A Viking's Release
(Viking is an interesting character, and he seemed to be a complex soul, masked underneath an insidious exterior.)
The pain dulled, even the anger, but not so much the humiliation. The little flip Horowitz didn't get off easy–he got two months in the box. That damn box drove the boys crazy and Horowitz would eventually resorted to behaving like the volatile, caged rat he was. The kid got his sweet revenge on him though, which would carry him through the rough spots of his incarceration.
Viking Lofgren traced the fine white scars along his right eye. He'd nearly lost his eyeball after Horowitz's stunt. A small boom box had been left on his bed. Deep down he was touched someone cared to leave him such a precious gift. But the joke was on him. The radio exploded after he fiddled with the knobs and the music started playing. The force knocked Viking right out of the cell and onto the floor screaming in bloody agony.
After all this time and pain, he had to admit, it was a great payback. Plain and simple – he'd deserved it.
Viking felt his broad, aquiline nose – amazingly still intact. The rest of his face was smooth and chiseled, with a pallor only captivity could make. Could he thank God for small favors? He tried.
Viking's four-month extension ended tonight and he'd finally be free.
He doused his face with cold water and the last suds of an Ivory soap sliver. A line from a movie he'd recently seen came to him. The teachers had insisted they watch an old version of Les Miserables. They told them to learn a lesson from Jean Valjean. Viking would never admit it, but he really enjoyed the classic film. He liked most old movies. Afterward, he'd read the entire novel.
A deep chord struck him when the kindly priest told Valjean, "Free? When is a man free? I wish someone would tell me that?"
Viking was going home, but he wondered if that'd be any less of a prison sentence. Home – where he was captive to his mother's frailties. Her nervous breakdowns in the last few years made her daffy. He could already smell the pancakes and he groaned.
"Your father loved my pancakes! Why don't you, John?" She'd whack him with the spatula when he stopped eating them every morning.
"I used to make pancakes in my daddy's restaurant when I was a little girl, it was a breakfast favorite…"
The brain was an amazing organ in the human body and the crux of a person's entire life force, yet extremely delicate. Viking's curiosity into its complexities grew the more he thought of his mother. Somehow that one childhood memory of making breakfast was trapped in her mind and she'd harp on it, over and over and over.
Viking didn't tell anyone, but his small collection of books doubled with texts on the study of the criminal mind, neuroscience, and psychology. He devoured them in quiet moments. There were many quiet moments. Viking filled the waiting time reading and sketching, a talent he'd honed since childhood. He no longer strolled through the cell blocks looking for trouble. If trouble came his way, he ignored it, kept his cool, and walked away. The eyes of the guards and staff were on him at all times and his current behavior impressed them beyond words.
Being in and out of this rut for five years now, Viking ascribed to a simple truth. It takes all kinds to make a world. He was about to go back out into the world, and this time he'd conquer it.
He pulled out a comb and ran it through his thick hair. He'd let his trademark frizzy pompadour deflate into a mass of soft, uneven curls; the striking bleach blonde he'd colored his hair faded. The fearless inmates had taken to calling him Shirley Temple when he walked by. But Viking figured at least he might grow old and die with all his hair. A lot of the guys on the inside were balding by twenty.
Viking let it all go. He was on his way out; they could all rot in this sinkhole, but not him. He was a fighter.
He thought of his old crony, Tweety. The bastard deserved every bullet that was pumped into him. Three bullets took him down, the so-called King of Juvie Hall. The incident occurred only a month after Tweety's release. Although at first stunned and angry, Viking soon wished it were a more brutal punishment.
One for every time Tweety molested that poor kid.
Viking figured if he happened to die on upon his release, he'd deserve it too. Silence was just as condemnatory as committing the actual crime.
He had a deeper reason for keeping quiet. Fear. Tweety was not one to be toyed with, though he took delight toying with everyone else. Viking knew a lot of Tweety's 'peeps' on the outside would kill you for a glance. Their loyalties to Tweety didn't end with his death. Viking didn't want any threats hanging on his head, so he clammed up. It made no sense revealing the truth now, Tweety had already paid the ultimate price. But Viking was still paying for his involvement with Tweety. Constant guilt and vivid nightmares plagued him.
The other night was a little different. In the dream, Viking had thrown himself over the railing and grabbed onto the desperate kid for dear life.
"I won't let you down this time!" He promised him, but the outcome was always the same.
The kid smiled weakly, but slipped from his grasp and landed on the tiles below, his skull cracked and neck broke, just as it really happened.
Viking often woke up in fits, and several times the guards had to run in and calm him down. He'd learned to control himself whenever the nightmares hit him. He developed a system of counting backwards and telling himself it was "Just a dream, just a dream."
He adjusted the cuffs of his jeans and packed the remainder of his clothing. His load consisted of a few t-shirts and denims, lots of white socks, underwear, and a pair of old running sneakers. He quickly glanced in the mirror. He wore his fitted blue, Crush! shirt and comfortable brown loafers. He flexed, proud of how much his muscles grew since he came inside. The frequent gym visits had paid off. Viking had long, powerful arms and sturdy, thick legs and they complimented his six-three frame.
