hi I’m jonah

By Joshua Ryan

This is a fictional story about adults, and for adults only.

Chapter 1: My Backstory

I’m Jonah! Jonah Cook. I’m 19 years old and I’m a student at the state university and this is my second year. I come from Springfield, which is a town about 50 miles from college. My father and mother are divorced, and they don’t get along. She also married this guy I don’t like. He’s OK for her, but I don’t like him, that’s all. He has a hard time keeping a job. Hard to respect a guy like that.

So in high school I lived with my dad. He works for Midwestern All-Risk, which is an insurance company. I have one brother, David, who’s a lot older than I am. He has a wife and two kids. I’m going to school to become an engineer, cuz basically, that’s what my father wanted to be, but he didn’t. But I don’t mind; I’m pretty good at math.

What else? I’m six feet tall, 170 pounds, and I have blond hair. When I was in high school my nickname was Blondie, which I HATED! But that’s OK. Some people talk about high school being a nightmare. I liked it though. My school wasn’t very big, so I got to go out for basketball, despite being not REAL tall, and also being white! (Smile!) I got invited to all the parties, and I had a good time, even though I’m gay. I didn’t go out of my way to tell anybody about that, especially my father and my brother! but they knew. Everybody knew. One of the girls actually got me a date with a guy from Hanover High, who’s our big rival in sports. It didn’t work out. Oh well. Maybe I’m too big. (A joke!)

The other gay guy in my class was Brendan. Nobody knew about him. I think they didn’t. He was in all the sports and clubs. Anyway, he’s my friend. He’s five ten, 160 pounds, maybe less, dark curly hair. Cute! He’s so preppy, you’d think he was posing for the handsome bad guy in one of those comedies—you know, the ones about the wild, cool, edgy guys on campus and how the preppy guys try to put em down. But that’s just the way he looks, especially when he gets that certain little glint in his eye. But he’s really sweet. Too bad his folks have money, so they sent him east to college. And I stayed here and went to State.

But I’m gettin ahead of my story, or whatever it is.

Summer after high school, I caddied at the golf course. Loved it! Tips are good, you’re out in the open, lotsa other young dudes, all very fit—fitter than me, maybe!—good weed at the 19th hole, and after a while, it’s so routine. You know all the holes, how to give advice to the old guys, and when to give it, so they like you. Plenty of time to daydream about goin to college and leavin home and gettin with dudes, finally!, and especially that one VERY important dude that I just mentioned. I didn’t tell you—Brendan went to Europe that June. I guess he had a good time. Anyway, then it was August and HE (Brendan) was back in town and he picked me up and we drove out in his car and we did some weed and we stopped next to the golf course and wandered around for a while, and then we laid down on one of the greens and looked at the stars. And you know what happened next? RIGHT! RIGHT! My first time! SO great! I didn’t even worry about us splittin up for college, because that was a big adventure too, and I knew we’d be textin all the time and so forth.

But I gotta tell you, first year in college, it wasn’t exactly perfect. I guess it wasn’t perfect for Bren, either, because the texts sorta dwindled down after a while. If you went to a little high school where you’re like, the best, then college can be a big shock for you. I know it was for me. Like I said, I was supposed to be an engine major, but first you gotta take all these pre-engine courses, which I guess is good, cuz you do learn a lot, but you gotta do good in ALL of em, cuz so many guys want to be engine majors. Some girls too I guess. And I made it! But I was sweatin for sure.

Also, I didn’t meet very many dudes I liked. None, in fact! The guys in my classes—a lot of em would be really hot, sittin there all neat and cool in their dark blue baseball caps and their light blue oxford shirts with the sleeves turned up, and so on, IF they weren’t so competitive all the time. If spendin a minute with you wouldn’t help their careers, well that was the end of you. It’s true, most of them seemed like they were lots better at the material than I was, so why should they want to “grab some coffee and talk about the midterm”? Which was my line! Pretty good, eh? Well, maybe not. No results!

Another thing, I didn’t live in a dorm. My dad wanted me to live off-campus, cuz it’s cheaper, and I can cook for myself. I know how to do that. I’m pretty good at doin stuff. So I got a room in a house, which used to be a frat house, but they went broke or got banned or somethin, so it’s rented out. So I don’t have this 24/7 source of social life, the way other guys do. There’s an LGBT Engineering Club—not big, but it’s there--and I went to all their things. And yeah, I slept with one or two of those dudes. Hey, I’m a guy. I couldn’t be freakin around about Bren all the time, could I? Despite being in love with him! But those dudes were just nerds, same as me. (LOL!) So how good could that have been? Sort of depressing, actually. I mean really.

But there were some other dudes . . . OK, I’m not sure how to say this. I know college is your chance to start bein yourself, which I could never do at home, even though my dad doesn’t really seem to mind that I’m gay, probly cuz he’s got David and David’s kids to feel good about—not that he feels bad about me, but . . . . Where am I goin? Yeah. So college is your chance to be yourself, and some of these gay guys—I mean queer guys, cuz they use that word all the time, the ones that aren’t nerds—they are definitely being themselves. Which means being different, but it really just means being different from me, cuz I’m not a “queer.” For one thing, I don’t have enough money to be a queer! I can’t just go to the mall and buy stuff all the time, the way they do.

But I’m sort of a happy guy. Coach always said I’m no good at movin down the court, but I’m good enough at rebounds! LOL! So last year at Christmas I went home and so did Bren and we went to a party and afterwards we fucked like crazy up in his room at his parents’ house. His parents have a big house, and they’re gone most of the time. So great! I mean, when I’m with him, I’m totally in love with him. Then I went back to school, and hey! I got my grades, and like I said I was still in the game.

Then suddenly it’s June again, and I go back home, and it’s great, I get my caddy job back. Except it’s sorta sad, all the other dudes from the year before, they’re gone someplace, so it’s an all new crew. Cept for me, of course. I’m senior caddy. Sounds good, but . . . I dunno. I don’t like it when things change. That’s just the way I am.

But the big thing is, I’m lookin forward to Bren being home, and us being together--for three whole months! And then I find out, he’s off to Europe again, on some Summer Abroad thing. I guess it was pretty sudden, I didn’t find out till I was already home. But it was pretty lonely, just hangin with my dad all summer. Then Bren came back in August, like he did last year, but it seemed like he always had some other stuff he had to do. He knows a lotta people that I don’t know, and they all have cars and so on, and I don’t, which has always been true, but now it seems like it’s even more true. We did hook up two or three times. Which was great for me, but . . . . Before I knew it, he was gone. Went back to school a week early. “Hey Jonah! What’s a week? You know I love your ass!” You can’t help liking that! But of course, the only thing to do—look forward to Christmas. In the meantime, pack up your stuff and hump on back to college.

So right now . . . . First off, it’s been a beautiful fall. I always love it. Everything seems so fresh and new—school starting again and the trees getting all clean and naked. I love waking up early and walking to campus with the leaves crunching under my feet, then sitting in the coffee house looking at the porno dudes on my phone and hopin some dude like that will have to sit down next to me, cuz there’s no other place to sit, and then we can get to be friends. . . . So far that hasn’t happened though! Then classes, and I’ve got a pretty good schedule. I actually placed into one of the optional labs, which turns out to be boring, but never mind, you gotta get through stuff.

Although here’s the thing—when I was a kid, I wanted to be an architect, because that sorta puts together the math part and the outdoors part, which I like, but my dad found lots of stats showing there are too many architects and if I got a job it would probly just be sittin in a cubicle figuring out how to put 30 parking spaces in a garage made for 20. Or something like that. But in civil engineering, which is what I’m majoring in, you can design things like bridges and highways and big government projects. Although now I’m finding out, you probly do all that stuff in a cube anyhow! The guys in my classes, they’re so happy they got into the major, so now they get to start on their “specialization.” But to tell you the truth, that sounds like a bore to me. The way they describe it, I mean. When they ask me what I want to specialize in, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m no good at makin things up. I’m better when somebody tells me what I’m supposed to do! And in college, they don’t do that. They just sorta hint at you and then lurk around, waiting for you to fail a test, and that will show you what NOT to do.

But my fall grades have been all right. Not perfect, but all right so far. I got into a pretty good study routine. Also, one of my profs last year, he gave out some study advice, which like I say they NEVER give you, and part of it was, do something every day you just wanta do. Then when you go back to studying, it’ll go so much better. Which sounded like a good idea--nobody ever told me to enjoy myself before!

So almost every day, I ride my bike. It was used when I bought it, but it’s pretty good. I like it. I don’t really like riding on city streets; that’s just work--you know, keepin yourself from gettin murdered by those cars. What I like is goin out in the country, which I do two or three times a week. It’s easy to get there, cuz this is just a college town. There isn’t that much around it, I mean big metro stuff. There’s lots of woods and creeks and so on, and farms of course, and there’s an old graveyard where I guess nobody ever comes, because I’ve never seen anybody else in there but me. I like to just stop and sit for a while. But you do have to watch out for dogs. These farm dogs can really get at your legs!

There’s other parts where it’s interesting too, because you’re out there in the country and suddenly you come onto one of those big tech places. They call them “campuses,” and I guess the techies like to be around a college town. They’re doin research, so they want their buildings all modern and up to date, but they want them to be “environmental” at the same time. Good luck with that! But sometimes there’s some interesting buildings. The problem is, there’s always a lot of fences, and you can’t get too close. They leave most of the land pretty much as it was, so it’s not like stuff in the city, where everything’s right there. But I guess it’s pretty nice on those campuses. Maybe I’ll work in one of those places some day!

OK, so picture me, riding out on a Tuesday afternoon, a few weeks ago. Got it? Then I’ll tell you what happened.

Chapter 2: I Take a Piss

Like I said, I was out on my bike. It was a nice day, and I’d been out for a while, so I thought I’d find some place to take a piss. I’m pretty piss shy. I don’t like to just stop on the main road and go to a tree. I’m not a dog--I like some formality!

So I looked for the next little farm road or whatever, and pretty soon I found one. One of those little two-rut roads, just dirt, with trees on both sides. And it was interesting, cuz once I was outta sight from the blacktop, there was one of those high techie fences close to the road, with green grass on the other side of it and then a bunch of buildings, but way in the distance. I stopped and pulled out my junk.

I was gettin the last drop out when a voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Oh shit! Somebody was watching.

At least it didn’t sound like a woman. And it wasn’t. Hanging on the fence was a young guy, about my age. A little older. Tall. Thin. Nice looking.

When I say “hanging” on the fence, I don’t mean he was actually hanging on it. I mean he was standing still, right on the other side. With his hands in his pockets. Like he’d been there all day. Calm. Cool. Just my type!

“Sorry!” I said. “I didn’t . . . ”

“Can’t you read the signs?” He took a hand out of his pocket and pointed. Yeah, there was a sign on the fence:

NO TRESPASSING

D.O.C.

“I’m sorry,” I said, zipping up. “I didn’t mean to . . . do anything wrong.”

Yeah, if he hadn’t been so hot, I would have mentioned the fact that I was on THIS side of the fence; I wasn’t trespassing! But actually, he didn’t seem mad. When I got closer, I thought I saw a little smile. A sarcastic little smile.

“Maybe I need glasses, too,” I said. He was wearing those little round glasses that the techies wear. It was a good look for him.

“Your eyes are fine,” he said. “I’m Nick.”

“I’m Jonah. Hi!”

“Hey Jonah.”

I was standing about 20 feet from him, because there was a little berm that separated the fence from the road and the trees and so on. I learned in class that if you want to keep homeless people off of a public space, put a berm in the way. They don’t wanta cross it. I guess I didn’t either! But now I had to think of some way to keep the conversation going.

“I really am sorry,” I said. Lame, but best I could do. “What’s . . . what company do you work for?”

I knew he was working for somebody. Although now I was wondering if he was a techie after all. Because of the way he was dressed. Just jeans and a white tee, and a blue baseball cap. But the techies I’d seen—the ones you see on the really nice campuses--they weren’t all dressed up. It’s one of the perks, you can dress the way you want to. And he did have one of those plastic badges clipped to the sleeve of his tee. You always need one of them if you want to get onto the campus. I thought it was pretty hot to clip it to your tee that way.

“It’s on the sign,” he said. “D.O.C.”

“Oh,” I said. “Definitely.” Like I knew what D.O.C. meant. I could see I wasn’t faking him out, but I guess it was kind of a test--if I liked him, I’d try to impress him that way; if he liked me, he wouldn’t call me on it. Which he didn’t.

“Nice bike,” he said. “I used to have a bike like that.”

I passed the test!

The next few minutes were SO cool, talkin about bikes with a cool guy like him. I know, the “queers” might not think he was cool. Just jeans and a tee and one of those caps—ewwww! But his face was really beautiful—slender, but not too long, with nice full lips, and nice smooth skin. What they call olive, I guess. But I could see he had blue eyes too. Maybe green. Or gray. Anyway, nice contrast with the olive. And the glasses—so unthreatening! I’m tired of threatening guys, even when they’re just for porn. I did think “thin” when I first saw him, but “slender” is a better word. Sounds old-fashioned! But you could see a nice ridge of pecs under that shirt. Even from a distance—it’s like lookin at a topo map; you can tell. And the best thing—the way he faked me out about trespassing and so on. And never said anything about my dick stickin out. Even though I knew he was gay.

“Well,” he said, “I gotta go. I generally take a break out here. When I can. Around this time.”

Wow! This dude is really comin on to me!

“Good to know,” I said. “Tuesday and Thursday—those are my days. Sometimes Friday. Afternoons, I mean.”

“Prolly see ya on Thursday, man.”

“Right. See ya then.”

He turned his back and walked away. In the distance there was something that looked like picnic tables or something else like that—recreational. Maybe a pole with a basketball hoop. And some dots that looked like a bunch of other guys. Who looked like they were all moving off towards the buildings behind them. Long white buildings . . . low, lean, environmental . . . your basic exurb tech. End of the coffee break, I guessed.

I didn’t want to hang around watching, in case he turned around and thought I was a little TOO interested. I got on the bike and went down the little farm road. It sort of followed the fence, and there was an interesting fix where a creek ran off the property. You don’t want kids or coyotes or anything comin in through a gap in your fence, and the strips of barbed wire on top of this fence showed that the company was big on security. Like they all are! Even that company on the other side of town that tests golf carts and so on—I went on a tour one time, and you’d think they were Area 51! So anyway, the problem when you’ve got natural water flowing out of a fenced in area, your fencing is gonna catch all the leaves and limbs and junk that comes down the stream, and pretty soon you’ve got a pond where you never wanted one. But they had some great banking and piping in there that would keep the vermin out and the branches away, and you’d probly only need to clean it three, four times a year. If you’re gonna have security, you gotta think about these things.

I also enjoyed watching the way the fence hugged the landscape and always found the most level route. Really adds to your costs when you’re takin it uphill and down! Wherever there was a real hill or a valley, these guys avoided it. Which told me that maybe now I was trespassing, cuz whoever owned what was inside the fence also owned all this ragged ground outside the fence. Inside was all lawns and fields and so forth—you could see forever, although you might not know what you were seeing. Outside, it was just trees and rocks and this punky little road.

I’d been goin for half a mile or so before I got to the gate. These firms always make a big deal outta their gates, but I guess they’re a lot the same. This one was a little different. The little guard booth was real stone, not just a one-inch veneer, and there was a double gate. I mean, you go in through the first gate, and you’re in a box, with fences on all sides of you, and then there’s another gate. But this firm is just like the others when it comes to signage. Big sign about STOP - RESTRICTED ACCESS; little sign about AMORC LTD or whatever. They want to be noticed, but they don’t want to invite you in, either. In this case it said:

D.O.C.

GLEN RIVER UNIT

Not much data, eh? We do SOMETHING in here! Maybe the employees don’t even know what it is. (Lol!) Anyways, typical: all I can see is a lawn and a driveway and some of those long white buildings. Hard to see more, unless I stop and stare. Never like to make myself conspicuous that way. Don’t know why, that’s just me.

Chapter 3: Big Surprise!

Thursday, I didn’t even go home for my bike; I rode it to school and I got moving right after class. It was a pretty fast ride. Soon as I got out to the fence, one of those dots in the distance detached from the rest of them and drifted my way. Nick of course.

We got through the “hey dudes” very chill, like we just happened to run into each other or something. But I was so nervous! Anyhow, Nick was wearing the same jeans and the same white tee, only the tee looked even hotter to me this time—I was focusing on the pecs underneath it. Big—but not too big. Not scary big. Very hot, and very shapely. (I like that word. It’s the sort of word engineers should use. If they’re interested in design, right? You see what I mean.)

Anyway, he took the lead—“So hey, whadda you do?”—and I told him what I did in college, and he said, “Cool, you must be lookin at a lotta cash when you graduate,” and I said, “Hope so! Whadda you do? You must be through with college.” Which I thought must be true because he looked older than me and he was acting like he was older than me—you know, takin the lead like that. And besides, how would he be working for this big firm unless he’d been to college already?

“Right,” he said. “I’m through with it. Guess maybe it’s overrated. Doesn’t help me here.”

He gave me a grin like that was the biggest joke anybody could tell, and he was sure I’d enjoy it. So I grinned back, although actually, I thought it was kind of sad if you spend all that time in college and it’s not really that useful, you know, in your career. Which you hear all the time, and it made me wonder if I was doin the right thing for myself. But that was a good way into my next question, which was, “So, what’s this company about? D.O.C.--what kinda research do you do here?”

As soon as I asked that question, I regretted it, cuz whenever you ask that kinda thing, people go on and on about their research, which you never really care about. All I cared about right then was how beautiful this guy was and how could I get on the same side of the fence with him! And now he was gonna tell me about his fuckin research.

But he didn’t. He gave me a really strange look—I mean, unexpected, because it was like, he was laughing at me for asking the question. Then he got this look like, I don’t really value what they do here, or I don’t want to talk about it, or I’m not supposed to talk about it, and he said, “They do security. D.O.C. is all about security, dude.”

So I knew better than to follow that one up. I just said, “So, OK. What kinda music do you listen to?”, cuz that always means “I like you,” and it doesn’t mean anything else, and we chatted about that for a while, but not very long, cuz he kept lookin over his shoulder like he oughta be someplace else, and pretty soon he said, “Dude, I got some stuff I gotta do now.” I could see that the dots in the background were aiming towards the long white buildings again, and I understood that he was supposed to be with them.

“OK,” I said, “I don’t want you to lose your job.” Sort of a joke. People who work in these places don’t get fired for over-staying their coffee breaks or whatever. I know that.

“Unlikely!” he said. Then he put in another look at those buildings. “Tomorrow?”

“Definitely!” I said. Before I remembered that “optional” lab on Friday.

But while I was riding home I thought, like, hey, Friday’s great! Last day of the week--maybe he’ll come over to my place when he’s through with work!

