F**k Tuesdays

FUCK TUESDAYS

 

Long, long, long. Last five years in a nut shell. Endless, unforgiving, monotonous. Hang yourself, no, beat the shit out of yourself; make it interesting. Go out with a bang, or just let them put you to sleep. Write a poem; won’t get published. Read a book, no, why read a story that you’ll lose tomorrow? Write a song, don’t know what noise is no more. Look out the window, boring, I know the scenery, used to laugh at it, same old same. Nothing to laugh at now. What is laughter? What was my laugh again? HAHAHAHHHAAHH. Or, PAHAHA, PAHAPAAAAA, AAAAAHAAAHAAHAAAA? Not sure, tell me a joke. Remember a joke. Life, old boring life. Ha-ha, that might be funny. There it is, my laugh, yeah, I think so. Day starts the same as always. Five-thirty cat call. Think about breakfast. Is today shower day? No. No more showers then. Guess you’ll go in stinking, you’re gonna smell worse after. Hmmm, smell, think of old smells. Bacon in the pan. Sea air. Burning tyres. Women. More Women. Haven’t smelled down there in a while. Haven’t had that smell for five years. Not since then, then, then. Hmmm. Think about Kelly, crop hair, brown? Nah, must be blonde, could be grey now - ugly bitch. Shuffle out of bed. Stretch, hear the bones creak, feel like an old cupboard/ship. Groaning, groaning. Morning cough. Morning glory, ha - I wish. Done a funny. Stare round room; wall, wall, wall, bars. Looks nice. Walk to the pisser, take a long one, feels funny. Only bit of excitement you get now. Nice burning feel, oozing out, warm, that’s a nice smell. Move to bars. Hang hand out; just like the films. Hear other guys pissing, all the same, nice and warm. Day? Tuesday. Feels like a Tuesday. Last Tuesday. No more Tuesdays. That a bad thing? Always preferred Thursdays. Anticipate the weekend.  Fuck Tuesdays. Grease up for the girls. Buy the girls. Grease up the girls. Not a bad life. What the fuck you talking about? Shit life. Dead by thirty. Body just adult. Prime of your life. Kill your life. Well done. Move around the cell, look at that crack on brick thirty four, why is that still there. Could mend it, could ask warden for tools to mend. Nah, he’ll think I’ll kill someone. WAHAAWAHAAWAH already did, warden. Now that’s a laugh. ZZZZZZZZZZZZ. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Yeah, yeah, chow. We get it. Move over to cell door. Feels nice, cold. Like the cold. Better than hot, hot is sticky, feels like sex, but without the sex.

Door slides. ‘Yo, Hank, you K man?” He’s trying to say: “SCARED ABOUT DYING, MOTHERFUCKER?”. Touches my arm. Stays there for a while. Rape? Nah, no more showers. Move toward chow. Guards with guns. Yeah, like we can do shit down here. Punk ass. Move, keep walking. No need for this crap. Just ceremony, cheap. Get to chow. Dry toast, orange juice carton the size of a midget’s dick. Sit with the boys. Mostly black here, some Hispanic. No sombreros though. Few whites, like I give a shit. Tomorrow I’ll be purple. Sit with whites. None talk to me. Last day rules. Don’t remind the fucker. He knows what’s coming. Chow hall small, too small. Feels likes, ha, yeah, Prison! Feels like Prison. Wish I was back in Prison. Hmmm, prison would be good. Short term. Could smoke in Prison, fight in Prison. No fighting here on the row. Nah, odd one or two in your five years. Won em’ all. Good on ya. Billy talks shit. “Guys, see the new fish, looks like a fag in a strip joint, don’t know what to do”.

List of laughs:

PAHAHAPAHAPAHA

PPPSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSPS

WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH

HAHAHAHAHA

Not fucking funny. I run on that line. Yeah, that line.

Big Cliff jibes in. “Five Romsties say he get his ass resized by Thursday” Gotta love Thursdays. Boys jibe in. Romsties nice little choc bar we get once a week. Back in Prison we’d trade smokes, now we trade in choc. Weird currency on the row. Boys haggle like it’s the Middle East:

“Wednesday! One-thirty”

“Dip shit, when we out at one-thirty? Thursday morning, shower time”

“Nah, man, Nah. That bitch going down in the yard. May not have dick to ass, but they’ll try him then.”

“Hey, Hank, you in?” Ouch, fucking ouch. I’ll be dead motherfucker.  Should wring his neck. Nah, the others will do that. They ’ll  get his. Maybe they’ll pay a horny one a couple of Romsties to resize his hole. Never remind a man of his last day. Fuck Tuesdays.

*

Morning chow last meal. No more breakfast. Thank god. No more midget dick size orange juice. Now what? Back to room? Cell, fucking moron. Boys will say ‘CYA’ later. When they go down for lunch, they’ll give me knuckles through the cold, but sadly not hot, sadly not sex bars. Give the word. ‘Later, Brother’. Yeah, fucking later. Last tug down there? What’s the point? Jack off, stare at what could have been. Play ball with your little mini me’s. Tell em’ it’ll be okay, that they could be president. Fuck that. No woman to put em in for safe keeping. Keep moving. Where? Corner of cell? Sit down. Head spinning. This isn’t real. Bad dream. Kelly will wake you up. Grab your morning glory till your mini me’s are spread glopped on your belly. Pray. To what? No time for God talk, no time, no point. Ask when I’m lying on the slab tomorrow if I believe in god, you’ll get your best answer then. Pointless fucker. Keep moving. FUCKING WHERE? You’re a stupid boy. Daddy was right, you aren’t good for nothing, better off dead. Always said God would cut you down. Fucker was right. Move to bars, hang hands. Where’s Kelly? At home? Work? Not sure. Think she used to go for a walk round this time. Walk round town. Turn a few heads. Nice body. Feeling hard. Think about Big Cliff. Soft. Better. Back to cell. Small room. Plant would liven things up in here. Nice little cactus. Shut up. Appreciate your last hours.

