the width; opposite the door was a stainless steel toilet without a seat, a sink with a pushbutton faucet. Only one person would be able to stand up at a time inside the cell.
“This like the place you stick new guys or something?”
“What’d you expect?” said the guard.
“Be a little bit bigger for having two beds.”
“You think this is bad,” he said, “most of the time the fish get stuck in the hole a couple weeks for processing. Least you’re going right in the general population. Plus your cellmate’s in the hole right now so you got it to yourself a few days.”
“Which bunk,” said Poe.
“The one where there isn’t anything on it, shitbird.”
Poe took the top one, set his bundle on it.
“Lockdown’s in five minutes,” said the guard. “Don’t fuckin go nowhere.”
“What about dinner,” said Poe.
“You missed it,” said the man. He shrugged and walked away.
Poe made his bed, looked for things to occupy himself. There was nothing. He drank water from the faucet. He lay down. There was a pressure inside his head, like the motor up there was spinning too fast, the bolts and screws holding him together were about to let go and he’d end up torn to pieces, he’d choke himself, there would be no stopping him. It was a mistake, is what it was. That was it. It was a mistake. He was not supposed to be here. There was no way he was ever supposed to be put in a place like this.
9. Isaac
The faint light of dawn woke him and he opened his eyes quickly. He thought he might be back in his bed. No. In the sleeping bag at the edge of a lawn. He turned his head. Goes on a ways, out of sight. Fairway of a golf course. Soft bed. Easy on the bruises. He checked the air with his breath, watched the vapor drift up. Cold and not a sound anywhere, could be the only one alive on earth. Used to like being up this early. Back to sleep.
He closed his eyes again and waited until the sky brightened enough to wake all the birds, a single chirp and then a spreading chorus, twitters and warbles, cooing pop pop pop piit piit piit sreeeel sreeel sreeel. Something fluttered just over his face, a gray- and- white flash: kingbird. Bee eater. He put his arms behind his head and lay there for another ten minutes, listening to birdcalls and watching the sky change color as the sun rose.
He sat up quickly and the pain startled him—rib cage. Did I get jumped again yesterday? No. Sunday leftovers. Internal pain, turns the stomach. Better to break an arm. Depends. Good rib- break better than bad arm- break. Leg- break the worst—can’t move—done for. Plus lose a quart of blood per femur. Reason they break your legs on the cross—act of mercy.
It took him a long time to get his bag packed, there was no way to move that didn’t hurt. Worse than yesterday, he thought. The second day after you get beaten is worse than the first. Body won’t let you know you’re hurt until you’re out of danger—waits till you can handle the news. Preserves your mental outlook.
Finally he stood feeling the sun on him, head down, getting the light directly to the brain, cheering, pineal gland. Also the feeling of danger—
Shouldering his pack he made his way back into the forest, down the rocky hill along the drainage, his legs hurting more than yesterday. He walked hunched and with small steps as if carrying an enormous load. He wanted badly to lighten the pack but there was nothing inside it he wouldn’t need. There were strange, brightly colored flowers along the stream, but even his slow movement took all his effort; he passed without looking. What’s on the day’s menu. Broken back, maybe. Fight the old man for his wheelchair. He’d win—special tactics. Wheelchair warfare. What he’d say if he saw you now: ungrateful shit, the strong survive. Send your poor your tired and your hungry. Stick em in a grinder, sausage for the king. Dirt for dinner. How far to the next town.
He reached the ridgetop and looked down over the river flowing in its valley, green and winding, thick with trees. The Elrama plant dominated the skyline on the other side, the stack was bright orange and maybe fifty feet in diameter, five hundred feet tall. The steam plume a mile long. It’s only three or four miles to Elizabeth.
He picked his way slowly down the steep hillside. He could see the road he’d left the previous night and just beyond it the train tracks and the river. Each downhill step hurt his legs. Except the kid is not worried. Knowing how easy the journey will be with two good legs, he prefers to get gimped up. Empty stomachs make for clear heads. Bored with walking he grows gills, swims upriver, comes out downtown. Crowd swoons. Mermaids revere the defeater of Swedes.
Every few hundred steps or so he would stop and rest. He was hungry again. He passed a few small clusters of houses and then a shipping facility of some sort. There was a vending machine outside one of the buildings so he limped around the fence and he found a dollar bill and put it in and got a Dr Pepper. He drank it quickly standing in front of the machine, and immediately felt better. He spent another dollar on a second can for later.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone in uniform crossing the parking lot toward him and made his way quickly back into the woods. That’s right, keep moving. Good—he’s not following you. A short while later he felt sufficiently alone to rest by a small stream that ran down toward the river. There was no one around. He sat against his pack, dozed for a while, then got up and kept walking until he was back on the train tracks.
Eventually he could see a bridge over the Mon and he knew he was getting close to Elizabeth. The kid perseveres. Chased by man and beast alike, he worries he’ll finish his journey with no sense of accomplishment. Complains his legs are only bruised, not broken. The Atlas of his country he’s the new Paul Bunyan. A moral emperor—his people renounce popes priests and presidents. He’s five foot five and rising. Walking on feet while he’s got em.
Approaching Elizabeth the terrain was hilly and wooded though there was a long riverflat with yet another power plant with a tall orange-and- white smokestack, a mountain of coal piled nearby, itself at least a hundred feet tall, barges tied up, unloading more coal. Farther downriver he passed a chemical refinery, another river lock. There were many houses noticeable along the hillside. At the Elizabeth bridge there was a small pier and two kids about his age were sitting on it.
“Spare a cigarette?” the boy called.
Isaac shook his head and went slowly past.
“You sure?” the girl asked.
“I don’t smoke,” Isaac replied, louder than he’d meant.
“I believe you,” said the boy grinning.
There was a gas station near the bridge with a food mart. The kid strikes gold, he thought. He does fine alone.
Inside the counterman stared at him. Feeling superior. Indian or Pa kistani—own all the hotels and gas stations. Wonder why. He ignored the man’s stares and filled a basket with Slim Jims, several tins of Vienna sausage, a carton of milk, a half dozen candy bars, two large bottles of water. Just holding all the food in his hands his mouth got very moist, it was all he could do to not tear open the packages. He put it on the counter and the clerk scanned his items. On the map rack he found a road atlas and put it on the counter as well.
“What’s up ahead?” Isaac said.
The clerk stared at him.
“What town? Clairton?”
“Clairton is across river. Glassport is next town on this side. Eighteen and seventy.”
He paid the clerk and noticed he had only a dollar left in his wallet. Plenty in the pants pocket though. He put the food into his pack and stuffed the atlas in as well and then had a thought, went to the napkin dispenser by the hot dog rack and took a thick handful of napkins. The clerk watched him, making a mental tally of the napkins, but didn’t say anything.
A little over thirty dollars now he’d spent, coming twenty miles. He had to get onto the trains. He drank the