I’d already cleaned up my place before I left, because that’s the way I like it, but that night I swept it again, put all the dishes in the right place, and left all my coolest CDs and stuff where I knew he’d see them. IF I could get him to come over after work! Chill, have some weed, hang out . . . . Pretty obvious what the rest would be!

So you can tell, by the time I got to the fence on Friday, I was really invested! I’d even gone through my closet to find my coolest clothes. Maybe the shorts were too late for the season, but that’s OK. Biking gives you good legs--why not show em off? Even though, it rained on the way over there and I had to wait under a tree, and it got colder too, so I had to worry about my shorts bein maybe TOO obvious. And also maybe I’d be too late and I’d fuckin miss him. But when I came up to the fence, he was there! Big relief, huh!

But yeah, it was cold. Nick was wearing his jeans, and this time he had his plastic badge hanging from his belt, way on the side, where it looks the coolest, but he wasn’t wearing his tee anymore, he was wearing a blue shirt with long sleeves and a company logo over his pec.

“You’re lookin very professional,” I said.

“Think so?” he said. “I’m just part of the clean-up squad.”

“Yeah?” I said. I didn’t know what he meant, and at the moment I didn’t care. “You know, I spent some time cleanin up my place, and you know why?”

While I was saying that, I was thinking, “WHAT THE FUCK, JONAH! Can’t you be a little bit subtle with this guy? Are you gonna throw yourself over the fuckin fence, dude?” But now I had to go on.

“Why?” he said.

“Cuz I thought maybe you’d . . . maybe you’d like to come over some time. Like today. When you get off work.”

I almost never surprise anybody, but this dude was definitely SURPRISED. SHOCKED! I mean, he was this really calm, cool guy, which is why I liked him—well, one reason—but now he was really . . . . He actually looked EMBARRASSED!

“I’m . . . I guess I’m . . . .” He was fumbling around for something to say. Which showed me that, fuck! just like you’d expect, Jonah had way overplayed his hand. What could I say next?! Total silence. Crickets.

We were both standing like that when—great! talk about embarrassing!--a bunch of OTHER guys came loping down the hill, and before I knew what was happening, they had Nick surrounded. Five or six of them. They were all in jeans, though some of them were wearing tees and some of them had blue shirts like him. All young dudes, like a locker room or somethin. The kind of loud, hot dudes that drive me crazy. I mean, you gotta like em, but they always make me feel like runnin away. It’s like, they’re the big men and I’m the little jerk. Although I’m not little. I’m just not cool.

So they were yelling. “Hey Nick! Hidin out from us?” “Hey Nick! Thought you was lost!” “Hey Nick! Who’s your buddy?” And lots of wisecracks I didn’t understand, except I knew they were wisecracks.

“Gentlemen!” Nick said. “Shut the fuck up! I want to introduce you to my friend Jonah. Funny name, I know. Jonah, these are my colleagues.”

So OK, sorta strange they’re all wearin the same stuff. But they’re workin together for the same company, so that makes sense.

Then they all started sayin, “Hey Jonah! Zup Jonah!” and stuff like that. But one of them said, “’Colleagues’! What the fuck is a ‘colleague’?” and another one said, “Jonah! Dude! Got any weed, Jonah?” Then somebody else said, “Whatever you got in your shorts, dude—I want it now!”

Of course I was confused and I didn’t know what to say. Especially about the “shorts” thing. I mean, it’s something you read in a porno story! You don’t hear it about yourself. Nobody ever said that about me, that’s for sure!

Nick was looking even more embarrassed, but those were his friends, so he did like any guy would in a locker room--he got the “shorts” guy in a headlock and told him to “shut the fuck up, while you still got somethin left in your own shorts,” and wrestled him around, and everybody was laughing and yelling. Then he said, “OK, dudes. Get lost. I’m gonna talk to my FRIEND for a while.”

Then all the rest of them started making funny noises, like “OOOOH! He’s gotta talk to his FRIEND!”, and messin around, but pretty soon they were on their way back up the hill, and I noticed some of them had their arms around each other’s shoulders. So they were happy. One of them turned and yelled, “Comin, Nick?” And Nick yelled back, “In a minute!” Then he turned to me and said, “Sorry, dude. That’s my car.”

I didn’t know what “car” meant, but that wasn’t the time to find out, because I was totally confused.

“It’s OK,” I said. “I’m just wondering . . . . ”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. You’re wondering, like who they are. And what we’re all doin here.”

“Well . . . actually . . . I . . . .”

“And why we’re all wearin the same clothes.”

“Yeah, I . . . . ”

“Come a little closer, man. It’s OK, you can cross over that . . . whatever they call it.”

“Berm. It’s a berm.”

He gave me a big smile. “BERM! How do you know that?”

“I . . . . I’m in civil engineering.”

“Gotcha. Come here.”

I came closer, and he pointed at his pec.

“See what this says?” he asked.

I’m young, I have pretty good eyes. I could tell that the thing he had stenciled on his shirt wasn’t really a logo. It was this:

D.O.C.

62935 Jackson

“OK,” he said. “Jackson, that’s my last name. 62935, that’s my number.”

“Your number?”

“My convict number.”

“Convict number?”

“Hate to surprise you, but . . . . This is a prison, dude.”

“Huh?”

“This is a prison. I’m a convict. We’re all convicts, man.”

What do you say after a statement like that? “Oh!” I said. As dumb as that! And I thought what a JERK I’d been. What a nerd! What a dweeb! “So I guess you won’t be . . . gettin off work tonight?”

OUCH! OUCH! OH MY GOD DID I SAY THAT? It was like when you’re runnin down the court and suddenly you trip on somebody’s leg and you run into the bleachers and you smash your foot on something and the pain is throbbing through your body and you’re lookin down at your foot to see if it’s still there--it was like that, after I said that STUPID STUPID thing.

“No,” he said. “Thanks anyway.” And started to turn, like he was gonna walk away.

“Wait!” I said. Jumping forward and grabbing the fence.

“Don’t do that!” he yelled. “Drop back!”

I dropped back.

“Do that once, they think you’re a bird. They think you’re some kind of animal, runnin into the fence. Keep doin it, and the computer thinks you’re a human being. Who’s tryin to break in. Or out.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t . . . .”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t want you to get arrested.”

Arrested! Oh fuck, what am I gettin myself into?

“Thanks, man! I don’t . . . . ” But God, that dude was hot! I couldn’t help trying to figure some way to keep him standing at the fence.

“Just come back,” he said. “Try Monday.”

“Sure. I mean, sure I will!”

“Later, dude.” Then he followed his buddies up the hill, and got lost someplace in the line of buildings.

Chapter 4: I’m Thinking

OK, I was obviously TOTALLY confused. And TOTALLY embarrassed! So embarrassed I could hardly get back on my bike, I was wobbling so bad. I was such a fuckin IDIOT! Thinking these CONVICTS were a buncha TECHS! But that was just the start. Letting one of them know that I wanted a date. And practically runnin into the fence after him.

I always try to keep my mouth shut if I haven’t planned out what I want to say. So this thing at the fence . . . It was TOTALLY humiliating. Nick must think I’ve got ZERO brains. And if he does, he’ll be right! Jesus Christ!

I was riding like hell, just to get outta there. Then I remembered—he actually told me to come back. He WANTED me back. Actually! This hot dude! HOT! Who was tough enough to be in PRISON! And to be goofin around about it with his buddies. Who were also hot. Not as hot as him, but truly hot. I never met anybody who was even a berm away from being in a prison, and now . . . . What just happened, anyway?

Before I knew it I was back at my place, and that weed I’d stockpiled was tastin pretty good. True, I didn’t have a Friday night date, the way I wanted to, but I had lots to think about. Like how many things were hot about The Guy.

Beautiful gray eyes.

Beautiful smooth complexion, a little on the brown side, like I said. Did I say that? Anyway, no zits. Unlike me. Still got em.

Nice pecs! You couldn’t really see em today, cuz of that big bulky shirt, but I’d seen em before, with the tee. Actually, I’ve probably got more myself, but they look better on him.

Those little glasses—they drive me crazy! Make him look so smart. And they don’t keep him from being the leader of those other dudes. Which I could see that he is.

So that’s another thing—dynamic personality. Knows what to say. What to do. Almost always. Maybe always, if I’d stop fuckin things up.

Dynamic—and dangerous! The guy is in fuckin PRISON! He must have done something pretty bad. Bad, and interesting! Unlike me.

But he likes me! Did he notice my shorts? Did he notice my hardon too? Maybe! I think that other guy did! Fuck!

That’s as far as I got with the list, cuz you know what happened next.

When I woke up next morning, first thing I had to do—well, actually the second—was find out more about all this stuff I’d stumbled on. Of course, it was too much to ask that I’d find “Nick Jackson” on the web, and it would turn out to be him. But I could try D.O.C., and this “Unit” he’s in.

SO embarrassed: D.O.C. stands for—duh!--Department of Corrections. You’d think even I would’ve known that. As for the Glen River Unit, it was hard to figure out exactly what that was, because of all the bureaucratic language and so on. Like: “a facility for approximately 600 male offenders, ages 18 to 24, in medium security placement.” What’s medium security? Something between maximum and minimum! But I did find this amazing thing: “Median sentence at the state’s seven medium security farm/industrial training units” (OK, what does “farm/industrial training” mean?) “is approximately 3 years to Life” (whew! life! that sounds serious!) “under the provisions of the 2014 Indeterminate Sentence Law.” Which I looked up.

Turns out, when you go to prison in this state, they usually give you an X-years-to-Life term, so they can let you out whenever they feel like it. Which is my translation of “release dependent on prognosis of positive development toward self-sustaining adaptation to an appropriate civilian environment.” As an engineer (lol!) I could criticize the use of “median” next to “Life,” which is, like, mathematically ridiculous, but . . . wow! I got the point. Once you’re in, they’ve got you by the balls. If they like you, they can keep you.

My hands got cold! It must be such a weird feeling to get sentenced to life in prison! Even if they do let you out before that.

So it was really impressive that Nick was in prison for, maybe, life, but he was acting like, hey, what the fuck, you’re a hot dude, Jonah! And those friends of his—they didn’t act like they were feeling too bad about the whole thing. They looked like they were havin all the fun you could have in the locker room, without ever needing to go to class.

Go to class . . . that was a bad thought. I’d blown off that lab on Friday, and now I realized I was gonna blow off a couple classes on Monday too. Just so I could show up at the fence and talk to Nick. I thought I told him Tuesday and Thursday were my days. But then he said meet me on Monday. Which set me off again, thinking. Maybe he forgot what I said. Or maybe he was testing me again. And I’d agreed right away! The guy’s got power, all right--even though it’s all fenced in like that. Maybe it needs to be fenced in, cuz there’s so much of it!

So where were all these great thoughts goin? I’ll tell you—I needed to figure out what I was gonna wear on Monday! Typical gay guy, right? Right. So on Saturday morning, that’s what I worked on. The weather turned cold, cold and rainy, so shorts would make me weird. After a lotta time sorting through my clothes . . . which I don’t have that many of to begin with, but it’s kinda fun, like gettin ready for a date! Like I’d had all that many dates to begin with! But anyway, like I started to say, after due diligence . . . . By the way, I love that expression. When I was in high school, one of the teachers put on a paper I wrote, “Not perfect but very diligent.” I looked it up. It means that you keep trying. So, after due diligence, I picked out a nice pair of khakis and a blue sweatshirt, pretty new. I’m blond, so I can’t wear just any color, like yellow or something, ugh! Also, blue would make me sort of part of the Unit, right? They’re all wearin blue. And my dark green parka. I tried it on—I looked OK. Even though my legs are my best feature, and they’d be covered up. But you can’t have everything.

I laid out all these clothes on a chair, so I could look at them over the weekend and think about Monday. Then I thought, what’s the matter with you, dude? What kind of engineer are you? Haven’t you ever heard of aerial surveillance and mapping? What I mean is, if I wanted to know more about where I was going, why didn’t I look at US Geodetic and even Google Maps and so on? So right away I jumped online and spread the Glen River Unit out on as many maps as I could find.

So what did I see? Basically what you have is a plateau with a stream going through it. Not really a river but that’s what they called it on the maps—Glen River. I guess that’s because later on it makes a little valley, and that’s a “glen.” I looked that up too: “a narrow, secluded valley.” Glen River is the creek that goes through those pipes I saw, when it gets to the fence. The fence itself—it’s pretty impressive when you see it on the aerials. It’s about a mile in each direction. That’s a lotta land! Then again, the place was supposed to be home to “approximately 600 male offenders.” That’s a lotta dudes! I followed the fence around on the Google map and picked out the spot where Nick and me met. Heart thump!

Most of the place was fields and woods, and there were some remains of old barns or whatever, but down near the gate there was a bunch of buildings that had to be the ones I saw from a distance. Obviously modern, but the arrangement was old school: hollow rectangle, low structures on two sides, higher structures at the ends. Hard to tell what they were--I couldn’t zoom in very far. Maybe because it’s a prison, so they won’t let you.

A strange thing happened when I thought that word “prison”—my cock leaped up! It had been sort of hard all the time, but it really did a jump when I thought about Nick and his buddies being locked behind that fence. I know that’s not supposed to happen! Maybe it’s because I’m getting this thing about dudes that are so male or something that they’ve gotta be kept under lock and key. That would make sense. Although I never liked dudes that were the big bruiser type. I liked dudes like Nick! Exactly like Nick. Maybe it was the contrast between wearing a prison number and wearing those little techie glasses. Of course, I liked guys like Bren, too, who was . . . well, I told you about him. But now I was feelin strange and . . . . I would have felt guilty about the whole thing, if Bren had just texted me back when I texted him. Which he didn’t. But after all, Nick wasn’t exactly Bren’s competition. How could he be, when he was locked up behind that fence?

OK. At least now I’d found out about as much as I was gonna find out about the Glen River Unit, etc., and it was 11 o’clock on Saturday night and I’d wasted half the weekend on finding that stuff out and thinking about it. So now I had to study. Which wasn’t easy, considering the thoughts that were still running through my head. But I couldn’t afford to fall behind, because I was skipping class again on Monday.

So OK. Riding out to Glen River was lots different this time. Before it was just hey, there’s this hot dude I wanta see. But now I’m ridin out to a prison!

Chapter 5: Prison 101

So yeah, he was there, wearing a grin and that same outfit he had on before—that big blue shirt and those big baggy jeans. Did I say before that they were big and baggy? They were. Which is the way your jeans should be, if you’re a man. Cuz it makes you look like even more of a man. You’re bigger, and you’re not a queer that just cares about “style.”

But actually, it was my own style that he started talking about. Which nobody ever does! But I did put in all that work, deciding what I should wear. I couldn’t just say “I’ll wear my uniform!” I wasn’t a convict, so I didn’t have a uniform.

“Like your clothes,” he said.

“Thanks, man!” I could feel myself blushing.

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Huh?”

“I can tell you’re on your way to a hook up. Helps to look your best.”

OK, what can you say to that? Especially when your dick is goin crazy.

“I guess you’re the hookup,” I said. Oh God! That’s the kind of thing I come out with when I get flustered. Just because he assumed I was gay. And liked it. But maybe he won’t keep liking it!

But the grin showed up again. “That’s what I figured. But you’re dressed for success. I’m dressed for failure.”

“I think you look pretty good.” God, somebody should tell me, Look Jonah, just don’t talk. “I mean really good.”

“Seems like I’m improving every minute. But at least I never have to worry about what to wear. Never have to worry about anything.”

“Really? I guess I never thought about it that way.”

“’It’ being prison, I guess.”

“Yeah. That’s what I meant. I’ll admit it, I say ‘I guess’ too much.”

“You’re hot. I guess.”

By then we were both grinning, and my dick was gettin ready to push right through my khakis. Anybody could see it. I know he saw it.

“So are you,” I said. “I’m sure.”

How the fuck was this happening so fast? And what were we supposed to say now? Not a problem for him, however.

“So what do you want to know? About all this?” He raised an arm and made a gesture that sort of included the whole place.

What DID I want to know?

“How rough is it?” I asked. “Being in . . . . ”

“Prison. Not so bad. Like I said, free clothes. Also free food, free housing, free healthcare, full security, guaranteed employment . . . . Pretty good deal. Surprised?”

“Yeah, I . . . . But you can’t do what you want. You’ve gotta take orders, right?”

“Yeah, I gotta take orders. From a buncha morons. Which they usually are.”

“So . . . . ”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not doin what I want to do. By the way, do you take orders from anybody?”

Good question. Did I?

“Yeah. Sure. I . . . I guess I take orders from my dad. And my professors, that’s for sure.”

“Who aren’t morons?”

“No, I . . . . ” Last thing I wanted to do was get in an argument with this FUCKIN HOT DUDE.

“I’ll bet they are. I’ll bet they make you jump through a lotta hoops and don’t even explain why you’re jumpin. I’ll bet they give you a bunch of boring stuff to do, for four, maybe five years, and you’re supposed to think that if you do it, there’s a chance you can get a job in a place where the same thing happens to you for the rest of your life. Is that a good guess, Jonah?”

The sound of my name shocked me. This whole conversation was . . . . strange. The dude was a convict! Talking to me through a prison fence! But what he said was pretty close to the truth.

“I guess so. Nick.” I had to put his name in like that. Otherwise, he’d be like my dad, or some professor, giving me a lecture. But I hoped he wasn’t mad at me!

“I really like you,” he said. “Jonah.”

Relief! The dude actually cared how I was feeling! “So, seriously,” I said, “how is it? For you. To be locked up in here?”

“Seriously? Pretty easy. Not at first. When you first get here, all you see is the bars and the locks. They lock you into what they call a ‘dorm,’ but we call them cages. Because the doors are bars and there’s bars on the windows and the building’s got a steel door on the outside and it’s got locks on it too. Then there’s this fence. You can see what’s on top of it.”

The fence was steel, of course, and high, and there were those strands of barbed wire in a Y formation on top. You see that a lot around industrial parks and test facilities. Specially if they’re in a sketchy neighborhood. But this stuff wasn’t meant to keep the bad guys out; it was meant to keep the bad guys in. Like the guy I was talking to! My dick made another jump, because of the barbed wire. Thanks, Nick! But it wasn’t great to imagine some dude tryin to escape and gettin caught in that wire. Not a good picture.

“Like I told you, there’s sensors on this fence, so if you cross it, and you don’t get cut up too bad, they should still be able to run you down. High probability. Course, we’re not what they call hardened criminals, so we’re not that likely to try.” He stopped talking and looked at me. Looked me over. “Maybe hard, dude, but not hardened.”

Fuck! I wish I wasn’t so shy! One of those queers would have caught that one and run with it all the way home. Not Jonah, though. Jonah couldn’t think of a thing to say. Just stood there, lookin dumb. Lookin like I didn’t have a dick. Or didn’t know if I had. But the way he was talkin to me, I knew it all right.

“Me, for instance,” he continued. “I’m only doin three to Life.”