"Pfft! Too bad you still look like Lurch! You raaaaannng?' He drawled sarcastically like the Addams Family's ghoulish Butler. "Sound like him too."
Viking wasn't completely hideous and he knew it. He resembled his mother, inheriting her hooded blue eyes. He had high cheekbones and a sensuous grin. In every other respect he was his father, practically an outline of the poor veteran. After the Korean War, his father married, and Viking's older brother Hank was born. Hank had since escaped to Texas and ran a successful bar and grill. It'd been a while since they corresponded, but Hank tried to be supportive and encouraging.
Viking missed his father. He was always the rock, and the voice of gritty wisdom. When he died, Viking's world collapsed. His father insisted on taking a tour in Vietnam, but died three years after his return. The army released him for frequent bouts of pneumonia. Apparently the Agent Orange weakened his lungs. That, and his bad habit of smoking a pack-a-day did him in too soon.
Viking's favorite books were carefully placed underneath the clothes, along with a few personals. He'd salvaged his art supplies, soaps, shampoos, deodorant and a shaving kit he managed to scrounge from the local dealer of the joint. The books came at a price too, seeing as he didn't want to borrow anything from the school library and have everyone make a fuss like they did over his artwork. Nearly all his smokes went to retrieve them.
That was a way to quit fast. He reasoned.
He had one remaining pack of cigs with two missing. He placed it carefully on the made-up bed. The next delinquent could take it as a welcome gift. After a week in the cell block he'd crave them. As if on cue, a rowdy noise swelled from below the catwalk. Viking peeked out.
The newcomers were here again. It was the same trite ritual – curse, scream, hit and spit. Viking recalled the days when he'd be the last on the line. He made sure he'd hacked up the biggest glob of phlegm for right between the eyes. Watching the scene now, his stomach churned. He gripped his suitcase as one of the solemn delinquents finally approached his cell.
The new boy was scared; he looked no older than fifteen with winsome brown eyes and shaggy dark hair. He didn't have any noticeable scars, nor the world-weary expressions and attitudes most newbies brought with them. This boy had first time offender written all over him. He was still short, but time would tell.
He inched into the cell, desperately seeking to wipe off the spittle that ran down his tear-stained face.
"If you're gonna spit on me too, just get it over with." He cowered.
Viking shook his head. "Sorry, I'm all out of good loogies today." He pointed to the sink and finished packing. He felt a little pity and dug in his knapsack for a new bar of soap. He tossed it to the boy.
"Welcome to hell. Make it last."
"Thanks!" As the boy scrubbed, Viking attempted casual conversation.
"How old do you think I am, kid?"
The boy looked up surprised, he didn't think the golem wanted to talk to him. "Uh, I dunno, twenty-five?"
"Twenty-two, thanks for not thinking I'm forty. If you want to be stuck in this crap-hole for as long as I have, you'll screw up and break all the rules... my advice to you, don't. Do what you're told, stay out of everyone's way, don't conceal weapons, and do your damn homework."
The kid nodded carefully and took the bottom bunk. Viking placed a box by his bed. Inside were a few worn out girlie mags, a pack of stogies, chewing gum, and playing cards. He threw the cigarettes on top. Viking was sick of it all and everything was just junk he wouldn't need.
"Knock yourself out. What's your name?"
"Richard…Richie."
"What are you in for, Richie Rich?"
"Uhh…I don't wanna say."
"Get over it and spill, kid. You're not special!"
"I…I molested a few kids on the school bus!"
Richie hid his face in the pillow. Every muscle in Viking's body clenched. It was better that the kid did that; Viking wanted to smash his face in. He took deep breaths and kept his steadied his voice.
"What the hell possessed you? Are you on drugs?"
"No, man! It started as a joke, but then I was getting away with it and it became sort of a game. I don't know why I did it, I don't like kids like that! It was just…"
Viking knelt down to him, his long face and grim mouth sent shivers through the kid. He gripped Richie's shoulder.
"It's not a game to screw around with kids, you dirty punk. Do you think you're some bigshot 'cause you got power over babies? You better watch your ass around here; these guys have little brothers and sisters they love if you can believe it. And some will do more than molest you. I almost feel sorry. Trust me, they'll find out why you're here. If you'd caught me just a few months ago, I think your teeth would've been in the back of your throat by now."
Richie gazed at Viking relieved. "Oh, man. Thanks for going easy."
"Don't thank me. If we were on the outside you'd be laying in the gutter, but I wanna get out of here today. Look, you got a serious mental problem and you better nip it before it eats you alive and you do something worse." Viking's stomach jumped as he thought of Tweety.
The call for lights out was made and the other boys began piling into their cells. Viking stood up with his suitcase and stepped outside for the last time.
"Sweet dreams, Richie Rich. You're really gonna need it in here."
Viking walked leisurely down the catwalk, everyone cheered his departure and spewed threats of murder and hatred at him. Some spat. Viking didn't flinch as spittle hit him on his hair,shirt, and face. He knew all of these boys, and probably bullied each and every one. Their angry faces would be etched in his mind forever, every experience would. He held his head high and didn't look back.
Like Jean Valjean, this phase of his life was over.
The End