Grayscale (part 1)
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Slowly, Max woke up. The surreal colorful scene of Broadway gradually gave way to the gray on gray angles of his cell. For some blessed time, Max couldn't understand why he found himself suddenly lying on a narrow cot, a scratchy stained blanket rubbing against his stubbled cheek.
Then, realization dawned, and Max, still curled up on his side, brought his hands up to cradle his face.
„A dream. Just an empty dream!", he told no-one in particular, as he rolled onto his back and sighed.
He still was in prison. For the next five years, his home would consist of eight square meters, filled with a double bunk-bed, a rickety table, a three legged stool and a run-down toilet-sink combination. The small hole of a window wasn't really worth mentioning, just like the lopsided small cupboard he kept his spare underpants in.
Max sat up, sending the bed wobbling. After a first try, he had decided that he would forego the upper bunk. Thankfully, he had the cell to his own, at least until the wardens would decide to have some fun and pair him up with one of the burly bullies he had managed to avoid for now more or less during meal times.
One of the first things Max had learned in prison was to keep his head down and his big mouth shut. It didn't hurt that some of the old ladies still kept visiting him from time to time, and more often than not brought him lovely cakes, filled with dollar bills „to keep him buying these cigars he missed so much", as they cooed to him.
In reality, he did use the money for tobacco, only not for the cigars he had mentioned longingly to his former backers, but for cigarettes to ensure the wardens' and other inmates' continued good will.
As he reflected about his dire situation, a sharp knock on his door announced time for getting-up.
Resigned, Max stood up, washed and put on his clothes. There were only some minutes between wake-up and move-it, as he called the routine order to leave his cell and go to the cafeteria for meals, the yard for exercise or, most dreaded, the showers for standing wet and naked amidst violent gangsters, rapists and murderers.
Thankfully, today was Sunday, so this move-it was the only optional one, the chance to go to church, one that Max, although not particularly devout, always took.
No five minutes after that first knock a key rattled and the door to his cell was thrown open. „Move it!", the warden bellowed.
Oh joy, thought Max, it's Dobson-the-Dog. This warden was in a permanent bad mood, shouting all the time, and taking offense both at frowning prisoners as well as happy ones. Max carefully schooled his features into a neutral gaze downwards, as he left his cell and followed the others to the chapel. „Stop studying your feet and look where you're going, you piece of scum", came the prompt respond from Dobson. Max sighed inwardly, and raised his eyes a bit. In front of him, another man joined the shuffling line, Tony, the prison-fence he sometimes bought cigarettes from. Then, some cells forward another one and so forth. From the last door they passed, Frank the Butcher joined the queue. When Max sneaked a look into the cell before it was locked again, he saw a new inmate cowering in a corner, his hands curled protectively around his head and blood on his face and shirt. „Who's this?", he hissed to Tony. „The little mama's boy?", Tony answered, „A fucking communist! Frank was livid they chucked him in with him yesterday. I am surprised he's still breathing. Wanna take a bet when he will kick the bucket? There's a jackpot of twenty packages already!"
"Ah, no, thanks," Max declined, swallowing bile. He might have once urged a crazy man to kill his actors, true, but that had been in a time of despair, and all in all he still considered himself a member of the human race.
Tony shrugged while moving: "Your loss – tomorrow is a pretty safe bet!"
Again, Max sighed inwardly. And to think that the men before and behind him were on their way to the prison chapel.
Admittedly, some of them surely opted for Sunday mass mainly for entertainment – the sermon was more often than not peppered with strange ramblings about the priest's brother-in-law and the organist had a penchant for accompanying the hymns with some jazz-like chords – but a good portion of the Sunday gang seemed to take the thing pretty serious.
Which opened up a whole other can of worms for Max, who would often refer to the Good Lord above in affectionate if somewhat joking terms, that some of the others regarded as offensively disrespectful. After they had bloodied his nose that one Sunday, Max had refrained from joining in the open-pulpit-slot Father O'Connor had inserted into liturgy whenever he hadn't been able to prepare a substantial sermon due to a family wake the night before (which was not as rare as one would think).
Nowadays, Max prayed silently, kneeling in the pew opposite the only, small glass-stained window above the altar. "Oh Lord, dear Lord, please let me survive this week!" was a heartfelt constant, especially after brushes with the more violent of the inmates, as was "Oh Lord, dear Lord, please don't let me throw up again" after the more vile kind of stew they served on Saturdays.
Today, Max found himself muttering a sad "Hail Mary" for Catch-Me-Kiss-Me, who had passed away last Monday and left him a sum of five hundred dollars and a silver-framed photo. When the solicitor's package had arrived on Friday, Max had stowed the money in his sock and put the picture onto the cupboard, feeling a bit teary-eyed despite himself.
