The Man in My Basement

I was wondering how long a boiled egg and cornflakes 12

could keep someone alive. Everything was orange colored 13

through closed lids, and my skin was dry and cool.

14

I opened my eyes. The air and the light in the room told 15

me that it was afternoon. I had been dreaming of the pris-16

oner’s luncheon. His life was like an invisible pulsing bea-17

con, a second heart, a child who needed attention. He was 18

living in my dreams as well as my cellar. I despised him 19

already and he hadn’t even been there a whole day.

20

I prepared baked beans from the can, boiled potatoes, 21

and cranberry juice for his late lunch. He was already 22

halfway through the thousand-page volume of history, 23

wearing red-rimmed glasses and sitting in the red plastic 24

chair. The breakfast tray was already pushed out. I shoved 25

the lunch tray into his cell.

26

“What time is it?” he asked.

S 27

“Four,” I said, turning to leave.

R 28

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Walter Mosley

1

“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked.

2

I turned back and said with false bravado, “Not bad for 3

me at all. I’m not the one locked up in a cold basement on 4

a summer day. I’m not the one kept away from my family 5

and friends.”

6

“That’s true,” he said. “But you know there’s a belief 7

that any society that is forced to punish its citizens is, to 8

one degree or another, an unhealthy state.”

9

“That’s crazy,” I said. “What country do you know of 10

doesn’t have laws?”

11

“It’s a question of degree, Mr. Dodd-Blakey,” Bennet 12

replied, “not one of law. A man who recognizes his crime 13

and accepts his punishment is a member of good standing 14

in his country. But the criminal who runs and hides, who 15

is unrepentant even though he knows what he’s done, is a 16

symptom of a much greater disease.”

17

“None of that has anything to do with you being here,”

18