And after that, until the day I left, they never came near me again.
It wasn’t a very good school. That was the only lesson I learned, the whole time I was there.
But I can’t complain. It’s served me well over the years.
I woke to the sound of footsteps on the far side of the gate. They were approaching the lobby. I could hear three sets. Two were confident and purposeful. The other was shuffling and reluctant. They drew closer, then stopped. I heard voices. One was Officer Jackman, starting the property-bagging ritual. The others were unfamiliar. I guessed it was around 2:30 A.M., Monday morning. I’d most likely been asleep on the bench for less than two hours.
Two of the cells only had a single occupant. Mine, and the one nearest the gate. If the guy in that one was as stoned as he looked, I knew they wouldn’t risk putting anyone in with him. Which meant I was about to get a new cellmate. I sighed to myself and leaned across to get a better view down the corridor.
Jackman was the first to appear. Behind him, two more uniformed officers were struggling with a prisoner. He was quite tall-about six feet two, only a couple of inches shorter than me-but incredibly wide. Everything about him seemed distorted. His legs, his arms, his chest, his neck-they all looked stretched sideways, like a regular TV picture on a wide-screen set. He was wearing tight, dark blue jeans with white patches bleached into them, army- style boots with the leather stripped away to expose the steel toe caps, and a faded burgundy sleeveless sweat top. His head was completely shaved. He had a flat, square face apart from his nose, which was crooked from being broken too often. But the most eye-catching thing about him was the tattoo on his neck. It was a line of swastikas. They were scarlet, outlined in black, and drawn so that the hooks at the end of each arm were joined together in an unbroken ring.
Jackman opened the door and the two officers heaved the Nazi into my cell. They really put some effort into it, but he still came to a halt after one step. Jackman followed, but didn’t try to push him any further. The officers stayed close and drew their nightsticks. They looked tense. Their eyes didn’t leave the big guy’s back. One of them had grazed knuckles on his right hand. The other had red patches on his forehead and a cut about an inch long to the side of his left eye. Maybe they were afraid the Nazi might kick off again. Or maybe they were hoping he would.
Jackman began to gingerly remove the Nazi’s handcuffs. They were stretched to their widest setting to fit around his huge wrists. There was no “keep looking at the wall” speech this time, but the Nazi put his hands on his head anyway, without being told. I guess he was no stranger to the routine, and he wasn’t stupid enough to give the officers behind him any excuse to go to work with their nightsticks.
The Nazi remained completely still until the officers had locked up and pulled back to the lobby. Then he glanced over his shoulder to make sure I was watching, and stretched his arms up high over his head. The stench of stale sweat grew stronger. With his arms still extended, he unlaced his fingers and showed me that the way he’d been holding them, it was as if he’d been giving a V sign to the officers behind him. He half turned toward me, and the solid slabs of his cheeks folded into a huge smile. He began to chuckle, and finally broke into a braying laugh.
I kept my expression as neutral as possible and looked away, keeping track of him out of the corner of my eye. His laughter slowly trailed off and an embarrassed, sulky frown spread across his face. Then, slowly and deliberately, he turned to fully face me.
“The hell are you?” he said, as if seeing me for the first time.
“No one for you to worry about,” I said.
“The hell you doing in my cell?”
“But that could change…”
“The hell you doing on my bench?”
“Oh-this is your bench?”
“Yeah. And I want to sit down, asshole.”
“Sit on the other bench.”
“No.”
“Then stay standing up.”
“I want to sit on my bench. Now.”
“What makes it your bench?”
“I’m telling you it is.”
“It’s your property?”
“Yeah.”
“You own it?”
“Right.”
“So what happened? Did you buy it?”
“What?”
“The police department sell it to you?”
“Eh?”
“Your mummy write your name on it, so you wouldn’t lose it in the playground?”
“The hell?”
“Or did the guards name it after you? ‘The Imbecile Nazi Memorial Bench?’ In memory of your brain? Assuming you once had one.”
He took a moment before trying to answer this time, and I watched as his giant fists balled up by his sides.
“Last chance,” he said, stressing each word individually. “Off the bench. Right now.”
“What’s your name?” I said.
“What?”
“Simple question. What’s your name?”
“Derek. Why?”
“Well, Derek, let me ask you one last thing. ‘No’ is a short word. Which part are you struggling with?”
For ten seconds he loomed over me, pulling a pained expression as though I were a dim-witted acquaintance who was trying his patience. Then he shrugged, sighed, and made as if to turn and walk away. But instead of putting any distance between us he immediately spun back around toward me, using the momentum to throw a huge right-handed punch straight at my face. It was powerful. He had all his weight behind it. I would have had a serious problem if he’d hit his target. But subtlety wasn’t his strong suit. I watched what he was doing, and at the last moment I whipped my head across six inches to the right. It was far enough. His fist flew past my ear and tried to bury itself in the metal surface of the wall. I could feel the vibration running right down my spine. I don’t know how many bones he broke, but from the pitch of his screams as he clutched his hand and staggered back toward the toilet, I’d guess most of them.
I checked the corridor. There was no sign of anyone coming to investigate.
“On the gate,” I called. “Officer Jackman. This guy has a problem. You need to move him out of here. He needs help.”
There was no reply.
“Out of luck, asshole,” the Nazi said, taking a step toward me. “They never move me. Takes three of them. So it’s just you and me till morning. And I ain’t the one gonna need help.”
“Derek, it’s only a bench,” I said. “It’s not worth getting hurt over.”
“I’m not gonna get hurt,” he said, taking another step. “You are.”
“Derek, I’ve given you one chance. I’m not giving you another. Now sit down and be quiet.”
He stayed where he was for another thirty seconds. Just long enough for me to hope he might have the sense to let it drop. But no. People like him never do. He started to move toward me again. I eased onto my feet and backed up against the bars, ready to go.
“Derek, don’t do this,” I said. “It’s really not worth it.”
He took a final step, close enough for me to nearly choke on his vile breath. Then he smiled and shaped up to hit me with his left hand. It was a good idea, but again he lacked sufficient finesse. He just couldn’t disguise the movement in his right leg as he pulled it back, getting ready to kick me. So before he could complete his move I launched myself off the bars and swung my left elbow around, driving it into his temple.
He was already off balance preparing for the kick, so the force of the blow knocked him right off his feet. He