Think about Kelly some more.

And more…..

More……………………

Start to jack off………………………….

Here lunch chow bell…………stuff him away. Where did the time go?

Big Cliff appears. Knuckles. “Take it easy man. This ain’t fair. We’ll be thinkin’ on ya”.

Take it easy? I’ll try. Shakes hand.

“Thanks, man. “ Eye contact. Tighten grip of the shake. Look of respect. All crowding round.

Guy passes a Romsty through.

“Thanks, man”.

“Play it cool man, we got you”.

“Yeah, we got you.”

Chorus starts.

“We got you.”

“Love you, brother”.

Eyes start getting salty, feeling soft. Pull it together. No one likes a fag.

“CYA, man”.

“CYA, man”

“CYA, Hank”.

Oh, Hank, aren’t you popular. Deserve everything you get. Killed that nice old lady. Killed that woman. Eighty. Grandmother. Survived the war and cancer, then gets killed by white trash. Great ending. Meeting with lawyer: why did you do it, punk ? Nah, Mr Lawyer. Why you do it? I…..I. Here’s why: you wanted to pay for Kelly to go to school. Make her dream come true of becoming a middle school teacher, press will like that. But Kelly wanted to cut hair. NO, SHE WANTED TO BECOME A MIDDLE SCHOOL TEACHER, YOU FUCK. She really did want to cut hair. But instead waited at the bar. Why did I kill grandma? Was out on a normal robbery. Needed cash; cash for stuff. Not drugs, or alcohol. Just cash. Life, ya know? So break into the little house. No lights outside. No Street. Middle of nowhere. Best robbery, no fucking cop patrol. Break in; loot. Nice bit of silver, some ‘old books’ - retard, old books. Find some rifles. Ranger? Nah, too many family photos. Hear something. Turn. Woman. Old. Moving back. Scared. Dog in headlights. React. BANG, BANG. End of that life. Don’t like to talk about it. Mr Lawyer rubs forehead, sighs, and looks at you. She wanted to be a school teacher. Get lethal injection.

 

They’re in chow now. Shuffling down some over cooked pasta, with a tomato on top. Italian lunch they call it. Cept an Italian would fuck you up if you gave em that crap. All know that. Chow in progress. Guards thinking about how best to shackle you. Hard chains on your hands, then the belly chain, tighten in. Then put you down on your knees. Clink the cuffs on your ankles. Grab your biceps and heave you up. Ouch. Metal vs. skin.  

Guard Clancow comes up. Yo, he says, I bet you’d rim a fat guys ass to get right? Why, you offering, I say. He clangs his truncheon against the bars, and then he smiles. Whatever, he says. When I’m home having my beer, you’ll be dead. He smiles. I don’t mind. He woke up, he became a guard, got married, had a kid, and will die. Life like mine, just a little longer. 

They get take me away while the rest our in the yard. Reduce the noise risk they say. Noise ain’t good in jail. It’s too close to music. Clancow watches. Beatty, Young and J chain me up. I look at my cell. Home  from home. People usually write on the walls, but I don’t leave much. Just a shit under the bed. I say goodbye. They cuff me, and tie me up like a pork belly. They don’t talk, but one asks if I need the toilet. I say I’m good.

We take a walk, down the empty cells. Men’s rooms. Dead cells. Little homes. Killer neighbours. Like the outside really: eat, shit sleep, just in a shoe box. It’s all the same, I think. But is it? Is that my mind telling me it’s okay, I’m not missing that much. Maybe, survival and all that shit.

Take a left they say. We do. I shuffle along, a fat man. Past plain white walls. A short guard is stood there. I nod at him. He blushes.

We make it to the room. My dressing room. No flowers, should complain. They make me stand there. And fill out a form for me. Final wishes. They ask me to confirm my number. I do. They ask me to confirm what I want done with my remains. I tell them to have a BBQ. They write it down.

A crowd has gathered. Parents, families, journalists. A man priest comes up to me. And asks if I want to talk for a moment. I think about this. Sure, I say. You’re like his PA right?

He just takes out a leaflet.

I don’t need that, I say.

He pauses, then sadly puts it away.

He asks if I’m okay

Just fine

Do you want to talk about it

Kinda against the time here, man

Anything to confess, regrets.

Sure, I left a shit under the bed.

He thanks me, and prayers for me

I thank him

I ask him what it’s all about

He tells me he doesn’t know, we just have to hope

I tell him thanks. Guy should jerk off more.

 

Guards come back. They lead me in. Crowd looks at me. Bow? I catch a glimpse of a woman, and she half smiles. I take a photograph.

 

They buckle me down. And I don’t resist. A thanks wouldn’t come a miss. They roll my sleeve up, and make a purple dot.

A man asks if I have anything to say.

I nod.

I made a mistake of my form, I say. My number ends 078 not 087.

He nods, and notes this down.

Is that okay, I ask.

He nods.

 

We have to wait two minutes till it gets to two. Then the man in white comes in. He stands over me, and fiddles with a syringe. There’s not a not a lot of time left, so I won’t bore you with all of it. It went by quick.

After, they carted me to the crematorium. But the hearse broke down half way there.

The driver muttered ‘Fuck Tuesdays’ as he phoned for help. He was now behind schedule.

I guess he and I had a below par day.