I knew what he was talking about, sort of, from what I’d read on the web. So I was able to act very cool and say, “So that means you’re in for three, four years?”

He looked at me like, “This dude’s smarter than I thought.” But I wasn’t.

“Don’t know yet,” he said. “Been in for two already. Depends on how I behave. Could be in for a long time. Course, I can’t stay here after I’m 24. Then they’ve gotta let me out. Or send me upstate.”

Man, this is confusing! Especially when you’re excited.

“Upstate?”

“Yeah. To the Pen. The Walls. The Big Time. It’s complicated. But this place—yeah. Like I said, it’s only hard when you first get here.”

“Not sure I could do it.”

“Sure you could. Why not?”

That was a surprise. Do I have to say why I WOULDN’T succeed in prison?

“I guess I’d be . . . . Don’t you get in fights all the time?” I know, that just meant I’d watched a prison movie or two. But I wanted to know.

“I been in fights, sure. But do you see any scars on this handsome face?”

“Don’t think so.”

I stepped closer.

“Watch out. Remember what I said about the fence. No kissing allowed.”

Fuck! I’d never had anybody come on to me like this! And Nick was so fuckin hot!

“I guess I’m safe,” I said. “Who’d wanta kiss me?” Thank God, he laughed. “But I’ve never been in a fight.”

He looked me up and down. “You’d do all right.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean about fighting.”

That was kind of funny, if I do say so myself. And he seemed to think it was.

“Oh yeah. Forgot about that. I was thinkin about somethin else. But if you stand up for yourself a couple times, they’ll leave you alone. And your car will back you up.”

If there was ever a time to confess my ignorance, this was it. “What’s a car?”

“That’s like . . . A car is your buddies. The dudes you hang with. Everybody’s in some kinda car. Unless you turn out to be a dweeb.”

“Those guys I saw yesterday. They’re your car?”

“Yup.”

“They don’t seem to mind being in prison either.”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Maybe they do. Who cares? When you’re locked up, you’re locked up. But like I was sayin, prison solves a lotta problems. Before the bus dropped me off at Building A over there, I was . . . . ”

There was a shout in the distance. It looked like the car was calling.

“Hey dude. Guess it’s later than I thought. Enda the day out here—I gotta stand for count.”

“Count? What do you . . . . ”

“See ya tomorrow dude!”

He sprinted across the grass. I stood on the berm in my good pair of khakis, my favorite sweatshirt, and my forest green parka, and I felt like ten handsome young guys had abandoned me. On the other hand, he wanted to see me tomorrow!

hi I’m jonah

By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 6: I Don’t Look Happy

It wasn’t till I got back to my room that I remembered: I had two midterms coming that week, and I’d barely studied, and I’d already missed class that day. Also, what’s the matter with Bren? Why doesn’t he ever get back to me? You know, a little bit of “I love your ass” would come in handy from time to time. But fuck! I’d never cut classes before. And I was starting now? Just because a guy looked hot in a prison shirt?

So OK, I stayed up all night studying. Well, most of the night. Then I had an energy drink and went to my classes, and after that I biked out to see Nick. Who was there in the same place.

“Hey,” he says. “Sup? Don’t look very happy to be here.”

“Huh? Sure I am.”

“Nah. You wish you were someplace else. Guess you’re like everybody that goes to prison.”

“That’s funny.”

“So is it somethin I said? I’m comin on too strong?”

“No . . . I . . . . Maybe I’m a little bit confused. Today. Anyhow, guys don’t usually say that stuff to me. . . . ”

I was trying to think how to tell him that actually, I loved it--I just had a lot on my mind. But I couldn’t think of a way to say it, so I didn’t come off like a fuckin ho. So I took too long. And it didn’t come out right. What’s new about that!

“Sorry, dude,” he said. “I thought, fuck, might as well SAY things—cuz you know I can’t DO things. Not with this fence in the way. Don’t want you gettin weird about it, man.”

“I’m not weird. I . . . ”

“Then why are you talkin to a dude with a number on his shirt? That’s weird!”

I loved the way he smiled. It was always like, I’m so much smarter and hipper than you are, but don’t worry, I still want to be with you. He smiled, and he reached up and grabbed his little blue cap, and he took it off.

Dark hair. Black? Almost black. And buzzed! Way short! Really changes the way you look! His face looked longer. His nose looked longer! I’m not one of those queers that’s always lookin at fashion, BUT . . . you know how guys look in those fashion ads? There’s always something . . . strange about them. Even when they’re supposed to be Average Joe, there’s always something different. Something edgy. Nick looked like one of those ads. With his cap off, and that buzz cut, he was sort of like, I dunno . . . like a bug or something. Short, short hair. Long nose. Little round glasses. And that big blue shirt, like he had this huge body and this strange little head on top of it . . . . OK. I’m just kidding. He didn’t look like a bug. He still looked hot. Hotter! Just not like anybody else I know. Outside of those fashion ads.

“I’m happy to be here,” I said.

“But there’s somethin wrong,” he said. He flipped his cap back on his head, then used both hands to get it in the right place, the way hot guys always do. But he didn’t turn it around. The brim was pointed straight ahead. It was like, this was the time for the cap to get serious. “There’s somethin on your mind.”

So that was another revelation. I realized: nobody ever talks to me like that! Everybody’s always nice to me, but if I stop being nice myself, or even if I stop being happy or whatever, nobody ever asks me, hey, what’s goin on, Jonah? They must think I’m just so sweet and so nice and the boy next door and the guy that always texts you back right away, why should anybody worry about him?

“Well,” I said, “I . . . ” And I told him all that stuff that I said right here. All that stuff about high school and college and how hard college was, and about Bren and how he wasn’t in touch, hardly ever, and how I was getting behind in my classes and I’d missed class yesterday but I didn’t mind, not really, cuz I liked talking to him (I mean Nick), but . . . . I told him all that stuff. It was a lot faster than I told it here, but I told him.

During a lot of it I was sorta lookin down at my sneaks, cuz it’s not easy to say how weak and, like, pathetic you are, to somebody that you think is so hot and strong and so forth, and at the end, I just kind of trailed off, and I realized he hadn’t been saying anything during the whole thing. So maybe he’d left! I mean, who wants to hang around and listen to stuff like that? But when I looked up, he was still standing there next to the fence.

“Listen,” he said. “I gotta go. I been spendin a little too much time down here. I don’t want the COs to notice.”

“COs?” I said. Happy for the chance to talk about anything in the God damned world, besides myself.

“Don’t be so fuckin embarrassed, dude. CO means Correctional Officer. Prison guard. Anyway, I need to get back. And you gotta do your shit in school. Don’t come here for a while. I like you, but I don’t wanta see you.”

I should have known this would happen. The brushoff. It was like my insides fell out. And it was my fault, for spillin my guts like that. But hey, I thought, THIS time I’m not gonna give up. I’m gonna try, at least. Might as well! Since this looks like the last time anyway.

“So how about Thursday?” I asked.

“Too soon. Listen, I . . . . All right. Friday. Come back on Friday. OK?”

“OK! Thanks! I . . . . ”

He was already gone.

Chapter 7: I’m Learning to Banter

Nick left before I had a chance to tell him that I had that lab on Friday. I could see the prof putting it down on his grade chart: Cook, Jonah. Second absence.

Which made me work even harder that night, and Wednesday and Thursday. Yeah, I said “hard,” but it’s not like my penis was involved. I wasn’t exactly inspired. Problem with these engine classes--you never learn anything about engineering. You never learn about DOING anything. OK, I guess that comes later. I hope. Right now, it’s just equations. Just math. And nobody ever explains why you need to learn it. I just wish I was as good at this shit as I was in high school! Course it’s different shit. Harder shit. But I thought I did OK on those two midterms. And I was back at the fence on Friday.

This time, I was REALLY nervous, cuz last time I thought Nick was about to cut me loose. But I’d decided what I should do. I shouldn’t be the passive little dude that’s whinin about his life. NOT attractive, dude! So right away I ask him, “I told you all about me. How about telling me all about you?” I think I left out the “all,” though. That would be goin too far.

“Sure,” he said. “What do you wanta know?”

“I’d like to know why you’re . . . in here.”

Whew! That was hard to get out. I mean, who knew how he’d react to a question like that?

“Why I’m in prison? OK. I guess it’s because of my Uncle Louie.”

“You’re here because of your uncle?”

“Yeah. He’s a CO. At the state pen. Thanksgiving, Christmas, he’s always talkin about how it goes down in prison. From his point of view, naturally. Which is fucked. But anyway, cuz of him, it all seemed pretty normal to me.”

“Really?”

“Nah. I do have an Uncle Louie who works for the D.O.C. But I was just a typical dumbass that got in trouble dealin.”

“How’d that happen?”

“I was goin to college—your college, in fact.”

“What were you majoring in?”

I know, that sounds so stupid! It sounds like a guidance counselor!

“Prepare for the worst--I was an English major.”

“Really! I never met one of those.”

“You see the problem. Ain’t many, cuz there ain’t any jobs. Unless you wanta be a lawyer. Which I didn’t.”

“What did you want to be?”

“Don’t know. That’s another problem. Just liked to read, I guess. And talk. But you know that.”

“I’m glad. If you didn’t talk . . . . I’m not very good at talking.”

“Maybe you’re good at some other things. You know what I mean.”

”Hope so.” Blush. But I was glad I could get that out.

“Anyway, I liked to read, but I didn’t like to sit in class and hear about how sensitive you gotta be.”

“Huh?”

“You never have to take a lit class, do you?”

“No, I . . . .”

“It’s all about bein black or brown or female or trans or queer, and how books oughta make you sensitive about that, but they don’t.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Don’t worry about it. Takes all the fun outta bein gay. In other words, I was bored. And I could tell I needed some job experience they never talk about at Career Fair. So I started to deal, and then I started to steal. Which was fun, until I got caught.”

“I’m sorry. Guess that was a huge . . . I mean . . . .”

“You mean, shock? Art fag discovers real world? Yeah, that’s true. But when they were packin me off to prison I looked around and I asked myself, What am I gonna be missin? And I came up with, Nothin. Lotsa nothin. Like I say, I hated those classes I had.”

“What did your family think?”

“As little as possible. Now that the D.O.C. owned me, they were able to disown me. Except for Uncle Louie. I think his opinion of me went up. I wasn’t just a fag anymore; I was the D.O.C.’s fag. He fixed it so I’d get sent here.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re my age—our age—maybe you’re goin to a big hairy ass prison like the one Uncle Louie works at, or maybe you’re goin to a place like this. Probly to a place like this. But I wanted this one.”

“How come?”

“So I could meet your beautiful smooth blond ass. Sorry, I can’t stop myself. Love to see you blush like that. I never met a dude that blushed that way. Is that cuz you’re blond? Real reason is, this joint’s close to the college. Thought maybe some of my friends would visit me.”

“Did they?”

“Yup. Once. Guess these clothes don’t seem as hot to them as they do to you.”

“It isn’t your clothes I like.” Jonah, the romantic! But that’s the way I felt.

“Yeah? I see you lookin pretty hard at em.”

“Well . . . . Not really.”

“So I think you’re lookin at my big butch convict number and this jaunty little badge I got clipped to my belt, but actually you’re lookin at my charming smile?”

“Yeah. Your charming smile.”

We both laughed.

“Cmon,” I said. “How hard is it in this place? Actually?”

“It’s a prison,” he shrugged. “So’s college. Or didn’t you notice?”

“I noticed.”

“We talked about this before. Prison’s a lot easier. Actually. In college, they’re training you to be a good boy. In prison, they’re training you to be a bad boy. Which would you rather be?”

That was funny. Even funnier--I couldn’t think of an answer. Of course I wasn’t gonna say that I wanted to be a good boy. No dude would say that. So I grinned and told him, “I don’t know what to say. Really an original line, right?”

“Least you’re honest. Nother thing, on the outside they grade you all the time on your ‘choices’ and ‘decisions.’ If you do somethin wrong, you’re supposed to say, ‘I made a bad decision.’ ‘I made an unfortunate life choice.’ See, I was an English major; I can talk like that. But in prison, they just tell you what to do. Every hour of the day and night, there’s orders for what you’re supposed to do. Either you do it or you don’t. If you don’t, and they catch you, you get punished. That’s a lot simpler. Easier to take. Gives you lotsa time to think for yourself. Also, your friends don’t care if you’re wearin state blues. They’re all in the same gear.”

Nick talked a lot faster than I did. I didn’t understand how some of those things went together. But I liked having him tell me that stuff.

“That’s really hot,” I said--without thinking. So fuck, I did it again! When do I ever think? But it turned out to be the right thing to say. For once, he was the one that looked surprised! Pleased, too.

“Glad you think so. Maybe you’d like to move in here with me.”

When a hot guy says something like that, you can’t stop your dick from jumpin up. Even though you’re hoping the other dude won’t notice it.

“I . . . not right now . . . .” Another REALLY stupid thing to say! What was I trying to tell him—I’m not doing it right NOW, but I’m planning to vault over the fence next Wednesday?

His eyes lowered, and when they came back up, he was looking like I’ve always wanted a guy to look at me.

“I’ll check you later on that. But maybe you oughta know . . . they do make us work in here.”

“No, I . . . I guess you said something about not losing your job.”

“Yup—complete job security. My job . . . . I’m on the mighty Fatigue Squad. We do fatigue duty around the place. But you don’t know any prison talk. That means we do cleanup, grounds work, whatever shit work the other squads don’t do. Despite the name, it ain’t half as fatiguing as physics. Or just sittin in one of those fuckin English classes.”

“You like it?”

“Gets me outside. Promptly at sunrise, too. That’s why I get to talk to you at this time of day. This is what they call Rec time. You’re my recreation.”

“Same here. Nick.”

As soon as I said that, I knew it was true! Hangin with him was all the fun I got these days.

“But Rec’s about over for this convict, this afternoon. And what I wanted to tell you--next couple weeks, I’m not gonna be here. They’re takin us out on the road all day.”

“On the road? But you’re . . . .”

“Don’t get worried. You don’t need to lock your door and hide your bike under your bed. They’re not lettin us outta prison; they’re just usin us for slave labor. This time of year, there’s lotsa stuff has to be done out on the roads. Cleanin off the shoulders. Diggin out the culverts. That kinda thing. Also scarin the old ladies. Of all three sexes. Not everybody likes to come around a corner and run into a gang of hot, fit, powerful convicts. But no problem. We’re under guard.”

“I guess I’ve seen prisoners picking up trash on the freeways.”

“Those aren’t prisoners. Those are DUI fairies. They come out in their little citizen clothes and lassoo some of the loose junk. Then they go home to dinner. We call em the kleenex patrol. They’d run for their lives if they ever stumbled onto the big bad fatiguers of Glen River Unit.”

“So you’re doin that all day? For the next two weeks?”

“Afraid so. Soon as dawn spreads her rosy fingers, they load us in the truck, ship us to the site, and make us bust ass all day. Get back at sundown, jump in the showers, hit the chow line, and then we’re sleepin like babies. Or whatever. Up the next morning, do the same thing.”

“What about weekends?”

“I see where you’re goin, dude. Weekends we’re restricted to the Hub.”

“The Hub?”

“Yeah. That’s their junior high name for it. It’s the security zone. Chow hall, showers, admin building, cages—they’re all in the Hub. We call it the Nub. The Plug. A few other names.”

“So that’s where you actually live.”

“Yeah. That’s what you’re lookin at, up there on the other side of that basketball hoop and so forth. Mostly we get rec out here. But on weekends, they don’t wanta pay enough screws to walk around talkin to their hos on their phones. So we’re confined to the Plug.”

“Means I can’t see you on the weekend?”

“Right. Besides, you got things to do. If you wanta grow up to be a big man, you gotta eat a lot more . , , equations. See ya two weeks from Monday. If they haven’t caught onto us yet.”

He walked away. Then turned.

“Yo convict!” he said. “Get to work!”

Chapter 8: I Become a Stalker

So now it was two whole weeks of nothing but books and labs and those incredibly BORING lectures and those dudes that wouldn’t look at me twice. And yeah, of nothing from Bren. There’s only so many times you can text a guy if he’s not texting you back. I guess he was just as busy as I was, but . . . Anyway, that first week, I was pretty depressed. I went to my classes. I did my homework. I did some weed. I napped a lot, and woke up, and went back to the equations. I’d never realized how bored I was. Does that make sense? If you don’t realize you’re bored, are you really that way? Maybe I’d never had such boring stuff to get through. It’s sort of hard to measure.

But THEN, on the second Tuesday I woke up at 4 a.m. and I knew what I had to do. I had to go out and see Nick. Nick at work. Nick on the “fatigue squad.” Nick as “slave labor.” Whatever! Even if he didn’t even see me, I just wanted to see! And I could get back in time for classes.

Of course I felt weird. It’s weird when you find yourself getting up before dawn so you can go out and watch for convicts. But doing that was a lot more interesting than rollin over and workin my nuts—over what? I mean, you can’t just jerk; you gotta jerk about something. Somebody. And it’s kinda cool, ridin through the empty streets and the dark, dark roads; lookin in the east for Venus, and then for the sun; pullin up in front of the gate at the GR Unit and lookin for a place to hang till something—or somebody--comes outta the gate. Every time you hear some animal rustling in the bushes, you think it’s a cop, gettin ready to take you into custody!

Then, just before sunrise, a truck pulls out of the gate. Dead white. Ghostly! It isn’t a pickup truck, and it isn’t a panel truck either. It’s a big flatbed, with the bed fenced in. It’s one of those trucks they use to ship cattle. But instead of cows standing up in it, there’s guys. Dudes! Convicts! And Nick must be one of them! Although you can’t tell. They’re all dressed the same and they’re all hunched in together, so they all look alike. But I know what I need to do—try to follow them! And do it without being seen.

Of course, there’s nobody on the road that early, so it’s not that hard to know if I’m keeping up. And I’ve got pretty strong legs. And the truck isn’t going that fast. Maybe when you’ve got 25, 26 dudes on the bed, you can’t go too fast. You got maybe two and a half tons of man on that truck.

But by the way! How’s that for figuring how many convicts you can put in a truck, and how much they’d weigh? Not difficult, if you look at things from the engineering point of view. Most times, you ask somebody how many people there were in the class, or came to the party, or whatever--they can’t tell you. They’ve got no idea. Matter of fact, every year they say that Gay Pride has so many thousand or million or billion people that come to it. But anybody can figure how many, just by looking at a map and looking at some pictures, and then doing the math. Which demonstrates--they’re all lying their heads off! So OK, I’m just being an engineer right now. And on that Tuesday, I was being a detective! “Follow that truck!” Also, I was hard as hell, and you can do anything when you’re that way.

