Speaking of nails, I’ve spent the last hour feeling around under my cot and the sink-slash-toilet unit in my cell, trying to find one.
As it turns out, I do not know how to pick a lock with a plastic fork.
I mean, I do—I had to do it all the time in foster home number ten. Or was it eleven? My foster mom wanted to keep her whole government check for herself, so she used to keep a lock on the fridge and the pantry to keep me from eating the good shit. All she left out was a loaf of generic white bread and a jar of government peanut butter.
So, I got real good at picking locks.
Before she kicked me out, of course.
As soon as Officer MacArthur left with Doug—poor fucking bastard—I knew I had a solid hour to get to work before everybody came back from the execution. They won’t let you keep forks, for obvious reasons, but I managed to break one of the tines off without getting caught. That’s all I needed to pick Ms. Irene’s pantry lock, but the motherfucker on my holding cell is a beast. There’s not a single mechanism you have to push inside—there are, like, five, and the fifth one is so far back I can’t even reach it.
But maybe if I had a nail and figured out a way to bend the tip of it …
“What are you mopin’ around fo’? I’m the one who had to walk his ass over to the hole!” Officer Elliott whines from somewhere down the hall.
I stand and quietly step toward the bars.
The mumbling I hear in response must be from Hoyt. He never talks much louder than a whisper. I can’t make out a word he’s saying.
“Mm-mm-mm. Pissed himself right there on live TV. What a gotdamn shitshow. I need a drink.”
I hear the unmistakable rumble of a file cabinet drawer opening, followed by clinking glasses and a painful hiss that, after working in a dive bar for the last few months, I know was probably caused by a throatful of cheap whiskey.
“I think you need another one, big fella.”
Clink.
Hiss.
“You know, when I got into this job, all I had to do was wear a uniform, walk some big, sexy men back and forth, listen to all that juicy drama in the courtroom, and collect my paycheck at the end of the month. I did not sign up for this shit.”
Click.
Hiss.
Mumble. Mumble. Mumble.
“Right? Good benefits. Good retirement plan. Now, they got us killin’ muhfuckas on the daily.”
Mumble. Mumble.
“I know, hoss. They good folks. This shit ain’t right.”
Mumble. Mumble.
“You know what you need to do? You need to start workin’ on yo’ side hustle. Like me. I’mma get me some headshots done, get me a manager, a agent. What you gon’ do?”
As Hoyt murmurs, I hear the file cabinet drawer close, and their voices grow louder as they move into the hallway. Elliott goes one way, and Hoyt heads toward me. I can tell it’s him by the slow, heavy shuffling of his feet across the dirty floor. I lean against the bars and wait for him to pass.
When he does, he doesn’t even look at me.
“Officer Hoyt?” I ask, using my least shitty tone.
Hoyt stops walking but keeps his eyes on the floor.
“I heard you guys talkin’. I just … I just want you to know that I don’t blame you for … you know. Doing what you gotta do. You and Elliott, y’all are good dudes.”
Hoyt doesn’t say a word. He simply nods at the floor and keeps walking.
“Hey, Hoyt? Sorry, Officer Hoyt? Can I ask you a question?”
Hoyt stops again.
“You know how you let Doug choose his last meal? That was real nice, man. Meant a lot to him.”
The big guy’s chin drops almost to his chest, and I know I got him. It’s shitty of me to prey on someone’s kindness, but you know what else is shitty?
Being shot in the face on live TV.
“You know, I used to work in a bar, and we had last call. Everybody got one last drink before the bar closed for the night. It was good times, man. Some of the best times of my life. Anyway, I was wondering if, since I only got a day and half left, maybe I could get a drink. Like last call, you know? Somethin’ strong, to take the edge off.”
Hoyt shakes his head and staggers a little on his feet. He must have had more of that whiskey than I realized.
“Can’t let ya have nuthin’ glass in yer cell.”
“Here. You can use this.” I grab the plastic cup, with my toothbrush and comb inside, off the sink and shove it in between the bars, knocking the toothbrush to the body fluid–covered floor in the process.
“Shit.”
I crouch down and pick up the toothbrush as Hoyt shuffles over.
“I’ll get ya a new one,” he mumbles, taking the cup from my outstretched hand as he glances up at the ceiling at the end of the hall.
A security camera. Of course.
“Thanks, man.” I stand up, palming the toothbrush so that it’s out of sight and hopefully out of mind. “You know, for what it’s worth, Doug really did like you.”
Hoyt finally looks at me, trying and failing to make eye contact as his glassy eyes swim in his bloated, ruddy face. He smells like a potent mixture of brown liquor and body odor, and I genuinely feel bad for the guy.
Just not as bad as I feel for myself.
He returns a few minutes later with a new cup and toothbrush.
“Got you a clean set,” he mumbles, glancing at the camera and then back at his feet. “Wash up. It’s gon’ be lights out soon.”
From the weight of the cup, I know as soon as he hands it to me that it’s full of bottom-shelf
