Twelve

The light falling through the cell’s small chickenwire-reinforced window is gray, which consequently makes his skin gray. Also his hands are dirty and covered with scratches. The crud under some of his nails is black (dirt) and under some it’s maroon (dried blood). He vaguely remembers tussling with someone who kept calling him sir, so he guesses that he might be here on the ever-popular Penal Code 48, Assaulting an Officer. All he wanted— Callahan has a slightly clearer memory of this— was to try on the kid’s cap, which was very spiffy. He remembers trying to tell the young cop (from the look of this one, pretty soon they’ll be hiring kids who aren’t even toilet-trained as police officers, at least in Topeka) that he’s always on the lookout for funky new lids, he always wears a cap because he’s got the Mark of Cain on his forehead. “Looksh like a crossh,” he remembers saying (or trying to say), “but it’sh rilly the Marga-Gain.” Which, in his cups, is about as close as he can come to sayingMark of Cain.

Was really drunk last night, but he doesn’t feel so bad as he sits here on the bunk, rubbing a hand through his crazy hair. Mouth doesn’t taste so good— sort of like Ruta the Siamese Cat took a dump in it, if you wanted the truth— but his head isn’t aching too badly. If only the voices would shut up! Down the hall someone’s droning out a seemingly endless list of names in alphabetical order. Closer by, someone is singing his least favorite song: “Someone saved, someone saved, someone saved myli-ife tonight…”

“Nailor!…Naughton!…O’Connor!…O’Shaugnessy!…Oskowski!…Osmer!”

He is just beginning to realize thathe is the one singing when the trembling begins in his calves. It works its way up to his knees, then to his thighs, deepening and strengthening as it comes. He can see the big muscles in his legs popping up and down like pistons. What is happening to him?

“Palmer!…Palmgren!”

The trembling hits his crotch and lower belly. His underwear shorts darken as he sprays them with piss. At the same time his feet start snapping out into the air, as if he’s trying to punt invisible footballs with both of them at the same time.I’m seizing, he thinks . This is probably it. I’m probably going out. Bye-bye blackbird . He tries to call for help and nothing comes out of his mouth but a low chugging sound. His arms begin to fly up and down. Now he’s punting invisible footballs with his feet while his arms shout hallelujah, and the guy down the hall is going to go on until the end of the century, maybe until the next Ice Age.

“Peschier!…Peters!…Pike!…Polovik!…Rance!…Rancourt!”

Callahan’s upper body begins to snap back and forth. Each time it snaps forward he comes closer to losing his balance and falling on the floor. His hands fly up. His feet fly out. There is a sudden spreading pancake of warmth on his ass and he realizes he has just shot the chocolate.