I couldn’t follow too close--I knew there must be guards in that cab. But I didn’t want to lose them. And I wanted a close-up! That’s a lot to want, but I got it when I went over a hill and saw the truck in front of me, pulling over to make a right. So, what I did was pull out to make a left—which put me next to the truck! A fuckin foot away from it! Well, maybe three feet. And it was great! Because there was a car coming from the left, so nobody could turn, right or left, and the car was coming REAL slow, REAL REAL slow, like the driver thought the convicts were just about to break out and run onto the road or something. And that was my moment. Very easy! I just sat my bike and looked to my right--and the convicts in the truck were RIGHT THERE! Like, right in the fuckin living room! Closer!

My heart was beating so fast, it was like I was seeing everything at once . . . . The dudes were packed into the truck, with that wooden fence around them, and a couple big HEAVY padlocks hanging off the corners, where the back gate closes up, and the dudes next to the fence were leanin their arms on top of it, casual, like they were totally used to bein treated that way, like cows, but they didn’t care, they knew they were men, so what the fuck? They were all wearing jeans and caps, like Nick wore, but also these big denim coats that made them look as BIG as cows. They were packed in tight, so what you saw was their coats and their caps, with their faces and their hands just sorta pokin out, real small and, like, innocent, like they were kids that somebody just rounded up and said, “Yeah, you’re men now—get in that truck!” That’s the way they looked. I was so close, I was practically on the truck myself! Also, it was cold enough so you could see their breath, and I was thinking, there they are, all warmed up together, and I’m freezin my ass off, all alone on this bike, only three feet away! And then I saw Nick, locked in with the rest of them.

He was standing right against the fence or the barrier or whatever you call it, which is where I’d expect him to be, and not in the background. He was wearing the same kind of gear as all the other dudes on the truck, but it was him all right, chatting with the convict that was next to him. Then his head turned, and he saw me, and this big evil grin crossed his face, and he made a little V thing with his hand, very cool! But these guys really notice things, because then a bunch of them saw me, and they were all “Dude!” and “Hey kid!” and “Follow us, dude!” and stuff like that, and they were all grinning, and I guess I was too. But I was scared the guards would see it, or hear it. Although that wasn’t likely, cuz the windows of the cab were rolled up and they were pretty much fogged up too, and there was a lotta country music noise coming through that glass, so what else could they hear? Nothing! But I couldn’t just sit there and chat. Soon as the car passed, I jetted off to the left and the truck crept off to the right, and I pulled over on the side of the road and I was shaking and laughing and not able to ride right away.

When I was, of course I made a U and went after them. But this time they put on some speed and it looked more and more like I’d lost them, cuz I followed the road maybe five, six miles and I never saw them again, even after the river came up on the right--which was good, cuz it meant that there weren’t gonna be any little roads running off in that direction for the truck to go down and get away from me. It’s the Snake River, and it’s pretty big, and there’s the Snake River Recreation Area all along it. That’s what it’s called, but it’s just a skinny little strip of parkland along the river. Not important; it just cuts off all the roads. But there were hardly any roads on the left side, either, because of the terrain. So where was the truck?

I was more than halfway back to town before I saw it. It was in the park. It was pulled up at one of those places where there’s a little turnoff and some picnic tables and a dog run or whatever, and the truck was sitting a ways back in the trees--maybe so nobody would notice it. There’s a real parking lot on the other side of the road with, I dunno, an auto parts store and a gas station and a Jenny’s restaurant, and they could’ve parked the truck over there if they’d wanted to, but they didn’t. Anyhow, the truck was lurking back by the river, but you could see it real well, cuz it was white, and its cargo was already spilling out of it. All those young dudes in blue were jumping down and filing out along the road, and the first ones were already putting on gloves and starting to yank brush and shit off the sidewalk and the path to the picnic tables.

So I found them! But how was I gonna watch them? Without getting myself in trouble, that is. I decided to coast past them as quiet as I could and then come back. So I did, but it was hard to get any focus on them, cuz they were all strung out in lines, or maybe in twos or threes, pulling or lifting stuff, or maybe hangin out and waitin to be told what to pull or lift or whatever. Moving past like that, I couldn’t see which one was Nick. Same on the way back, only worse, cuz I was on the other side of the road.

So I turned into that parking lot in front of Jenny’s and I got off the bike and tried to see whatever I could see from there. The place was on a little rise—which didn’t make it any more impressive! In fact, it was double butt ugly. I mean, who designs these places? But there was a view of the convicts, and it didn’t seem like anybody was gettin a view of me, so I had all the time in the world—even though, from that distance, Nick could’ve been any one of them, like I said. But I could watch the whole thing.

First idea that came to me—I realized, I’d never seen a lotta dudes working together. I don’t mean sittin in an office; I mean actually working. With their bodies. Which was amazing! You could see them bend and reach and pull and slide out of each other’s way, or get up close and get into it all together, like a big heavy dance. It wasn’t like sports. They weren’t wearing team logos or cute little shorts, and they didn’t have any . . . what’s the word? Celebritory? Celebratory. I think that’s it. There weren’t any celebratory signs around. No “Go Convicts!” or “Hail to the Inmates!” I couldn’t see what their footwear was, but I knew it wasn’t Air anything. Wasn’t even sneaks. I like all that stuff, so if I’d ever seen any sneaks or anything on Nick, I would’ve noticed, but I guess they didn’t give him any. I didn’t ask. So OK, it wasn’t like sports. These dudes were just out there, workin. They didn’t even know they had an audience. They were just doin what dudes do.

And they weren’t caddies or anything! My dad didn’t mind my caddying, but he’d have a fit if I was workin a job like these guys, just bein a grunt like that. Being a caddy’s all about wearing cool golf gear, just like the players, only not so expensive, and about gettin to know all these rich old guys, so maybe they can do you some good. That’s what my dad thinks, anyhow. So far, the only one that looked like he was into me was this guy that handed me a hundred dollar bill one time. He was into me, all right, but not in a way my dad would like. So looking at these prison guys, I thought how totally humiliated my dad would be if his son ended up like that. Not to mention Bren! He thinks I’m weird just cuz I wear jeans a lot. Which is all I can afford, really, except for something really special. Like a night with him! But workin like these dudes, or wearin a uniform . . . . ! Forget it. I’d never see Bren again.

Just when I was thinking that stuff, the door behind me shushed open and there was a guy standing beside me. He was middle aged and he looked like one of those guys I caddy for. He wasn’t one of them, but he looked that way. Except that his clothes weren’t so expensive. I can tell that kind of thing.

“Nice sight,” he said. He was looking straight ahead, like he wasn’t talking to anybody.

“Sorry?” I said.

“The bugs. The blue bugs. That’s what we call em around here.” He nodded toward the park.

“Sir?” I said.

“Convicts,” he said. “They truck em out here, make em work on the roads. Roads and parks.”

While he was saying that, a car came along the road, and it slowed down, like it was gonna turn into the park, but it didn’t. It just slowed down, and then I heard a yell, and something flew out of a window of the car, and it landed on one of the prisoners. The guys next to him jumped back, but another object went out the window. Another yell, and the car sped up and disappeared, and now there were three or four convicts that looked like they were shaking something off their coats.

“Ha!” the guy said. “Pretty good aim!”

“That happen a lot?” I asked. “I mean, people throwing garbage or whatever?”

“It happens,” he chuckled. “But like I always say, if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

He turned toward me. “You look like a good kid,” he said. He walked down the steps and got into his car. But he kept looking at the prisoners, like he was thinking about throwing something himself.

I felt bad about being a good kid. And I felt something stirring in my boxers--for no reason. But it’s hard to argue with a hardon!

Meanwhile, the guards had the dudes back to work, and I needed to decide whether I was gonna take this any farther. The smell of breakfast oozing out of Jenny’s identified my near-term project. Sitting in the big warm booth in the big warm restaurant, lovin my bacon and eggs, I kept thinking, when do I ever do anything fun? I’m a guy, and I’m 19 years old—when do I ever have an adventure? Answer: never! I never have one! If it wasn’t for Nick, I wouldn’t have anything to even tell about my life. Nothing except going to classes and taking midterms and not being called by Bren. And nobody wants to hear about that. So all right, I’m not going back right away. I know I’m gonna miss my first class, anyhow. . . . But maybe if I hang around I can figure out some way to get another close-up with Nick and his dudes.

I didn’t really know what to expect, but when I came out of the restaurant and looked across the road . . . the convicts were gone! OK, I thought, they’re workin someplace up the road, and that’s the way I’m takin back to town. But after a mile or so, my route wasn’t along the river anymore, and I hadn’t seen them yet. So fuck! I guess I’ll take the long way in, and keep after them. I’ll stay to the right, by the river. And I found them.

It was another one of those little parks along the river. A “rest area”—meaning a shack, some mangy dead grass, and a parking lot. I’m sorry; when you think about “rest,” you don’t think about straggly old trees and a brown concrete building with Men on one side and Women on the other, and a strip of blacktop out front. But this one was a little more interesting, because there was a white cattle truck parked at the far end of the blacktop, and a gang of convicts at work under the trees. Oh yeah!

I cruised past and stopped to consider my options. Either I could just take another run past it, or I could make like a commando and go inside. Only one decision possible: I’m goin in!

I went back, turned into the drive, and pedaled slowly past the white lines of the parking spaces. There was nothing between the lines. I was excited—nobody was there! It was just me and the convicts. It was like, I’m actually doin it, I’m goin into prison!

Off to the right, there were dudes pulling dead limbs across the ground and stacking them up, I guess so later somebody would come by with a tree chipper. Chippers must be too high-tech for the blue bugs to deal with, lol! Coming up ahead, closer to the restrooms, some other guys were manhandling one of those big ugly rocks they like to decorate those places with. You know what I mean. There was a line of rocks next to the sidewalk, but it wasn’t really a line; it was just sorta random, like it was supposed to look “natural.” Like they just happened to build the fuckin restrooms in the natural environment that those rocks just happened to be in. I’m sorry—that’s the way I am about things that don’t have any design to them. And somebody else might have been thinking like me, because these convicts were humpin away at the rock, tryin to move it over a few feet, where it would make the line look straighter. That’s what I thought was happening. But so much for the fuckin rock. One of the convicts straightened up for a moment, and I saw who it was. Nick!

Great! But I needed to figure out where the guards were. I could see one of them down by the river, talkin on his cell. A long way away; you couldn’t hear what he was saying. Unlike those guys that SCREAM into their cells, and you can hear them from a mile away. You look at them, and they just look back; they don’t even see you. They should fuckin be arrested. OK, but where was the other one? It didn’t matter; I was gonna use the restroom.

Because that’s what people do in those places—they stop and use the restroom! It was perfectly natural. Even if I got “caught,” what could they do? Nothing. I’m just here to take a piss! Of course, it could be embarrassing. Would be embarrassing. I’d never been in trouble with the law. I’d never even been stopped by a cop! But how often would I have this chance? Maybe never! If I did it right, I could do more than wave at Nick, or say something to him. I could actually touch him!

I wanted to go slow, so I could get a good look and enjoy everything. On the other hand, I didn’t wanta show any hesitation. That would make it seem like I was up to no good. I rode to the bike rack, which was way off by the place where they parked the truck, and I actually took time to lock my bike to the rack. Hands shaking! Then I headed for the restroom, like guys normally do! Not too fast, but not too slow either. After all, you gotta piss!

It was a pretty long walk, and wow! it seemed like all those dudes that were workin on the branches and the brush and so forth, they all stopped and looked at me. All those hot lookin dudes. Which was a new one for Jonah! Course, I wondered if any of them were in that group of buddies I’d met at the fence, and I guess they were, cuz a few of them were smiling at me like they knew who I was. Or maybe not! They were all about my age and they all looked alike, which was probly how I’d look if I was in one of those convict suits. Probly? Definitely! And pretty soon I was feeling like, I COULD be in that group, it wouldn’t be that hard . . . . I was already wearing jeans. And a baseball cap. All I needed was to replace my parka with one of those denim coats . . . . So then it was almost like I WAS in that group! Which made me feel less nervous—and more excited!

So OK, back to reality! The restroom’s still in the distance and also that gang of dudes that are pullin on the rock. There are four of them, and they’re all wearin those big bulky clothes, but you can still see their backs twistin and strainin and their knees tryin to lever the thing along, and it isn’t movin very fast. Neither was I, at that point, cuz I wanted to make sure I could take in all the sights. But right then my shadow fell across the rock, and the four dudes all stopped and straightened up and turned around and there they were--it was me facing four convicts. Including Nick.

You know how it is when a guy’s been doin some kind of hard work and he stands up and straightens out and stretches his body out so it’s big and wide and tall, and it’s like now he’s a CASTLE! I loved that about guys! Loved! And that’s what Nick was. He was a castle. Despite the hip little glasses! He had his cap on his head and his coat buttoned up to his neck, and now I could see there were big heavy boots on his feet. So he was ready for anything. He was even ready to carry that white tag on his pec, the tag with his number on it, the number that meant he was a convict. I knew what was on the tag, cuz it must be the same thing I’d seen on his shirt, and I guess it would be a hard thing to face, havin to wear that thing. But he didn’t care. He was just out there, wearin it! For a minute I felt like I must be wearin the same thing--cuz the guys at the rock were all bunchin around me, like we were in the same gang. The same car!

Nick gave me a look like, “Well, whaddaya you know! You actually got here!” And took off his big heavy gloves and stuffed them in one of his pockets. Like something was about to happen. Of course, I wanted to reach out and . . . shake with him . . . fist bump . . . something -- only, suppose one of those guards came along and asked me why I was out of uniform! That’s how crazy I was feeling. But I couldn’t just duck into the restroom and hide. I had to DO something.

“Whatcha doin?” I said. To Nick. My usual DUMB remark!

“Just gettin our rocks off,” he said.

The rest of them were looking at him and laughing, and I knew this was the time. I reached out and touched him. Put my hand on his coat. On his shoulder. Which was the closest place I could get to. But as soon as I felt him, I couldn’t stop, and before I knew it I was pulling him towards me, and he was doing the same with me, and I was buried in the hard cold smell of his coat and the soft warm smell of his body underneath it. Then, someplace, there was the sound of a door swinging shut, and his arms pushed me away.

I backed off, scared that I’d done something wrong. But the other dudes were backing off too. They were looking around like they wanted to find out where they’d put that rock. Nick stood next to them with his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Deep, deep pockets.

“Can I help you, sir?”

It was a man in a khaki uniform, coming towards me from the direction of the restroom. The other guard! He was wearing the kind of boots that make that cheap “squelch-squelch” sound you hear from the security guards at a concert. He had a red face. And he didn’t seem pleased. My eyes went down to his belt. Yeah, there was the gun.

“Oh . . . I . . . . I was just asking for . . . directions. To the restroom.” Which I was standing 30 feet away from.

“The restrooms are closed, sir.”

“Oh . . . Uh . . . Are you sure? I . . . . ”

“Restrooms are closed, sir. That your bike over there?” He pointed off in the distance. The rack was a long way away, but you could see that my bike was the only one in it. Naked and alone.

“Yeah. I mean yes, that’s my bike.”

“I’ll escort you out of the area, sir.”

He touched my arm and started walking me out. I was afraid to look back. We went along the sidewalk until we were getting close to the truck. “See that?” he said, pointing to the black letters stenciled on the door.

“Yes, sure.”

“Department of Corrections, sir. That means prison. These guys are prisoners.”

He was giving me the kind of look that people give you when they wonder if you’re gay and deciding that you are.

“Know any of these prisoners? Sir?”

“No. I . . . . Of course I don’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to see you on that truck. Sir.”

“I was just . . . I was just asking them whether the restroom was open.”

Now he was giving me the kind of look that people give you when they know you’re gay, so what you say or do doesn’t matter anymore.

“Restroom is closed. Sir.”

We had reached my bike.

“Goodbye,” he said. “Sir.”

He watched me while I fumbled with my lock. Then he watched me while I rode away. I wasn’t a good kid. Which was great.

Chapter 9: Convicts Rule

I rode into town and rushed to get to my second class before it was over. I always cringe when I see somebody walkin in late and havin to wander around and find a seat, and then gettin spanked by the prof--and now it was me. You know: prof hones in over his glasses, pins you down, and starts with the sarcasm: “I’m sure we’re glad you could join us, Mr. (looking down at his seating chart) Cook.” You stumble to your seat. Nobody dares to snicker, but you know that everybody wants to.

So that was the first time for me! Not pleasant.

But no, that’s a lie. I loved it. I fuckin got off on it!

That surprised the hell out of me too. Guess the bad kid followed me back to class, and I was getting to like him.

An hour later, man! I was totally embarrassed. HOW could I have walked out of that classroom the way I did—struttin out like I’d done somethin special? WHAT was happening to me? But I was still sort of proud, too.

OK. That was the high point of the week. The rest was just study study study, and at night jerk jerk jerk about Nick. To the point where I was totally wasted by the time Monday came around and it was time for me to skip another class and meet Nick at the fence. That was the “two weeks from Monday” when he said we should meet. The dude never cared what my class schedule was. But neither did I, at the moment.

So here comes Nick. “Hey,” he says. “Is this the new convict?”

“If you’re talkin about Tuesday, I just wanted to take a piss.”

“That’s what you always say. But I didn’t think you had enough balls.”

“Enough balls to tail you?”

“Right. Also, enough balls to get humiliated like that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t fuck around with me. That cop ran you outta the rest stop, boy. You weren’t humiliated? Sure. Nice boy like you?”

“Not as humiliated as you must have been when that garbage landed on you.”

“You really are a fuckin spy, aren’t you? But no, it was a couple of my buddies got hit with that load. But yeah, I’ve got my share of discards in the face. So what?”

“How do you take it?”

“I take it easy. Unlike you. Dude.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean . . . . Dude, I can get into it. Can you?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“That’s OK. Maybe later. So. Thanksgiving’s on Thursday. That’s three days from now. I’m assuming, this is the last I see you for a while.”

I’d never thought of him as this long-distance planner. But it was true.

“Yeah . . . . Dad’s pickin me up on Wednesday . . . . Guess I’ll be back next week.”

“OK. Have a good time.”

“Don’t expect to. Buncha relatives. It’s a bore. I’d . . . I’d rather stay here.”

Meaning, right at this fence. Right with him. But I couldn’t say it like that. So it sounded like “I’d rather stay here at college.” Which was not what I meant.

“OK, dude. See you then.”

He was walking away. What did that mean?

“Hey!” I said. I tried to think of something to say. I couldn’t leave things in that weird place where he’d put them. “What’s your Thanksgiving gonna be like?”

He hadn’t got far, and he turned around.

“Not too bad,” he said. “Thanksgiving, they give us turkey and so on. Same as the outside. Maybe better.”

“How come?”

“One thing . . . . It’s cooked by convicts, and everybody knows, convicts rule.”

“Right!” I said.