Resting his head on his folded hands, he now remembered the last letter he had received from her. "My dear Bialy", she had written, "I am feeling a bit under the weather, so I won't be able to visit this week. The ungrateful schmuck of a son of mine even had me draw up my will, but I have shown him: I will leave everything I own to charity, apart from a small gift for you. It should be enough to keep you in cigars for the rest of your unfortunate state-holiday, but please feel free to use it as your please, should the worst come to pass. Anyway, can't wait to see you again soon" and signed with a crinkled lip-print in dark magenta.
"Not too soon, I hope", Max smiled sadly.
Sitting back before the next hymn, his gaze fell upon Frank, who towered menacingly in the first pew to the right, right across from the pulpit in which a rather nervous looking Father O'Connor was shuffling through his notes about the Good Samaritan who helped the robbed stranger.
The image of the curled-up man in Frank's cell rose up in Max' memory. As much as he tried, he wasn't able to ignore it for long. At the end of mass, he had resigned. That's what you got for keeping a shred of compassion. Wearily, Max glanced heavenwards, muttering "How do they find me?", before he and the others bowed their heads to receive the final blessing.
Hanging a bit back under the pretense of studying the leaflets for the Wednesday-evening catechism-meeting, he waited until most of the men had left the chapel. Then he approached the second warden, an easy-going man named Pulasky.
"Morning, Max!", he was greeted amiably. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Magnificent sunrise!"
Max, whose cell had a window not bigger than a handkerchief, facing north, agreed with a broad smile. Then he cut to the chase: "Listen, Pulasky, I've seen we got a new face about, the guy in Frank's cell."
The warden nodded sadly. "Yeah, I know. But Dobson can't stand commies, so he figured Frank would be the perfect match. Had his fun last night when he took a peek."
Max closed his eyes. Pulasky might not agree with Dobson's idea of fun, but he wouldn't challenge him without reason.
"Now, that guy, he might deserve everything he got, but it seems a bit unfair to Frank, doesn't it", Max reasoned. "having to share his cell with this git. And we all know that an unhappy Frank is bad news for the rest of us. Maybe you could convince Dobson to move the new guy?"
Pulasky shook his head. "Nope, sorry, don't think he will be easily swayed. Couldn't care less for the rest of you, Dobson, right? And what would I have from confronting Dobson apart from a surly colleague?"
Yeah, as friendly as Pulasky was, he wasn't in it for charity. Max turned a bit and took three of the five bills from his sock.
"Maybe these could help you convince the man?"
Pulasky seemed to consider it. "Might need a bit more convincing before I will tackle the problem", he grinned. Max groaned and fished for a fourth bill. "Pretty close now", Pulasky nodded, while keeping his palm open. Frowning, Max grabbed the last of the money and shoved it at the warden.
"You know, for a good Catholic, you need an awful lot of convincing until you agree to help your fellow man.", he growled.
"Now, there!" Pulasky's smile had faded a bit. "You know I am a reasonably man, Max, but everyone's out for themselves. Why should I help a fraud like you who is filthy with old ladies' money without getting something in return? Do you know how much a warden makes?"
Max sagged tiredly. No reason to alienate allies. "I am sorry, Pulasky. You are right. I understand. Sorry. Now do you think you can make Dobson change his mind?"
The warden weighed his head a bit. "Yeah, I guess so. Already had his fun, as I said, and nobody wants to have another dead body in here after that thing with Matt." Tony had told Max about this: Last year, a prisoner named Matt Gally had attacked his cell-mate while under the influence and killed him. The wardens were accused of neglect when it became known that Matt had beaten up the poor guy three times before that. In the end, Matt had been sent to the chair, while the wardens were reprimanded severely.
"Anyway,", Pulasky continued,"not many bunks left, most cells are filled up."
Oh great, so this was where they were heading. "One offers you a little finger and you go for the whole hand, don't you!", Max growled inwardly, glancing at the ceiling.
To Pulasky, he smiled and nodded. "I know what you mean."
The warden smiled back. "I guess we will have to put Bannen into your cell, you're being the most reasonable of the single ones left. You might even get into the good graces of Frank for this."
Max started. "No, please, don't tell him", he said urgently, sitting down next to the warden. Frank thinking he asked to be paired up with a boyish looking man he had only seen once would lead Frank to wrong and dangerous assumptions about Max. "In fact, why don't you tell Dobson you want to get back at me for cracking a joke at your cost?"
Pulasky gave Max a long look sideways. "This isn't what Frank might think it is, is it?"
Max was taken aback. This was a rumour he couldn't afford at all costs. "Now listen, you know I don't care for that kind of thing. And I surely don't want to share my cell. It was your idea after all, wasn't it, to put him in with me? As soon as you have any other option for him that doesn't involve his violent death at the hands of a crazy killer, by all means, please go for it!"
The warden looked relieved. "Didn't take you for a fruit, Maxy! Good to know I'm right! Sorry to have ruffled your feathers!", he apologised.
Max grimassed. "Well, as long as that is clear, no offense taken", he conceded.
"Hey, would you lazy bastards haul your backs off the seats and join us, if you please", came a disgruntled shout from the corridor.
Dobson again.
Sharing a long-suffering look, the two men stood up and left the chapel.