VOICE

II
After they left the Mess Hall, Seán walked with Kilmer toward the exercise yard over tightly packed dirt, choked patches of weeds, and hurried past men clustered near the metal bleachers. Movement, motion, almost a blur of men – large and wide, tall and thin, short and broad, some with teardrops under their left eyes, a few with missing fingers, others limping and shaking. Seán heard bursts of harsh laughter and hand slapping interspersed between practiced glances of derision.
“Hey, you. Killer,” said a skinhead with a 5:1 tattoo to tooth ratio, his voice a third rate imitation of Tony Soprano.
No response.
“You, Killer, I asked you your name.” Seán slowed down.
The voice again, “You. Speak up.”
Silence, then Seán turned and said, “Seán Tyler.”
“Well, Seán Tyler, when you gonna align yourself? Join up?” “Align,” pronounced like “a lion.” Join, pronounced “jo-ween”. The man laughed.
“What?”
“You heard him. When you gonna join? You needa be with us. You high status,” said a voice with a regional rasp that spoke of few hopeful days. Then, as if challenged, the man stepped forward.
Seán knew the common law of the institution, the rules – decisions. Make ‘em quick. Know where you are. Know how to act. Know the routine. Don’t screw up, don’t look up, don’t bend over. Incur no debts. Watch your back, watch your ass, don’t watch other people – learn to live like that on a daily basis, and you may survive.
He heard his wife’s voice, looked directly at the man, took one step forward, and irrespective of the rules, without a smile or rise in pitch, said, “Buddy, I don’t need to,” stopped, inhaled an exasperated breath, then exhaled that exasperation, “jo-ween anything. Leave me the hell alone.” He walked off without another word. At that moment, Seán was singled out as a special project.
“Watch out. They’re not asking you to pledge a fraternity,” he heard Kilmer say.
Seán slowed his pace, turned his head, looked straight at Kilmer, “Can you imagine me standing around – using ‘fuck’ as an interjection or adverb, hell, maybe even an adjective?” He took a breath, “Not me.”
A few minutes later, Seán’s eyes jerked to the right, quickly shot away. His words came out deliberately, “Look at those old men on that rusted bench near the barbells. Scares the hell out of me.”
“How?”
“Faces tight as drawstrings. Resentful eyes. Roll-your-own cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.” He flashed to a large round table in the day room with the omnipresent cigarette-rolling machine, the yellow and blue cans of Tops tobacco – rumored to come from floor sweepings, the Zig-Zag wrappers in shirt pockets. Seán’s face flushed. “I don’t want to end up like them.”
“How’s that?” Kilmer asked.
“Full of regret. More than that. Full of revenge.”
“Well, hell, who isn’t? Sounds biblical.”
“Is biblical. I’ll end up insane or interred – or both,” said Seán.
“You’re too smart to end up like that,” said Kilmer.
“I hope you’re right,” said Seán, “but I ended up like this.”