“Yeah? Guess you’ll believe anything I tell you. OK dude. See ya afterwards.”

hi I’m jonah

By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 10: Important Moments with Family and Friends

Which is worse, studying or having a “holiday”? Putting that in quotes because I gotta study, even during the Thanksgiving break. Which is gross as always. Typical: Thanksgiving day, brother walks in with his wife and kids. Wife says, “Say hello to your Uncle Jonah.” Kids scream, “I don’t WANT TO! When do we EAT!”

Little loudmouth brats. But it’s a good question. You know how TG always goes. You come outta your room at maybe 10 in the morning. Greet the guests, help set the table. Then somehow, it’s fuckin 6 at night when the eating starts, and by that time, everybody’s drunk except the adorable little kids . . . . Football. Chips ‘n’ dips. I don’t care how somebody handled the ball—I wanta eat! Too much to ask, but I’d rather be someplace where people do things on time. OK, sorry.

At least my dad isn’t so uptight that he won’t let me have a beer in the house. Despite my brother! Ever since he found out that my way was the gay way, he’s been acting like I’m about to spiral outta control. Always asking how my classes are going, how are my grades, am I SURE I’m not eligible for a scholarship? Meaning WHY aren’t I eligible?

But here’s what’s happening. After dinner, I’m having a hard time thinking, what with the kids screaming and my dad droning on about how to succeed in business and my brother putting in his comments about my education and my sister-in-law yelling back and forth with the neighbor lady, who we always invite, I don’t know why, and the neighbor lady’s husband wanting to “pick my brain” about “what college is like these days” . . . . So I RUN to “the bathroom,” meaning my room, and WITHOUT thinking, I send a text to Bren. Fuck, an unplanned message. Imagine that. “Happy Thanksgiving!” Then I’m gettin ready to go back in the living room, and he calls me! And he says that he’s actually havin a bummer, cuz he’s up there with some friend of his at Newport, wherever that is, I guess it’s in Massachusetts. Anyway, the peeps up there are all really weird and no weed or somethin, so he’s really really happy to be talkin to me and yeah! Christmas will be great back home, and he’ll be back and I just need to give him a call and, fuck! He’s lookin forward to seein me! “I love you, dude!”

So that’s what he said! And I’m really happy all night. No matter what the conversation in the living room is like. Also, I’m really drunk by that time. But the next day . . . I’m in the shower, and I remember all that stuff about Nick and I . . . . Frankly, I don’t feel too good. The whole thing seems weird. The thing with Nick. Like I went on this really weird adventure, but now I’m back.

I saw an old movie once, and there’s this scene where somebody says, “All of us go crazy from time to time. And if we don’t, maybe we should.”

So OK. Obviously, I went totally crazy over Nick. But that was because of school, and how hard it was, and Bren, because he wasn’t . . . calling me. Or texting me. Or telling me what I wanted to hear from him. But now he is! But I still have this huge crush on Nick, and what am I gonna do about that?

Also, what am I gonna do about school? I gotta catch up. Or keep being caught up. Because the tricky thing is, you never can tell. You may think that you’re ready for a test, and you’ve made all the right answers on the test, and then you find out that the test isn’t like the textbook was, or the lectures were--and you failed the fuckin test. It happens! They don’t tell you what to do—they just let you guess, and then they test you on it.

I gotta say, it’s . . . it’s like that with guys, right? You never know what they’re thinking. What they expect from you. And yeah, Bren is a good example. I do all kinds of stuff to please him, then . . . nothing. But I send him one text, and he calls me and he tells me, “I love you dude.”

I can’t figure it out.

Chapter 11: Weird Stuff

So all right, now it’s a couple weeks later. I’m studying for finals, and I THINK I’m almost caught up. I guess those visits to Nick did me more damage than I thought, although the real reason I’m behind is that it’s harder and harder to get into this Engine stuff. You look at it—ALL you see is formulas. You’d never guess it had anything to do with concrete and steel. And the grading’s all done on the curve, so the competition is CRAZY.

I said something like that to Bren, and he said, “Yeah, that’s why I’m doin International Relations.” So maybe in high school, if I’d taken French instead of advanced calculus, the whole thing would’ve been different. I’d have had a really easy major. And maybe I should’ve had a family that could send me to Europe all the time!

So yeah, back to Nick. I thought I was gonna go out and see him as soon as I got back from Thanksgiving, but now I’m definitely feeling weird. One minute I’m totally into Nick and this big bad self of mine that I didn’t know I had, and the next minute I’m lookin at the future and guess what? Nick’s not in it. And big bad Jonah’s not in it either. I gotta get through college and get a job—that’s MY future. I just gotta do it, no matter what. And who knows? Maybe Bren will turn out to be my future too!

But Nick . . . It’s just feelin strange to lie around jerkin about him. And I can’t ditch any more classes so I can go out and see him. Also, it’s winter! I don’t mind bikin in the cold; it lets me think I’m still in shape! But when it snows . . . . There’s been days when I couldn’t have gone out there, cuz there’s snow all over the road and the shoulder, and there’s no place to hide if a car comes skidding in your direction.

Which means, it’s way into December and I know, I gotta get on the bike and run out to Glen River. I know we didn’t set any actual time, but I need to do my duty. So, yesterday, which is Friday before exams, which is one of those days they call “study days,” when there aren’t any classes, because you’re supposed to be spending all your time studying, I get on the bike and go out there.

It was kind of fun seeing the Christmas decorations along the road, and knowing there’s only one more week and then I’ll be back in Springfield and I’ll be with Bren. But yeah, it was a pretty cold ride, and when I got there, yeah, there was the fence, and there was me, lookin at the fence, but there wasn’t anybody waitin for me on the other side. Big surprise, Jonah! Like Nick’s supposed to be standing there waiting for you! After all that time! Then why did you come out here? What are you doing here, Jonah?

Did you ever walk up and down on a snowy trail in the middle of nowhere, waiting for something to happen? Doesn’t take you long to feel like an idiot. I could see the buildings up there in the distance, and I could even make out some of those little blue dots that I knew were convicts. Blue bugs, the guy said. The bugs looked farther away than they did before—so far that none of them would ever notice me. I was just getting back on the bike when I noticed one of them moving my way. And when it got to the fence, it was Nick.

“Hey,” he said. “I saw some civilian foolin around down here. You look like the dude that was sexually harassing me. Wonder what happened to him.”

He was standing in front of me with his legs spread wide and his shoulders squared away and his hands in the pockets of his coat and his big black boots on his feet and his cap on his head and his little round glasses glinting in whatever light there was left. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was about to arrest me and take me to prison. At the moment, I felt like, he’s got every right to do that.

“Fuck,” I said, “I’m really . . . really sorry it took me so long . . . . ”

“You in trouble?” he said.

“No . . . I . . . Just a lotta work I gotta do. Final exams next week. I gotta work all the time . . . .”

Pause. Seems like a disappointed pause.

“You really hate all that shit, don’t you?”

He had that ironic smile of his on his lips, but the little round glasses looked like they wanted answers.

“Sure. Wouldn’t you?”

“Definitely. So why do you do it?”

“You know why.”

“Yeah. I do. But now you’re lookin forward to Christmas?”

“Yeah, sure. You know . . . I told you about my friend, Brendan.”

“Yeah. You told me.”

“He’s comin home for Christmas. We’ll . . . We’re gonna have a good time.”

The big coat shrugged.

“So . . . what about you?” I said. “How’s Christmas around here?”

“About the same as Thanksgiving. Another big meal. No labor details for a week or so. Not for me anyway. But we find things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Guess.”

“Oh . . . OK.”

“You know,” he said, “you’re so cute . . . . I can’t stand to fuck around with you.”

No reply from me. Although I wanted to say, “That’s the first time anybody ever called me ‘cute.’” And actually, it was the first time! I guess that’s why I didn’t want to say it.

“Truth is, on holidays, we’re basically locked in our cages . . . .”

“You mean your . . . dorms?”

“Right. Our ‘dorms.’ We’re locked in most of the time, but it ain’t a full-scale orgy. Matter of fact, I may not be givin any gifts this season. I may be keepin my cock to myself.”

OK. The only guys I ever heard really TALKING about gay sex were those “queers” I mentioned before. Brendan never talked about it. When we made love, he never mentioned it afterwards. It was like . . . we were just buddies again. Which was OK—I mean, that’s what I wanted, I guess. I guess I wanted a buddy. . . . Who thought I had a great ass! But back to the subject. Of course, I’d heard plenty of straight guys talk that way, about havin sex. Not to mention on the internet. You get plenty on there! But I never heard anybody just lay it out, matter of fact. Even the queers didn’t do that. They were all . . . I guess they were always being sarcastic about sex. Smirky. Is that a word?

I heard myself saying, “Why not?”

This time, he looked down at his boots and actually scratched around with them on the ground. Then he looked back at me. I could see his eyes through his glasses. Beautiful gray eyes. What was behind those eyes? Why had I stayed away so long?

“Maybe I don’t want anybody else’s. Or maybe I want a guy that’s not in prison. Yet.”

OK, I knew who he meant. My dick knew who he meant. What was I supposed to say?

“I . . . uh . . . . I know, you can’t . . . get together with some dude that isn’t . . . . uh . . . on your side of the fence. But why should this person . . . Why should he be in prison? Sometime? In the future?”

“Oh,” he said. “Good question.” Which is exactly what a teacher says. Or is supposed to say. Because I hadn’t heard anybody say “good question” since high school. None of my profs likes getting questions. Neither does my dad. Or my brother. Unless it’s, “What more can I do to satisfy you?” They’d love to hear THAT question! So, my high school teachers used to say, “Good question, Jonah!” Even, “Good question! I can always depend on you, Jonah.” But then they’d tell me, “On the one hand this and on the other hand that, but nobody knows the answer.” I just wished they’d tell me what the answer was. But that was Nick’s approach.

“Several reasons,” he said. “This guy doesn’t need a list of things he has to figure out; this guy needs the answers. This guy needs his road to be laid out in front of him. This guy needs rules, not equations. He needs work, not school. He needs men, not queers. He needs sex, not status. He needs crime, not niceness. He needs a lover, not a teaser. He needs a uniform, not a wardrobe. He needs a convict number, not a student number.”

So FUCK! Nobody ever laid it on me like that.

“Wow,” I said. “You’re really unloadin on me!”

“Yeah,” he said. “So?”

He didn’t say it in a crude way. Actually, he was smiling. But guys don’t usually tell you “so?” unless they’re mad. And they want to fight you! This whole thing was going sideways. It was slipping out of control, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Or what to say about it, either.

“Are you cold?” he said. “You look like you’re cold.”

I was wearing jeans and a jersey and my parka, of course, and one of those knit caps you can pull down over your ears. But yeah, now I was shivering.

“Not really,” I said. “How about you?”

“I’m good. I got this stuff.” He pulled up one leg of his pants. Whew! I didn’t know how far up those boots of his went. And between his boots and his pants was another pair of pants, tucked into the boots. “Long johns,” he said. “Long underwear. Standard winter issue. Bodies stay warm at the Glen River Unit.”

Of course I wanted to say, “I want to see more of those long johns.” Meaning you know what. But naturally, I couldn’t.

“I gotta go now,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said. Which sounded stupid, under the circumstances, when we’d just been talking about having sex and me belonging in prison and everything. But he gave me a little V sign and said “Merry Christmas” back. So I went away carrying my wood, and the words “what happened?’ stuck in my head. But now I’ve really got to study.

Chapter 12: The Mall of America

All right. It’s over--exams are over! And I think I did pretty well. Fairly well. Which I should have, considering the last few days were, like, 18 hours studying and 6 hours trying to sleep. I didn’t shave. Maybe I showered, but I can’t remember. It wasn’t pretty! But anyhow . . . I didn’t exactly nail those exams, I know I missed some stuff here and there, but when grades come out, I think I’ll have something to celebrate. With Bren!

But speaking of celebrations . . . . Christmas is on Friday. Dad came and picked me up on Monday and took me back to Springfield. Of course, the first thing I wanted to do was call up Bren and get a time to be with him. But I knew I should wait. He was probly busy with traveling. And sometimes he gets strange about being called out of the blue. Or looking at his texts. I said that before. Or did I? Anyway, so I settled for doing my Christmas shopping and just thinking about Bren.

The mall is crazy this time of year. If you don’t have something great to think about, you’ll lose your mind! Not just the crowds and the parking, and all the fat people with their bratty fat little kids, but the whole thing about what will I buy for Dad and my brother and his two bratty little kids and his little stuckup wife . . . . Why can’t people just SAY what they want, or just say no, give me the money instead? Why do you have to guess and decide and change your mind and decide again? You’re wastin your fuckin life on this shit!

Maybe an over-reaction. But then on Christmas eve, which is today, I’ve got nothin to do. I did it all! I SHOPPED! Which turns out to be bad, because I keep tryin to decide, should I call him or not? Should I text him? Should I call him now? Should I text him now? Bren, of course.

So I sent him a text. “Merry Christmas! See you soon!” Then there was nothin to do except play video games and listen to Christmas music and try to feel sentimental. Which I finally did. I mean, when I was a kid, I loved Christmas. I loved all the warmth in the house, and the fog on the windows, and finding an explanation in a book about how that happened. I loved drawing my picture in the fog, and wondering if it would stay that way forever. But OK. Now my dad says the pizza’s arrived. No text from Bren yet.

Chapter 13: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

OK, yeah. Yesterday was Christmas. Didn’t start very well. Brother and wife arrive early, with kids—how great that is, brats runnin all over the house. I’m sorry—why can’t they control these monsters? I had to kick em outta my fuckin bedroom! Not to mention, “Uncle Jonah! Uncle Jonah? Whadja BUY me? Whadja BUY me?” And after they tore off the wrapping, “Is that ALL, Uncle Jonah?” And my brother and his wife: “So, Jonah, how are you gettin along in school?” “You know we’re all pullin for you, Jonah.” “Of course, Dad really should think about retiring in a few years. If he only had less expenses . . . .” Expenses. Meaning me. Even though I pay my fees with my own money, the money I made by caddying. And I don’t even have a car! Which everybody else has.

After that, exchange of gifts. Except for the kids, like I said, we all pretend to like what we got. I never want anything I get. OK, be fair: they don’t really know what I want. Which is Bren in a speedo, wrapped up in Christmas lights! But no point in going into the gifts issue. Then there’s another one of those long distance meals. I mean meals that take all day and half the night. Not to mention everybody’s favorite movie, “A Christmas Story.” It’s supposed to be for the kids, but the kids hate it. Predictable. They hate everything. But the adults love it. “It’s the American family” or some BS like that. But I guess Jonah’s not an adult. He doesn’t like it. And why doesn’t Bren get back to me?

I’m restless. I visit the bathroom. I get another drink from the kitchen. I decide that the driveway needs some snow removal. I go to the garage and pick up the shovel and fuck! it’s nice out here! No family! And the moon is REALLY bright, and it’s cold, cold, cold, which means that my arms and my legs and my heart get to do some actual work, which is not what I’ve been doin lately. But finally there isn’t any snow left on the drive, or the walk, or anything. So I have to go back in. And too bad I missed the movie, huh! Brother’s wife says, “I’m sorry, Jonah. We shoulda picked another movie FOR YOU.” Brother says, “Yeah. With a buncha gays in it.” I can tell he’s drunk. My dad says, “I just wish you could enjoy our family time, Jonah.”

What the fuck! I didn’t know what to say to a thing like that. Yeah, I did, but I couldn’t say it. Despite there bein a lot of it to say. Finally everybody’s fallin asleep in front of the TV. Except for the kids, who I found in the kitchen, gettin into the crème de menthe. NOT good. And it was bad for me, because I was the one that dragged them away from it. “Hey Jonah,” my brother says. “I’ll take care of disciplining my kids.” Who decide to start crying, like I’d smacked em or somethin. My dad wakes up and wants to know what’s goin on. “Nothing,” I say. “But I’ve got some studying to do for next quarter.” So I go to my room and play some video games. That’s pretty much the end of Christmas. I check my phone for the fiftieth time. Nothing from Bren.

And now it’s the day after Christmas. Don’t you love waking up in the morning and the first thing you gotta do is make some important decision about something? Which I now have to do. I have to decide whether to call him up.

It’s like, 9 a.m., and I know I can’t call him now. I know he likes to sleep in. And he probly had a party yesterday. He’s always goin to parties at the country club or whatever. So I should call him later? Or I should wait till he calls me? But I don’t even know how long he’s gonna be in town. I can’t wait forever!

I HATE all this stuff. Why is it always ME that has to guess what to do? Figure out the clues. Make the decisions. Why is it me?

I’m hungry now, and I go out to the kitchen. And the first thing my dad asks me: “What did you decide to take next quarter? What’s your plan?” For him, everything’s a plan. “And the next quarter after that? You’re applying for an internship for this summer, right? So where are you applying?” For a while I’m pretty good at answering, but the farther out he’s “projecting”—“so you’re projecting graduation in what, ten more quarters?”—the more “I dunno” keeps comin into the conversation. And the more he’s lookin at me like, “At least I’ve got one son that isn’t a flake.” Meaning, not me!

When we’re both exhausted, I take a long shower and go for a walk. It’s funny—I grew up in this neighborhood, but I don’t feel like I live here. Ever lived here. Is that because I’m goin to college, 50 miles away? Or something else? The houses are comfortable. Well maintained. I can see them in an engineering report: “Housing: single family units circa 1955, average floor plan 1611 square feet, average length of ownership 27 years, average current roof warranty 22 years.” They started off all the same, but lots of people are adding rooms, porches, swimming pools. All different. All tacky. I pull out my phone. Eleven o’clock. I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna do it NOW. At least I’ll get it over with. If he answers the phone!

And he does! “Hey!” he says. “Jonah. My man. Happy to hear from you.”

“So,” I say, “when are we gettin together?”

“Together?”

“I mean, when are we seein each other? I’m here in town. I’m here till . . . .”

“Uh, that’s great. Hope we can . . . . Sorry, I can’t hear you--what did you say?”

“I said . . . .”

“I’ll be there in a minute!“

Shit, he’s talking to somebody else.

“Sorry!” I say. “What’s goin on?”

“Oh, that’s Hunter. My friend from college. He’s here with me.”

“Oh! Yeah? I didn’t know. Anyway, I’m here in town . . . .”

“Yeah. Hunter and me, we’re goin skiing. Just packin our stuff here. . . . Uh . . . OK. Right. Sorry! Just a minute, Jonah.”

Four or five minutes go by. Then, “Hey Jonah, sorry! Gotta run. Call you later.”

“Oh! OK. I hope . . . .”

He hangs up.

Before I can finish. He hangs up.

It’s like, somebody hit me in the stomach. It’s like . . . WHAT HAPPENED?

I try not to think. But I can’t. I can’t help thinking what a dweeb I am. Texting and calling him . . . . He’ll never call me back. I know that. Maybe he’ll get around to me next summer. Or next Thanksgiving. Or whenever he’s drunk and some guy named “Hunter” isn’t around. I can see that guy in my mind. “Hunter.” The dude from “college.” How he talks, how he acts, what he’s wearing. . . .

