shaker on that table!”
I appreciate Manny’s effort, but he could have saved his energy. To get this over with, I open my mouth wide so Goolsby can check inside—make sure there’s no missing salt shaker pouched in my cheek or hiding under my tongue.
“Why don’t you head back, Officer Goolsby?” Anselmo says. “I got this. I’ll see you over there.” His sidekick does what he’s told. Now it’s just Anselmo and me. “Okay, Ledbetter. You want some privacy? Follow me.”
He leads me to the door of the walk-in storage room adjacent to the kitchen.
Unlocks the door and swings it open. “After you,” he says.
I know in my gut that I shouldn’t go in there, but it’s not like I have a choice.
Anselmo steps in and yanks the pull chain hanging from a bare bulb.
The room is cold and reeks of onions; bushel bags of them are piled on the floor.
Towers of cartons are lined up against the wall, labeled: cooking oil, powdered eggs, canned tomatoes.
Anselmo closes the door behind him. I’d better think fast.
“Could you leave the door open a crack, Officer? I get claustrophobic when—”
“Oh, sure,” he says. Opens the door a foot or so, then slams it shut again.
“That better? Okay, you know the drill. Drop your pants and underwear, then turn around and put your hands on the wall.” I do what he says.
“Now bend over, spread, and cough.” I comply.
Relieved that this is over, I start to stand up.
“Hold on there, Picasso. We ain’t through yet.
Bend over again, spread your ass wider, and cough again. Louder this time.”
I break out in a sweat and can feel my heart pounding.
This isn’t just harassment. It’s torture, pure and simple.
I half expect him to order me to bark like a dog.
But the sooner I can get out of this room, the better.
I bend over again, pull my cheeks apart, and cough once, twice, three times. “Satisfied?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” he says.
“And if we have to keep doing this until I am satisfied, then that’s what we’re going to do.
Now get in position again, spread that hairy ass wide enough so I can see the pink inside your butthole, and cough until I tell you to stop.
” Furious, I do what he says. I’m goddamned if I’m going to give him a reason to ticket me for noncompliance.
As I bend over this time, I feel something poking and jabbing around back there. “Hey! What the hell are you—”
I scream out in pain as something is shoved up my rectum, withdrawn, and plunged back in again. Overcome with nausea, I lose my balance and stumble forward, hitting my forehead against the wall as I go down on my knees. I might have passed out for a few seconds, I’m not sure.
Dazed, I struggle back onto my feet, and as I do, my eyes move from those bags of onions to the weapon he’s used: one of those expandable aluminum batons they swing at inmates when a fight turns into a free-for-all.
I stare at that thing as he collapses it, picks my shirt off the floor, and uses it to wipe off his weapon before he slides it back into the holster on his belt.
“Well, looky there, Officer Anselmo. The baby killer’s got himself a boner.” There, suddenly, stands Piccardy, in street clothes instead of his uniform. He must have been here all the time. “You enjoy that, Ledbetter? You want some more? Maybe enough to get you to a happy ending?”
I shake my head, struggling to speak. “You two are going to lose your jobs over this,” I finally manage to say. My voice is a croak.
Piccardy shrugs. “I’m not even here,” he says.
“I’m off until next week.” He brings his face so close to mine that I can smell his hair gel.
Whispers, “Better not make threats you can’t prove, baby killer.
You see anyone who can back up your bullshit?
Who do you think they’d believe: a whiny little bitch like you or an Officer of the Month who was just doing his job? ”
Anselmo joins in. “Good thing I checked, too, Officer Piccardy, because look what fell out of his asshole.” He reaches into his pants pocket and tosses something onto the floor. It rolls toward me and stops against my shoe: one of the chow hall’s cylindrical cardboard salt shakers.
Piccardy shakes his head and clucks his tongue.
“Stolen contraband, Ledbetter. Exhibit A. Now if I were you, I’d get the fuck back to my unit and keep my mouth shut unless I want more of the same.
Or worse. And from now on, try to remember who’s in charge around here and who isn’t.
” With that, he pivots, opens the door, and disappears around the corner.
“Is that clear what he said?” Anselmo asks. His hand is on the pull chain. He watches my involuntary trembling.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He pulls the chain and the room goes dark.