JULY 2017 | SCENE 89 beachreads On Monday, Sheriff Hyde locked the Corrections Tower at 7:30 a.m. sharp. Latecomers had to call the watch commander and grovel to be let in. Adam happened to arrive early, but Froggy Jones, who supervised the kitchen, got caught, along with a bunch of others, and all of them lost half a day’s pay. As Adam was checking his gun in the lobby, one of the recruits, still in khakis instead of uniform blacks, karate-kicked the front door and gave the finger to the crowd inside. “Kid’s got balls,” Adam said as they waited for the elevator. “He can kiss his paycheck goodbye,” Sydney Beaumont said. “Watch out,” Big Mike said. “This means the Sheriff ’s in a creative mood.” Up on Four, as Adam did the head count, he noticed the sound again, like teeth gnawing a grill. Maybe it was the air conditioning, which broke down with such suffocating regularity that you longed for the days when jails still had barred windows. Or maybe it was the friction of human bodies packed four to a twoman cell in contempt of a court order. As Adam did the head count, he noticed the sound again, like teeth gnawing a “You’ve been drinking too much coffee, boy,” said Big Mike, who was eating a doughnut and dusting his belly with powdered sugar. “Here, have a cruller.” That afternoon the Sheriff paid them a rare visit. In training, the major had held up a photograph of Sheriff Hyde so they’d know to say “Good morning, sir” when they passed him in the corridor. While his informers kept tabs on the jail, the Sheriff spent most of his time working on his reelection campaign. Suzy, his secretary, complained that typing up lists of crime victims was ruining her nails. Rumor had it that Hyde was going to pull a squad of deputies from the ding wing and send them out to get folks to register to vote. “How’s it going?” the Sheriff asked, all buddy-buddy. “Fine, Sir,” Big Mike said. “Hear you got some scum who can draw.” “Raul, sir,” Adam said. “He was an artist on the outside.” “Get him,” the Sheriff said. Adam fetched Raul, who was sketching at the table farthest from the TV. He had a small business: Inmates paid him in cigarettes to draw their caricatures on envelopes. Dark and petite, with fingers as fine as a raccoon’s, Raul didn’t look like someone who’d knife a guy in the kidney, but then Adam had pulled enough bangers from under bunks to know you couldn’t trust anybody by his face. “I’ll make this short,” the Sheriff said to Raul. “I want a mural painted on the perimeter wall facing the highway, something to honor the troops. I don’t give gain time, but if I like what you do, I’ll cut you five months. Take it or leave it.” “Take it,” Raul said. “Deputy”—the Sheriff peered at Adam’s name badge—“Miller here will watch your ass like the NSA. And make sure my picture’s in there somewhere.” E very morning at eight, Adam cuffed Raul, rode down to the lobby, strapped on his gun belt, and escorted the prisoner to the wall. All the guys on the watch pitied Adam, one-on-one with a camarada out in the sun. And it was hot: At night when Adam peeled off his undershirt, he found bands of salt where his sweat had dried. Yet he didn’t miss the tiers a bit. Outside, you could hear yourself think. The scene unfolding beneath Raul’s charcoal and brushes also fascinated Adam. Lines turned into palms, ellipses into camels. Raul had never been to Iraq, never even been in the service; Adam had asked. Raul invented everything—the tanks, the oases, the anguished faces. Back in grade school, Adam had been able to do that, close his eyes and imagine worlds unlike anything held ever seen. Mars. Japan. New York City. In one daydream he’d had for most of sixth grade, he and these scientists were collecting bugs grill. in the rain forest down in South America, where giant bullfrogs croaked like tubas. Now Adam couldn’t even imagine what he would do if he quit the sheriff ’s department. His dad was collecting disability, which was lucky, since everyone else got a handshake and two-weeks severance when Ameritech moved all its die-making to Taiwan. Adam was pretty good at wringing the last miles out of balky, old engines, but these days you had to be Mr. Goodwrench to fix cars
20299SS
To see the actual publication please follow the link above