I’m totally fucked!

I don’t know what to do. I can’t just lay down and cry. I walk back to the house, and the wave of indoor heat smacks into me. There’s my dad. Still sitting there with his cup of coffee.

“Great Christmas,” he says.

Can’t think of anything to say to that. Not that he notices.

“Doing anything, Jonah? Any plans?”

“Don’t know.”

He’s wearing his bathrobe, with his pajamas on under it. I mean, who wears pajamas? My dad, that’s who. Old, clean, bright yellow ones.

“Good time to get ahead on your schoolwork. Next quarter’s only two weeks away.”

That’s right. Actually, about nine days away. “Yeah. That’s what I have to look forward to.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

I look in the fridge. There’s nothin to drink except milk.

“Wish you wouldn’t drink out of the bottle, Jonah.”

“OK.” Didn’t realize I was doing it. “I won’t.” I put the bottle back on the shelf. “Guess I got some work to do.”

I went to my room, pulled some weed outta my pack, and walked out the back door. Behind the garage, that’s the traditional place to smoke. I remembered, I used to go out there and smoke and think about Bren. Dream about Bren. Now I was just smoking. And feeling sick. And playing with my phone, like everybody else who’s alone.

No texts. No new dudes, even on my best sites. Everybody’s celebrating Christmas, even the porno guys. Might as well look at my mail. Fuck! When was the last time I did this? There must be 80 new ones—all spam. Or shit from the college.

Unbelievable. People spend their whole lives writing “Our New Ranking! Engineering at State Now 31st in Nation!” and “Engineering Council Schedules Winter Meetings” and “LGBQT-X! Krazy Kickass Kampus Kickoff, 8 pm, January 6! Be There! Or Be Straight!”

Then I see it, buried in the messages from three days ago: “Addressee Only: COOK, Jonah M. Report of Academic Record.” Fuck! It’s my grades.

Link to secure site. What’s my fuckin password? This has got to be good. I can’t keep feeling worse and worse. This has got to be good.

When I’m inside, I read:

CIV ENG 103 C

CIV ENG 104 C-

CIV ENG 110 C

CIV ENG 110 lab D

GPA: 2.59

GPA in Major: 1.91

REQUIRED GPA IN MAJOR FOR THIS COURSE OF STUDY: 2.4.

STUDENT IS ADVISED THAT HE/SHE HAS BEEN PLACED ON ACADEMIC PROBATION UNTIL ATTAINMENT OF REQUIRED GPA IN MAJOR. TWO QUARTERS OF PROBATION ARE PERMITTED BEFORE STUDENT IS DELETED FROM THE MAJOR.

Which means: I’m failing. I’m failing out.

I walk back to the kitchen. My father’s still drinking his coffee, going over his check book.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’ve got studying to do. I shouldn’t stay at home any longer. Could you drive me back to college today?”

He was happy to do it.

Chapter 14: Have Yourself a Merry Little New Year

Was I intending to study? I don’t know. Probly. What I know is I wanted to be by myself. Pretty funny, eh? I felt so lonely, and now I want to be alone? Guess that’s just the way I am. What am I supposed to do, go see a grief counselor?!

So yeah, classes are supposed to begin on January 4. Which is Monday. Four days from now. So I’ve had a lotta time to think. I mean, do weed, surf the net, eat garbage food, walk around campus. But I stopped that. Made me depressed. Also, I can hardly get on the bike. Don’t know why. Maybe cuz it’s fun, and I don’t feel like I deserve any fun. Or it’s supposed to be recreation, but that means you worked already, and I’m not working. Haven’t cracked a book. Just piled them up, so they’d be neat and in their place. That’s the way I am too. I’m finding that out. I guess I’m lazy, but I want things neat. Not like they got when I was studying for finals.

I wish things were neat in my mind, too. I’m not feeling TOO bad. I mean, I’m not gonna jump off the clock tower! But every time I see that stack of books, it makes me think, No, I can’t do it! I can’t stand it anymore. I’m just not that fuckin good! Then I think, hey Jonah! Man up! If you really want that degree, you can get it. You can work hard enough. You won’t like it, but you can do it. But it’s like Coach used to say, back in high school, “Can’t means won’t.” So if I’m not doin it, maybe that means I won’t do it. Cuz I don’t want to do it.

So I guess I haven’t manned up yet. I mean, lyin around in my room, doin weed, playin video games—that doesn’t look very good, does it? I didn’t want a job in a cube, but that’s where I am right now. This room of mine ain’t exactly the great outdoors! The weather’s decent; I could hop on my bike, see if Nick could possibly be out there, lookin at the fence from time to time. But how’s he gonna treat me? I’m not in the mood for another rejection. And I guess that’s it. If I don’t DO anything, I’m not gonna fail.

That’s pretty sick. I guess I’m pretty sick. If I’m gonna drop outta school, why can’t I just enjoy it? Although I’d like to have somebody to enjoy it with. It’s so sad that Nick is the only guy I really like. And likes me! Liked me, anyway. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but today is fuckin New Year’s Eve. Everybody on the net seems to be saying Happy New Year and all that shit. Maybe if I’d swallowed my pride and made friends with some of those queers, I’d have a party to go to. But it’s OK. I’d rather just go to the pizza joint, take some out, get back before it’s dark and all the happy people take to the streets. But if that’s what I wanta do, I’d better start doin it. Gets dark early this time of year.

That’s what I was thinking. But maybe I AM cracking up! As soon as I got down to the street, I found myself unlocking my bike and riding out to the Glen River Unit! It wasn’t a decision—I just did it. And I don’t know why. I guess I just wanted to do SOMETHING. On New Year’s Eve. Like everybody else.

It was almost dark when I got there. Nothing to do but look at the fence and squint and try to make out the buildings in the distance and picture Nick in one of those buildings. I couldn’t. I don’t know what the inside of a prison is really like! All I saw was some white walls, fading into darkness, and some specks that must be light from the windows. When it’s night, you can hear from a long way away, and when I got very quiet I could hear sounds from the buildings. Shouts? Or just loud talk? Men talk loud. There were a lot of men in there. At this time of day, there must be a lot of talking. And maybe they’re doing something special, because it’s New Years eve. I wish I knew. If you ever want to feel lonely, try looking at a prison at night and wishing you were inside it. At least long enough to find some things out!

Like about all that stuff Nick said to me, that last time. Was willing to say. I mean, Nick is the only guy I ever met that was actually . . . serious about me. Who stepped up and said what he thought about me. In that weird, demanding way! Like, “You need to know this stuff, and fuck you if you don’t get it.” He was like, totally smackin me around! But OK, maybe I should start thinking about it.

Which I did while I was riding back. I remembered him starting off with “this guy,” meaning me, “needs things to be laid out for him; he doesn’t need a list of things he’s gotta figure out for himself.” Yeah, that’s true. That’s why I’m so miserable right now. I don’t know where I’m even going. Or I’m supposed to go.

Next thing: “He needs rules, not equations, he needs work, not school.” I guess that’s right! I tried so fuckin hard, but I am SO fuckin not gettin there. Anywhere! But if I’m not trying to be an engineer, what am I trying to be? And what am I, right now? I know that sounds dumb, so . . . go on to the next one.

“He needs men, not queers. He needs sex, not status.” Fuck yeah. First one’s obvious. Second one—I guess he meant Bren. It’s all these status things with him. What does he do when he comes home? Right off the bat, he leaves on a ski trip with some other rich kid from his rich kids’ college. I usually don’t think about him that way—as a “kid.” But I guess that’s the way I’m seeing him now. Did I like him just because he’s rich? No, I didn’t care. I liked him because he was hot. And because I thought he liked me! If I needed the status, why would I be talkin to Nick?!

Next one’s weird. “He needs crime, not niceness.” I dunno. I like nice people. Actually, Nick was pretty nice to me. On the other hand, I never told my dad or my brother or my brother’s wife to fuck off, which somebody should, even though it isn’t nice. Or those profs that gave me those grades. Even though I probly deserved them, because let’s face it, I’m not a genius. But a D in that lab! Which wasn’t even a course that I HAD to take! But then there was that thing about crime. Did I ever commit a crime? Weed’s a crime in this state, but it isn’t a real crime. So’s drinkin a beer at my age. Not a real crime--all the nice people do it too. So what would be a crime? I don’t feel like going around and stealing other people’s stuff. I do feel like knockin the heads off of my brother’s kids. That would be a crime! But I’m not gonna do that, even if it does feel creepy that I’ve gotta be nice to them. So yeah, I’m confused about this one.

“He needs a lover, not a teaser.” Yeah, I found that out. Brendan, King of Teasers.

Then there was the last one. “He needs a uniform, not a wardrobe. He needs a convict number, not a student number.” I’m clear about the student thing. I’ve got a little plastic ID card with my picture and my name and my student number on it. The picture actually looks good! Cuz these pictures never look like you. LOL! But it’s like a credit card. The number’s what you use to “access student services.” It’s not like you’re a member of some special group, or you’ve got a lotta buddies with the same ID, or you get to fight or anything. But a convict number . . . wearin one of those would be SO humiliating! Although, you take Jonah, with his little student ID in his wallet, and you stand him up beside Nick, with his convict number on his chest—which looks more like a man? And it does make you special, that’s for sure! Not nice anymore!

The uniform—that’s another thing that makes other people notice you. Maybe they throw their garbage at you! Or maybe they’re just scared of you. Nobody’s ever been scared of Jonah Cook! Too bad, eh?! Of course, I never had lots of clothes, but nothing I’ve got is as interesting as those clothes that Nick has to wear. Maybe that’s what he meant about a uniform, not a wardrobe. He HAS to wear those clothes. It isn’t an act, like “dress for success,” where you’re hunting through your closet to make yourself different from the other dudes. Or plowing through the mall! It isn’t something you spend a lotta money on, so you look like you’re rich or hip or whatever. It’s cheap--you never pay for it! But yeah, it’s harsh—no coverups. It isn’t a “role”; it’s you! So all right, that’s cool, I guess—it’s not gonna change. It’s always gonna be the same. And you can’t make a mistake and buy something that makes you stick out in the crowd, in a bad way. Like I’m always, always scared that I’m gonna do. Because what do I know about fashions? But with a uniform, you’re always in style; you always fit in.

I’d never thought about any of these things. I’d never thought this way before. I was so disoriented, I got back to my room and I started lookin for the pizza I took out. Then I remembered—there isn’t any pizza! I never went there! That’s how hard I’d been thinking.

When I got some pizza back to my room, I was still goin over this stuff. Also, when it was midnight and I heard the fireworks and the shouts on the street. Also, when I was layin in bed, havin my first jerkoff of the new year.

Chapter 15: I Return to the Scene of the Crime

After what Nick told me about the lockdowns on holidays, I knew it was pointless to go out to the Unit on New Years weekend. But Monday, January 4—I’d be there! No question--out at the fence, lookin for Nick. Who maybe wouldn’t come! OK, so that was my fault. I’d go out there till I found him again.

Same day—school starts again. Same giant lecture hall. Same Periodic Table of the Elements, huge on the upper wall, waiting to be memorized. Same intro: “Welcome to Civil Engineering 112. I want to just go ahead now and, uh, run through a few pointers you need to know, about your, uh, options in this course. First of all . . . .”

First of all, I don’t want options. I want this lecture to end.

Then there’s a 50-slide powerpoint that everybody’s rushing to copy in their notes. Everybody but me. Guy sitting in the next chair says, “Dude! Your laptop broke?” “Don’t think so,” I tell him. Somehow my hoodie has snuck up around my head. At the end I notice, there’s a big crush of people hurrying out of the room, but nobody wants to get close to me. Well, when did they? Worst thing—then there’s another class to go to!

No, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was, after the second class, I’m walkin past the BBB, which is the Big Bulletin Board, which is full of all kinds of Engine stuff, and there’s a shitload of stuff about gettin jobs, gettin internships, gettin into grad school so you’re more likely to be gettin a good job, and there’s all these posters about “The Job Hunt: Ten Week Training Session,” and “We Write Your Resume!” and “Resume Writing: An Intensive Course” and “Interview Skills: A Special Seminar” and “Coming Up Fast: Summer Interns Must Now Apply” and “Start Early: Now’s the Time to Polish Your Record” and “Grades Are NOT Enough—Let Us Help You Hone Your Interpersonal Skills (A Joint Project of the College of Engineering and the Council of Student Engineers)” and, naturally, “Dress for Success—How to Be a Professional (Or At Least Look Like One).” You know how they say that when you’re drowning, your whole life passes before your eyes.

I had my bike in the rack next to the building and I headed out right away. Like I said, I knew there was NO reason why Nick would show up at the fence. But when I got there--there he was! Hands in his coat pockets, waiting for me to come.

I THREW the bike down and ran up to the fence.

“Fuck!” I said. “I didn’t think you’d . . . . That last time, I’m sorry . . . . I was . . . . I understand if you’re pissed off.”

“Happy new year,” he said. “You told me classes were startin today, so naturally I wanted to be out here to welcome you back.” Sarcastic smile, of course.

“Meaning you were sure I’d need to see you.”

“Thought it was a good bet. What’s goin on?”

First I told him about my grades.

“I’m sorta surprised,” he said.

“How come?”

“You’re a smart guy. Not as smart as I am, but then, nobody is. What went wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Spent all your time with me?”

“You know I didn’t. But I guess you’re partly responsible. I’ve spent a lotta time . . . . ”

“Jerkin off about me. Yeah, that’s right--I knew I could make you blush.”

“I . . . uh . . . . ”

“I love it when you look that way, dude. But go on, about your grades.”

“I don’t know . . . . It’s all just math. And I was good enough. But now I’m not.”

“I get it. What’s the other thing? I know there’s at least one other thing.”

So I told him about Bren.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I knew he was a shit. From the way you described him.”

“But I didn’t know.”

“You’re still too nice to know that stuff. What else?”

“Nothing. Except . . . Now I don’t know what to do. Whether to keep trying. In school. I . . . . My high school coach used to say, ‘The man who says “I can’t” and the man who says, “I can” are both right.’ See what he meant?”

“Definitely. So you’re thinkin, you can do anything you want, if you just try.”

“Uh . . . . I meant . . . . Yeah, I guess so. But I know it isn’t true. Not really. I can’t get through college just because I want to. Because I DON’T want to! I hate this stuff! And it doesn’t look like I’ll ever have a . . . relationship either.”

I wanted another word besides that STUPID “relationship” that everybody’s always talking about. But I couldn’t say “sex.” Cuz I’m not ugly! I can find somebody to have sex with! Even Bren had sex with me! I just want something that I don’t have to . . . I don’t know. I can’t think of the words. So I was getting frustrated, trying to say what I meant.

“So what’s your plan?” he said.

“I don’t have any plan!” I shouted. “I never want to hear about plans again!” Fuck! I didn’t mean to say it like that.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I didn’t want to yell at you. I’m just . . . . ”

“You’re just mad. Also, you’re acting like a criminal. Blaming everybody else for your own problems.” He stopped and looked at me. “Jonah,” he said. “I’m joking.”

“Did I look that bad?”

“Yeah. You looked that bad. Still do.”

“I’m completely confused. I think the reason I came here today was . . . ”

“Go ahead.”

“Of course, I wanted to see you. I’m sorry that our last time . . . . ”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Skip all that. Why do you think you came here?”

Gulp! Oh fuck! I NEVER know what to say.

“I think,” he said, really slow and really calm, which was really different from me!, “you came here to accept my offer.”

“Your offer?”

“Look, Jonah. Don’t play dumb. Cuz you’re not dumb, OK?”

“OK.”

“You know what I’m sayin.”

“You’re saying that you want me to go to prison. So I’ll be in there, with you.”

“Got it.”

There was a long silence. I was pulling stuff together in my head. Trying.

“I thought about what you said,” I told him. “Last time. And it’s true, I’m not happy . . . out here. I’m just . . . . ”

“You’re just worried about what your family and your friends would think?”

“No. Of course not.” That was a surprise. I always thought I did things to please the people I know. Like my dad. Or my coach. Or Bren. But not him anymore. Maybe not the others.

“Yeah? I’m glad. So what’s the problem? You think I’m tryin to trick you? Trick you into comin in here? So I can exploit you? In some way? Some way you don’t want?”

I really am dumb! Because I never thought about that. Maybe a little bit. A while ago. But the guy had never asked me for money. Or a favor. The sex thing, though . . . Suppose he did want me on the other side of the fence so he could have sex with me. So? I’d never been a sex object before! Maybe I’d like some of that!

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“So OK,” he said. “But actually . . . . ”

Uh, oh! I HATE it when people say that. It’s like “Just so you know . . . .” When you hear it, you can always tell there’s somethin bad comin at you.

“Actually . . . . If you do this thing, it can’t be just because you . . . like bein around me. It’s gotta be because you want it for yourself.”

“I want it.”

Long, surprised pause. From both of us. I’d said it. I’d said the words.

“I’m glad,” he said. “That’s what I want too.”

If it wasn’t for the fence, I guess we’d be falling into each other’s arms right then! But if it wasn’t for the fence, we wouldn’t be there in the first place. I almost laughed about that. I did laugh.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” he said, and gave me this huge smile. Not cocky and sarcastic or whatever, the way he usually smiled, but just a smile. “Let’s see how we can do this.”

I really, really, really AM dumb, because I’d given about one second of thinking to HOW I was ever gonna get into that prison. But it was the other way around with Nick. He had it all thought out. I must have known that he did, too.

“You’ll have to commit some crimes,” he said. “Understood?”

“Fine with me.”

“You didn’t even wait to hear what they were.”

“It’s OK. I assume I won’t have to kill anybody.”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

“You learn fast, don’t you?”

“When I want to!” Suddenly I was feeling really good. Really cocky, too!

“I’ll tell you what crimes to commit. Later. Right now I gotta have another talk with my Uncle Louie. Just by coincidence, he’s visiting me on Saturday.” He gave me another look. “By the way, when I say, ‘just by coincidence,’ I mean that I planned it ahead.” I guess I wasn’t giving him the right look back. So he added: “I mean I planned it ahead, knowing that you’d show up here today.”

“Oh!” I said. “I get it!” I really have a knack for sounding dumb! But then both of us were laughing.

“Can I say another dumb thing?” I asked. “Why do you have to talk to him?”

“Did you ever wonder,” he asked, “how you could just magically get sent to the right prison, which is this one?”

“Sorry. I never thought about that.”

“It’s OK. You don’t need to think. But that’s why I’m gonna talk to him.”

“Thanks!”

“But . . . there’s one thing.”

Fuck! I should’ve known it!

“I should’ve known it.”

“No you shouldn’t. If you get in here, there’s one decision you’ll have left. Me too. You can’t stay in Glen River beyond your 24th birthday. I mentioned that before. And you probably saw it when you went online.”

“That’s right. I guess I did. I . . . ”

“So for instance. I’m doin three to Life, and so far I’ve flunked all my graduation tests. But when I turn 24, which is a couple years from now, it’s either up or out. Out on the street, or up to the penitentiary.”

“Yeah, I . . . .”

“And same for you. You’re 18 . . . .”

“19.”

“You blond boys always look younger. You always look like punks. OK, 19. You’re gonna be 20 on . . . . ”

“January 17.”

“OK. So that means in four years it’s up or out for you. If you fail your reviews, you can stay in the Unit till then. Cause enough trouble, you’re trucked up to the Big House, no questions asked. Ain’t no reviews after that. You’re doin life. They might let you out if you’re extra good. But at this unit, when you’re closin in on 24, you gotta decide whether you go to the Pen or not. Basically, the D.O.C. wants you out. You’re just a dumb blond, and they’re through with you. Unless you insist on graduating to the Big House, and you make them send you up.”

“What are you gonna do?” I can’t believe I’m asking that question! I’m asking him, are you gonna stay in prison, two years from now?

“Don’t know yet. Maybe it depends on how you behave.”

“This is all so amazing. . . . I don’t know what to say,”

“Actually, you never know what to say, Jonah. Look, if this works, you’ll be locked up in here for the next few years, anyway. ‘Works’ means, I fix that with Uncle Louie. If I can’t, you’re not doin it. It’s Glen River for you, or no place.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t check into any other hotel.”

“You know, that’s kinda funny, for a change. Maybe you got some potential, after all. But OK, you can stop blushing now. Be here a week from today. Not before. I attract too much attention as it is. Got it?”

“Got it.”

He walked away, and that was it.

I’d just decided to go to prison.

hi I’m jonah

By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 16: The Grown-Up in the Room—Maybe!

The big thing now is not to get totally excited! Although I am!

It’s an amazing feeling! I never decided anything for myself like this! But I can’t let myself get carried away. This Uncle Louie thing—it means the deal could still fall through. In which case . . . fuck! I don’t know. I said I would go to prison! And now somebody I never even met can tell me, no, you don’t get to do that. Although Nick didn’t act like there was gonna be a problem. If I was a real engineer, I’d be calculating the probabilities. Which I am, really. I mean, I am SO fuckin concentrated on this happening!

OK, OK. I never thought I was this . . . what’s the word? I can never come up with the words I need. Starts with a V. Volatile! I never thought I was this volatile. I ride out to the Glen River Unit, and I’ve got no idea I’m about to volunteer to LIVE there. A few minutes later, my reservation is confirmed. And now I’m feeling upset that there might be a cancellation!

These thoughts are running through my head while I’m riding back from Glen River, and I’m pedaling so fast, I’ve gotta watch where I’m goin. This is the biggest high I’ve ever been on. My life is changing! The Uncle Louie angle—it’s funny, actually. Like he’s some big ugly gangster. And maybe he is! But Nick got the guy to put him where he belonged, so I guess he can do the same for me.

And fuck! What a thought! I’d NEVER been where I belonged. Not really. But now I’m going there!

I guess I don’t need to say what happened when I got back to my room! All that shit about not getting too excited . . . Enough of that. Oh man! What a cum!

Then next morning I noticed: I’m much more worried about where’s the breakfast burrito I ordered than I am about going to prison! Isn’t that amazing? I’m learning a lot here. I’m trusting Nick. And I’m trusting myself! For the first time, I think I know what I’m doing.

I mean about my life. But here I was, enjoying my burrito (when they finally gave it to me, LOL!) and thinking, what am I gonna do today? I’m not goin to class, that’s for sure! So I’ve got six days in front of me. What do I do now?

What I did on Tuesday was, I went for a ride. Not out to Glen River—I was gonna see a lot of that pretty soon! Just around. Nice to sorta tune up the muscles before I go to prison. Soon as I thought that, of course, I got this huge RUSH again, which meant I knew what I’d be doin TONIGHT! But anyway, Tuesday afternoon I just rode around.

Then it was Tuesday night, like I said, and now it’s Wednesday. So I did a ride, and then I took the laptop and went to the coffee house, and I don’t know how, I started workin on some of the problem sets from my Engine classes. I wanted to find out, when you’re not sittin in one of those lectures, and you’re not goin for a grade, is it actually interesting? Answer is, yeah! It’s sorta fun. Definitely, I like puzzles! Too bad it didn’t fit with my real life. Unless real life IS the puzzle, and you’re supposed to figure it out, but all these little puzzles keep gettin in your way. Which is no fun at all.

I liked doin those problem sets. On the other hand, I also liked thinking about the room someplace where right then, somebody was looking down the class enrollment list and wondering where Jonah Cook was. Too bad! I’m the man who isn’t there.

Best thing, though, is something that came to me while I was in the coffee house. I was looking at all these students and profs and hipsters and whatever that came through the door, and fuck! I remembered how I thought about them a few days ago. When I was so depressed. The hipsters were all like “we got it figured out, we’ll just sit over here and be a magnet for dudes that wanta be cool.” The profs were all breezing in and out, “I want a double and give one to my grad student here, and make it quick cause we got better things to do than hang in a place like this.” The students were all, “I don’t know what I’m doin, OK gimme a latte, my dad is payin, I got 15 minutes before my next class, hey look I got three texts on my phone just now.” I felt like, “I don’t like these people, but at least they’re on the inside of something, and I’m totally on the outside.”

But what came to me now was, these dudes aren’t even grown up. Actually, they aren’t dudes, they’re just kids. They’re all playin around like it’s a doll’s house or something, where some magic hand takes you and puts you in the master bedroom, and now you’re IN. It all fits together in this little wooden world. Even the hipsters—they’re just following the script. And the profs—all those guys with the Serious Beards and the cardigans. If they’re so smart, why are they so fuckin ugly! One of them was right in my face today, pushing chairs around so he could sit where he wanted and lecture his TAs or whoever was following him around—yeah, those are TAs—and I’m about two inches away and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t recognize me, either, even though I was the one that was just in his lab. The one that got a D! Hard to think that this guy with the beady little eyes and the intense little beard is a man. “Professor Werner.”

OK, maybe he is. Who cares? It was actually great to be sitting inches away and hearing him talk about “my uh real uh educational goal is uh for you to uh establish uh interactive processes with your uh students that will allow them to uh . . . . ” Like that. No, he isn’t a man. But I loved the TAs sittin there with “when will this be OVER?” on their faces. LOL! It won’t be over, for the rest of your life, man! You got a life sentence, and it’s not gonna be fun. Sorry, I’m goin for another kind of degree.

Chapter 17: Surprise! I Aced the Test

So yeah, that’s pretty much the way it went all week, problem sets and coffee and weed and riding my bike and feeling good cuz I wasn’t a college geek anymore, and jerkin and gettin nervous about how maybe something WAS gonna go wrong and I wouldn’t go to prison after all! But I realized, this is just a way I have of keeping myself excited!

I never had these INSIGHTS about myself before (LOL!). I was just Jonah, a pretty good guy that was doin his best in college. Now it seemed like I was a lot more complicated. I mean, who feels this HUGE rush because he’s gonna be biking out to a prison where a convict is gonna tell him whether he’s approved for admission? Like I applied to Harvard or something!

But when Monday came I had a really hard time. First I wanted to get out there as soon as I got up in the morning. True, it wasn’t exactly morning when I got up. I’d been letting a few things slip since I stopped going to class, and one of them was getting up before noon. But that’s OK, cuz I knew that noon was way early for Nick’s schedule. So I had to wait. Which was EXCRUTIATING! Did I spell that right? OK it’s excruciating. Fine. Got that settled. But I just wanted to get out there! So I waited two hours, and then I went.

Naturally, when I got there, it was early. Nick wasn’t standing by the fence, and there wasn’t anything I could see that looked like a convict. So I hung around and I walked up and down and I thought about how I couldn’t go back to the way I was before. For one thing, I’d missed a whole week of school, and that meant I’d flunked out already. No, really. Those lab reports alone . . . . Missing! Maybe if I went to my profs and begged them and said I was sick or my dog died or something, maybe one or two of them would help me out . . . . Maybe. But the real thing—I didn’t want to go back. I looked at those white buildings on the other side of the fence . . . THAT’S where I needed to be . . . .

OK, so I thought about that stuff. And I thought about Nick and whether he was the only reason I felt that way, but he was right, he shouldn’t be the only reason. And he wasn’t. I was pretty sure of that. Really sure in fact. I knew when I was in prison, he’d help me out. In more than one way! And that would be great! But . . . I knew where I wanted to be. That’s all.

After that, I thought about my dad for a while, and what he wanted for me. Which I wasn’t gonna do. Which made me sorry, for him. And sorta for me, cuz bein an engineer . . . if I coulda done it my way . . . . But that’s not the way it is. And my dad wanted me to do it, whether it was the right thing for me or not. He wanted me to be a little baby, and then he didn’t like it because I was a little baby and I needed some of his money and I wasn’t like him; I was gay. That was bound to be a disappointment. Maybe I didn’t think that before, but look how different he treated me from the way he treated David.

So when I thought that, I got mad. Like, I’m supposed to feel all guilty because I didn’t turn out the way somebody else wanted me to? So he gets to guilt me for the fuckin rest of my life? So fuck him! Fuck my dad! Not to mention my useless brother.

But I was just talking to myself, because I was so excited and nervous. And of course, when you’re that way, you start needing to take a piss. I do, anyway! So I turned around and faced the woods and pulled out my junk, and fuck! it took a long time. It’s that way when you’re hard! When I was finished, I was still thinking about how there were 600 guys just a short distance away, with that fence corralling them and keeping them in till I got there, and how every kid likes to visit the zoo, but now I had a chance to actually live there . . . and when I shook the last drops off the end I discovered that it was getting way hard again, and my hand wasn’t leaving it like it was supposed to . . . .

“Hey! Whaddaya think you’re doin here?” said a voice behind me.

I whirled around, just the way I was, and you know how a million thoughts go through your brain in a second, and what I was thinking was, “Oh fuck! Now I’m gonna be arrested, and the whole plan is off”—meaning the plan about going to prison. Which was another one of those goofy Jonah things to think! And it was funny, too, when I remembered it later. No, nobody was gonna come out there and arrest me. It had to be Nick’s voice, and it was.

“Obviously, you’re glad to be here,” he said.

I started stuffing my junk back inside and mumbling some kind of “Sorry, dude.”

“Just the right size,” he said, “to break through the fence.”

Actually, I do have a pretty big one. Brendan used to say it was my best feature, which I thought was a hot thing to say, at the time. Shows you how dumb I was. “But you won’t have to do that.” He shoved his hands deeper into those big pockets on his coat. “I got good news for you.”

“I hope so!” I said, also hoping that now I was zipped up all the way. “What is it!”

“Uncle Louie’s cool with it. You’re in.”

“In prison?” OK, dumb question. But I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

“Where else? And we’re gonna have a really good time.”

“Fuck yeah!” I was shouting, and I never shout. But this time was worth it. “How’s it gonna happen?”

“It’s simple. But listen.”

Then he told me everything I needed to do. Part of it was, “Is there anybody you actually hate?” and “Do you actually care if other people hate you?” So I answered his questions, and he told me what to do to get the right prison sentence, which was three to Life.

“The thing is, there’s a sentencing law, and for what I just told you to do, you’ll hit three to Life all right.”

“So . . . what happens after I’m . . . ”

“Arrested? You’re still such a nice kid. You can’t quite say it.”

Blush.

“You’re right. What happens when I’m . . . arrested?”

“Ever been in handcuffs?”

“Me? Course not. I mean . . . . I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean it that way . . . .”

“Fuck, dude. You ready for this? I mean, if handcuffs are gonna make you all snowflakey like this . . . ”

I couldn’t tell if he was being all mad and disappointed and so on, or if he was just kidding me. Then he smiled and I knew he was kidding. But the handcuffs thing did come as a shock. I know, I know—didn’t I ever see a movie before? But my junk didn’t mind hearing it. Something down there liked the idea of being the tough guy in the movie.

“So,” he said, “that’s fun. Then they take you downtown and have a little talk with you, and you say that you need to see the public defender, and in a little while a young guy who got his law degree from Amazon shows up and tells you how to make a plea bargain that will send you to prison for exactly the same length of time that’s in the sentencing law to begin with. Which you don’t know about, supposedly, and he does. It’s this dude’s job to plead you out and send you to prison. That’s why they call them ‘public pretenders.’”

“Fuck! Really?”

“Really. So you sign a confession and they take you to a judge, and he says I’m scheduling you to be sentenced ten days from now or whatever. Then he grants you bail of one thousand, two thousand, and they let you call a bondsman, who’s got an office across the street. They always do. Close, anyway. That’s why you take one hundred, two hundred with you. So you can pay the bondsman. I don’t want you to spend your time in the local fuckin college town jail. That’s crap.” He sounded like the guys on late night TV, the guys that sell rooms in luxury hotels that you can get for the same price as Motel 9. “You got that kinda money?”

“Sure. I earned it.”

“I know you did. I know you did.”

Blush.

“You’re really pretty sensitive, you know, for a common criminal.”

“Thanks. I guess.” When he says stuff like that, I really love the guy! “But should I call my dad?”

“When you get back to your room. Don’t tell him before then. He might fuck it up. Might get his own lawyer or somethin. And look, none a my business, but from what you said, or you didn’t say . . . . Best to have a fight and get rid of him. But not my business.”

“OK.”

“Then in ten days or whenever, you go back to the courthouse, and you get your sentence. Not a big deal, unless you want your family there. Won’t keep you outta prison, of course, but it’s a hassle. ”

“I . . . I don’t know . . . . Yeah, you’re right. But do you think I should dress up for court?”

“That’s you, dude. Always thinkin about clothes.”

“I just . . . Do you think I should get a haircut?”

I hadn’t had one since I couldn’t remember. My hair is like, really thick, and when it’s long it gets messy.

He looked me over. “Yeah, it’s a mess. But the judge won’t care. He knows what he’s supposed to do with you. Besides, it’ll get shaved down when you get to the Unit. You’ll have more fun with your new haircut if it’s long to begin with.”

That was a new idea, but obviously he was right. “So I go to court, and then what happens?”

“Right away, you get sentenced and they put you in cuffs again and they ship you off to the Glen River Unit.”

“Wow! Same day?”

“Yeah. That’s how they usually do it. County doesn’t want you hangin out, eatin their food. And Uncle Louie will make the arrangements, soon as you do your crimes. But by the way, you should know: there’s already a bunk waiting for you here.” Big, wonderful smile comin at me. How could something this amazing be happening to me?

“Amazing!”

“You totally need to be locked up. Right away.”

“So when do you want me to commit those crimes?”

“You’ve got a birthday comin up in a few days, right?”

“Yeah—on Sunday.”

“Make it special. Do it then.”

“OK!”

“Glad you agreed. I told Uncle Louie that’s when it’s goin down. He’ll take it from there.”

Not that I knew what that meant, exactly. But why ask? It was happening.

“So,” I said. “In the meantime . . . When am I gonna be seein you?”

Big smile. “Never.”

“Huh?” Terror!

“Look. You don’t wanta . . . pardon the expression . . . queer this deal?”

“No! I don’t! I’m just . . . . ”

“So I’m gonna minimize the risk. No contact, till . . . you’re wearin the same clothes I’m wearin.” He had his hands in his pockets, and he sort of spread his coat open, like he was on the runway at a fashion show. WHICH WAS SO HOT!

“O . . . OK.” I guess I was choking up.

“You’re not gonna wimp out on this, are you?”

He was smiling, so I knew he wasn’t totally serious—just serious. He wanted to know.

“NO,” I said. “I’m not! I’m just . . . you know how . . . how shy I am . . . .”

“No,” he said, “I didn’t.”

“You’re always so sarcastic.”

“Only to the ones I love. But look . . . . I gotta tell you again. Case you didn’t know. This is a prison. A real prison. It isn’t a college. It isn’t a research firm. If you get in here, you ain’t comin out, just because you want to.”

“I know that! What . . . why are you . . . . ?”

“Because I need to. Because you’re a nice dude, and this ain’t a nice place.”

“You said that before. You said I needed crime, not niceness.”

“Did I? Then it must be true. And I’m here for you, man. But . . . Look, your first day. This ain’t like flyin into Vegas. This is your first day in prison, and it’s not supposed to be fun.”

“I can take it.”

“These officers . . . they’re assholes. Real assholes. To them, you’re an object. Nothin more. Just an object to be processed into the facility. That’s what they call it—processing. That’s what they’re gonna do to you. You gotta be tough.”

He took a step closer to the fence, and I did too. We looked into each other’s eyes. Can you believe those words—“looked into each other’s eyes”? You’d think we were born a hundred years ago. But that’s what we did. I’d never done that with a guy before. Bren always had his eyes someplace else. The funny thing is, when you do it, when you look into the other guy’s eyes, it’s like somebody pulled a switch, and suddenly . . . you almost think you’re him. You almost think you’re the other guy.

“I can take it,” I said.

“OK,” he said. “And I noticed that thing you just put away in your pants. It was pretty long and pretty hard. But I want you to know, you can back out now.”

“I’m not backing out.”

“Fine,” he said. And there was one of those radiant smiles you see in a movie. “I’m happy. So, just do what we talked about, right? January 17. That’s your day. I’ll see you over there”—he nodded toward the long white buildings, fading at the edges in the late-afternoon sun—“a couple weeks from now.”

“Nick!” I said. “I don’t know what to say!”

“Well,” he said, flashing me one of his sarcastic grins, “nobody cares what a convict says anyway.”

Chapter 18: Countdown and Liftoff

What should I write about the next six days? It’s the same stuff, only I was jerkin more. Even more! In just six, five, four, three, two days my life was gonna totally change. How could I be any more excited? I couldn’t even play with those problem sets! Although the coffee house kept teaching me stuff. All those people, sittin around all those wood (veneer!) tables, scarfin their double lattes, analyzing politics (like they knew anything!) -- they were just ordinary fuckin citizens. Ordinary! Even the hipsters. They were just students doing something “artistic” for a while. Definitely, there was a house in the suburbs waiting for them. Or a really cool loft with a beemer down in the garage. They had no clue that I, the guy sittin next to them, was a wild animal that was about to get grabbed off the streets and taken to the zoo. So OK, they were normal, and I wasn’t! Great!

I kept thinking, “It doesn’t get better than this.” But January 17 was a fuck of a lot better.

It was a Sunday, so there’d be less people to interfere, but I needed to do it in the afternoon, so there’d be a few cops that were out of bed. I didn’t want to wait forever to get arrested. My target: the Werner lab.

That was the lab where I got that D. I didn’t choose it JUST because I got a D. I also hated the prof that ran it. Sam T. Werner. I told you about him. An arrogant prick. If he had a prick! You know, the smallest guys tend to be the biggest assholes. Which he was. Another reason for targeting his place: I was there one day, and a couple dudes came to clear out a bunch of equipment he was throwing away, and he screamed, “Watch out! That’s delicate! I paid five thousand dollars for that instrument!” For some piece of junk, as far as I could see. But to tell you the truth, it all looks like junk. Anyhow, Nick said I needed to “mess up an object of greater value than $2000.” Also “break and enter” and “perform a terroristic act.” So if the door to the lab was open, I needed to close it and smash my way in.

So here’s what I did. I rode my bike to the Engine Building and locked it in the rack, and I took a fat little bike lock that I kept as a spare and put it in my hoodie. I identified the cams in the stairwell and made sure to pose for them. V sign and everything. Found Room 305A, and it was locked. Now why bother to bolt a door that’s got one of those big frosted windows? But all right! This was the moment! I didn’t need the bike lock; I did it the fun way: I put a kick through the glass (I’ve still got the high kicks!), reached in, and suavely opened the door. Avoiding the glass shards, of course. I wanted to be in good shape for prison.

Naturally, an alarm started, one of those clangy things you can hear for blocks, so I hurried up. Threw a lot of stuff on the floor. Went to the blackboard and wrote, “I WILL HURT YOU, WERNER.” That was my terroristic act. Really, I wished he WAS there, so I could hurt him. I remembered him sitting at his desk with his feet up on a stool or something, and telling me I was late. Smiling also. Prick. Then I yanked the $5000 oscilanoscope, or whatever it was, outta the socket, and I ran out the door with it.

Well, actually, I walked out the door, cuz the alarm was sounding but there weren’t any cops yet. I hung around in the hallway for a while, and finally they came. By that time I was bored! Also scared they wouldn’t come! These campus cops—they breed them like bulldogs. I found out, the original bulldogs were these really tough little hunks of muscle that were meant to take down a BULL. Which they did. But later, there wasn’t any bull stuff goin on, so people didn’t want the dogs, you know, the breed, to die off, so they bred them to be gentle. Which is the same as the campus cops. Bred to be gentle. “Nonconfrontational.” Lazy. Whatever you want.

So there were two cops, an old one and a young one, though the young one was already gettin fat, like the old one already was. The young cop started off with “What are you doing here, sir?” but the alarm was still goin and it was loud, so he came up close to ask his question. I wanted to punch him in that fat gut of his, just cuz I’d never punched anybody before, but Nick said don’t get real violent, cuz even these college cops can get mean on you when they’ve got you outnumbered. Then the cop saw I had something made of steel in my hand and he told me to “Drop it!” So I did what he said, and I dropped the wonderful expensive piece of equipment. Then I grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him around and sort of slammed him lightly against a wall. Because I needed “assault on a police officer.” Of course he went fuckin nuts about that, like I punched him in the balls or something—which I wished I did!—and the two of them wrestled me down on the floor and got me handcuffed behind my back. Which I didn’t have time to enjoy, because things were going by so fast.

After they got me cuffed, they stood me against a wall and ran their hands over me and patted my clothes and asked whether I had anything on me that would hurt them, and I said, “Just my fuckin dick!” Which didn’t go over too well. But they found the bike lock that I had in the pocket on my hoodie and they took that and one of them said, “Deadly weapon.” Like, a bike lock? So’s a broom handle, if you want it to be.

Anyway, they took my lock and they led me downstairs and out the door, and I was surprised at all the people that came to watch me—I mean all the geeks that were holed up in that building on Sunday! I definitely was not the only one. And let’s face it, lots of them would have liked to be spendin their lab time doin exactly what I just did! But here’s the difference. While I was fulfilling all their wishes and behaving like the all-American criminal and being dragged away by the cops, who all these students are always denouncing, they just stood around and looked at me. Like sheep. Like cows. Like Engine students! Which I wasn’t anymore! I was gone!

So the cops showed me how easy it is to get into the rear seat of a car when you’re handcuffed behind your back--if you’ve got enough help. And now I’m off on my short ride to the County Justice Center, which is what they call the jail and the courthouse. They’re right next to each other. The ride was another thing I wished I could have enjoyed more, but it wasn’t very long. Lookin forward to that long drive to prison! But anyhow, they parked outside the jail—although, it’s a college town, so it doesn’t look much like a jail when you see it from the street, sort of a disappointment—and they pulled me out and took me in and took me down a hallway and put me in this sort of bare little room, like a cubicle, only bigger. There were a couple chairs and a table, and a little window in the door where somebody on the outside could watch what was happening on the inside. That was fun! They took the cuffs off, which I guess was a relief, but I would’ve liked to have more . . . feelings about wearing them. I’m sure I’ll have more of a chance for that later--now that I’m a criminal!

They obviously didn’t have much business on Sunday, because pretty soon another cop unlocked the door—BIG thrill, cuz when I heard the key I knew that yeah, I was already locked up!—and came in and said he was Officer Whatever and he wanted to have a talk with me and find out what had happened. So I said, “I want a lawyer. Call the public defender and I’ll talk to him.” So he looked unhappy but he left, and right away the lawyer came. I mean, he must have been practically lurking around on the street outside! He said he was Trevor Rosen—“call me Trevor”--and who was I and so on and so forth. So half an hour later, I’d explained what I did and that I did it because I wanted to get back at Professor Werner and keep him from harming other students as he’d harmed me, by giving me that grade, which was completely undeserved, because I’d worked so hard in that class, but I guess the only thing I could do now was confess to my crimes and take the penalty.

He gave me a sorta funny look, like “What’s this kid trying to pull?”, but then he gave me this sneaky little look like, “This is easy money,” and just like Nick said, he suggested a plea bargain, and I said, “What will happen to me if I agree to that?” and he said, “I think I can get it down to three years to Life.” So I said, “Life!” like I’d never heard about that before, and he explained how it was an indeterminate sentence, etc. I kept nodding and at the end I said OK, should I write a confession? And he said, yeah, Jonah, and he gave me some paper and a pen and said he’d go talk to the assistant DA and see what he could do for me, and “be sure to date the document.”

So I sat at the table and wrote some bullshit statement that had all my crimes in it, and when he came back he was lookin all relieved and shit and told me that he was happy to say that he’d been able to negotiate the deal with the assistant DA and now all I had to do was tell the assistant DA what I’d told him, and also give him my confession. So I said OK, in this really bored hoodlum way, because now I WAS really a hoodlum and I WAS really bored!

When Trevor came back, a guy in a suit was with him, who reminded me of my brother, except that he was even more serious serious serious, and he said, “Mr. Cook, this conversation is being recorded,” and he read me my rights in that serious way and sat down and looked at my statement. Then he asked me a couple questions, just getting me to repeat what I wrote. This time I was more careful not to seem happy or whatever, so he wouldn’t think I was crazy, and I tried not to seem really over the top angry and babbly either, also so he wouldn’t think I was crazy. Last thing I wanted was to be sent to some mental place!!! Then he showed me a picture of the blackboard and what I wrote on it, and he asked me if I did that, and I looked ashamed and confessed again that I did. So he went out with Trevor again. I knew they were just chatting, and not about me, cuz of what Nick said about the sentencing laws being so definite anyhow. They took a few minutes, I don’t know how long cuz they got my cellphone when they arrested me, and then they came back again and the guy in the suit said, “Mr. Cook, Tre- . . . Mr. Rosen here has convinced me to drop all the misdemeanor charges that follow from your actions, but I cannot consider dropping the felony charges, which consist of one count each of breaking and entering, class 2 vandalism, theft of property valued at greater than $2000, malicious destruction of property valued at greater than $2000, resisting arrest, assault on a peace officer, and terroristic action. I have agreed, in consultation with Mr. Rosen, to request from the court, in consideration of your confession to these acts, a sentence of three years to Life, to be served in a correctional institution appropriate to your offence and age. Do you agree to this plea and consequence?”

I tried to look as serious as he did, and I gulped and said, “Fuck! I mean . . . Wow! Life in prison?! I’m only 20! And today is my birthday!”

“Oh,” he said, pulling out my driver’s license, which they’d also got when they were searching me. “Yeah, it is your birthday.”

“I put it in my confession, too.” I couldn’t resist adding that! I mean, the guy didn’t actually READ my confession!

Of course he didn’t pay any attention to what I said, either. He just started off on a long explanation of “the state’s sentencing matrix,” which I had to seem interested in, although Nick had already explained it. That went on and on, but eventually it ended with, “but I’d expect you’re more likely to serve three years than life.”

“Whew!” I said. “That’s still pretty . . . . That’s still a lot! But yeah, I guess I . . . yes, I agree.”

“Very well. The judge will see you in a few minutes.”

So they both left, and I knew from their smell that there must be a cigarette break involved. Except that Trevor said he’d call a bail bondsman to show up when the judge said how much the bail would be. He also said, should he call my parents, and I said I’d take care of that later.

So then he was out the door, and I was sitting in the room, thinking, this is so easy! It’s much easier than trying to get an internship! Let alone a scholarship, like my dad and my brother always wanted me to spend my time applying for. But soon after that, I had my interview with the judge. I naturally thought they’d take me to a courtroom, but I guess nothing like that happens on a Sunday, it’s all done by TV. They took me down the hall to a room with a bunch of chairs and a big TV on one wall, but it was just me and the public defender and the assistant DA, who by now was smelling more like a cigar than a cigarette. Maybe he was celebrating! And the judge, who came on looking like this is what he did for retirement income, because he was about 80 years old and he wasn’t wearing any robes or anything, just a shirt and tie. Pretty cheap, eh!

The judge said he’d “reviewed” my confession and asked me whether that was my own, true, and unforced statement, and I said yes, and then there was a bunch of other legal stuff between him and Trevor and the ADA, and he said that bail was $1500 and I was scheduled to appear for sentencing on Monday, January 25, at 9 a.m. “I feel I should advise you, Mr. Cook, that you should be prepared to be taken into custody immediately after sentence, so this would be a good time for you to get your affairs in order. Do you understand, Mr. Cook?” He was looking off to the side, like there was something on another TV that he was trying to keep up with. “Yes, Your Honor,” I said. Then the screen went blank.

So all that was good. It was exactly the way Nick said. The next part was just shaking hands with my public defender, who said he’d meet me at the courthouse at 8:45 on the 25th, and if I had any questions, to make sure and call him, and he left. Then I had to talk to the man from the bail bond office, who had too many tatts—I know, sometimes they’re hot, but not when they’re all over you, and you’re takin somebody’s money. He was surprised that I had the $150 on me. I said, “It’s a pleasure,” and he gave me a screwy look, which I deserved, but I couldn’t help myself. So now I’d been bailed out, and I thought maybe this was when they’d let me leave, but a cop came over and said that I needed “to go through the ID unit.” Huh?

I should have known I was missing something--a lotta things that I’d seen in movies! Like having my fingerprints taken. Interesting, cuz all you do is just put your hands on a piece of plastic, and a light goes on, and that’s it, “you’re in the system.” That’s what the cop told me. “You’re in the system, Mr. Cook.” Whoa! That was the best feeling all day, even better than dropping that delicate piece of whatever it was on the floor. I didn’t just feel excited anymore; I felt secure. Even more when I got to have my mugshots taken. They stand you against a blue background, and I thought, why blue? Maybe it makes the inner Jonah come out clearer! The cop who did it was this old guy, maybe 50, and he was treating me OK. Actually, none of the downtown cops acted any particular way to me. Sort of like, “so what, we arrest these kids.” But this one was being nice and calling me Mr. Cook all the time, so when he stood me against the wall with those height numbers on it—you know, saying how tall you are--I said, “Do you just wanta take my picture cuz I’m a blond?” OK, that was going too far. After that he just said “turn right, turn left,” and so on. But now my pictures were in the system too!

Then it was just filling out papers, about health and so on—you know, like how I got pneumonia that one winter when I was runnin cross country. Wasn’t much to fill out, cuz I’m only 20, but it showed that from now on they were gonna be takin care of me. Great feeling! The last thing was, they wanted my signature on this big long form with all kinds of sections and paragraphs, and at the bottom there were some blanks filled in and it said “You are ordered to appear at”:

SUPERIOR COURT

341 N. First Street

Monday, January 25, 2021

9:00 A.M.

It was sort of fun, because it had all this stuff about “failure to appear at the designated time and place will be considered a felony violation and result in forfeiture of bail and the imposition of additional legal penalties.” Like, I wouldn’t show up for my free ride to prison?

“You’ll be given a copy,” the old cop said, and I stopped reading. He was getting impatient. “THERE,” he said, planting a finger on the bottom, “is where you show up for your sentencing. And THERE,” same finger, going to a row of numbers stamped on the top, “is your case number. Have that with you when you come to court.” He looked at me, and I could see he was pissed off. Maybe it was because I was keeping him from going to the restroom. Maybe it was because of my blond remark. “You’ll get your convict number when you get to your correctional facility.”

Fuck! I’d forgot all about that! Nick was wearing a convict number—and so would I!

“Where do I sign?”

He showed me.

“Thank you sir,” I said, with great sincerity. “Anything else sir?”

He looked at me like, “is this kid being sarcastic?”

“That’s it. Free to go. For now. Take your stuff.” He shoved a tray at me, with my copy of the form in it and my wallet and my cell phone and my driver’s license and my credit cards and my student ID and my keys and my change. Even my change. Fuck, you have to carry a lotta stuff around! When you’re not in prison!

I left, I was down the steps, I was out on the street, walking back to liberate my bike from the Engineering Building. It really takes a long time, committing crimes and being arrested and arranging your travel to prison. The sky was darkening fast and the lights were on in those little stores and coffee shops and pizza joints around campus. They were all full of students my age. A lot of them looked like they were trying to celebrate something, if they could think of something to celebrate. I could have been like that tonight! But now I actually had something to celebrate, and it wasn’t my birthday.

Back at the Engine Building, there was some yellow tape around the entrance, and some students standing around, talking about what I did. Or whatever they thought I did. Sheep, all right. I hung out and listened for a while—“he just broke in and started smashing things!”—and then I got on my bike and grabbed some pizza for back in my room. Yeah, I love the stuff, and maybe I won’t get very much of it from now on! Obviously, my dick was about ready to burst, but I kept remembering that I had something I needed to do before I was free. I had to call my dad.

No point in writing it all down. It was lots worse and lots better than I expected. I started by thanking him for the birthday card he sent me and then went on to what just happened. I knew he was gonna guilt me and probably yell at me and talk about everything he’d sacrificed for me and why would I behave that way when I was never brought up that way. He did all those things, but he also did this other thing, which was saying, “I’ll call your mother.” Which I thought was because it would give him a reason to guilt her about the divorce causing all this stuff to happen with me—which was bullshit, of course, but if he was gonna take care of calling her, I wasn’t gonna object.

But here’s the best thing. He hung up on me. He said something like, “You aren’t my son anymore,” and he hung up. It’s possible I got that line from a movie or something, but I think that’s what he said. I was having trouble listening to him because, you know, he was giving me so much pain. Also because he was bringing up all those things I wanted to say but I felt guilty about saying, like, “You never cared about me.” Which I guess lots of kids feel. So why say it? So now I didn’t need to. And now I knew I didn’t need to worry about him interfering or coming to the sentencing or whatever. I could tell he was happy about one thing: I’d paid the bondsman myself.

So fuck! Talk about gettin free! Talk about a great birthday! Then the only problem was, I didn’t wanta cum right away; I wanted to enjoy the whole night! I warmed up my pizza and I ate it, and then I laid down on the bed and put one hand on my laptop and the other one in my shorts. I went through my usual porno sites, but they’re always short on Prison. Or what they have is so faked. I’d visited the D.O.C., like I said, but I never found anything very . . . stimulating. OK, so what about the local jail? Might as well find out more about where I’d been—and where I was going, if there was any delay about gettin me out to prison. So I searched “county sheriff jail.” Didn’t look like much--until I saw there was an option for INMATE SEARCH. Might as well . . . . And I saw that, WOW! there’s a list of everybody who’s checked into the jail, and his mugshots, and the latest one is ME!

My mugshots!

Incredible! Even more incredible: I like the way I look! I look like a college kid, but I don’t look like a college kid that accidentally got in trouble. I look like a criminal. Good thing I wore my hoodie! It looks so dumb, and when you’re having your mugshots done, it isn’t up over your head or anything, but you can see what it is, and it makes you look sort of low-down and outlaw. But that long fuckin hair—THAT makes me look like a stupid student, for sure. The same dopey expression. The same cow eyes. Which is great! Because all that is about to go. Fuck! I couldn’t resist anymore. Another fantastic cum! About me, this time!

Chapter 19: I Finally Get What I Deserve

So OK, what do I have to report about the next week?

Monday morning, my brother called--big surprise! Said he was sorry about “Dad,” meaning HIS dad, and he guessed that he would be “taking over” from now on. Which sounded pretty ominous, but what he meant was, Dad wouldn’t be calling me or anything—hallelujah! I’d had enough of “Dad”—so HE, my brother, would, and he said he’d be at my sentencing and did I need anything else from him?

So at least he was asking. I told him I didn’t want anybody with me then, thanks very much, so he said what do you want besides that? So I thought, and I said, “I gotta get rid of my stuff. Can you come over here and pick it up?”

Cuz, I’d been thinking, I’ll just leave it here, what the fuck? But since he was being reasonable on the phone, I said maybe he could come over the day after my sentencing and pick up my stuff-- Dad has the key to my place. So he said yes, and he said he was sorry things didn’t turn out better but he was always there for me and so forth. So that was a good way to end the relationship. I mean, he was actually being helpful for once.

The rest of the time, frankly, I just spent jerkin. One thing I thought, maybe I should eat a lotta ice cream, cuz I know I won’t get that in prison. So I went to this big expensive ice cream shop that all the rich kids go to, and I ordered the best thing on their menu, which was layers and layers of ice cream and chocolate and so forth and so on, and I was sitting there by myself, in my hoodie, slurpin it down, with all the expensive girls and girlfriends and boys and boyfriends lookin at me, like “what?” So I was glad I did that, although it wasn’t a good idea, cuz I was goin to the toilet all night afterwards!

Biggest thrill, of course, was counting down the days. And finally there’s zero days left, and tomorrow I’ve got my orders to appear in court.

I didn’t have much stuff, but I did what I could to make it easy for my brother. I mean, I hated his wife and kids, but he was being a brother to me right now, so, instead of just leaving it all the way it was, I went to the back of the supermarket and I got some boxes and I packed most of my stuff up in there. I mean clothes and books and things like that. Engineering students don’t read books; they just do problems, so there wasn’t a lot of stuff with bindings except those big heavy expensive Engine texts. I left those out in the open so my brother could sell them if he wanted to. Something to remember me by—the money!

Clothes? Not many, either. Then there was some kitchen stuff, but I figured he could deal with that. Only other thing, my computer and my laptop and so on. Computer was just an old hand-me-down, and I wiped it right away. So good luck with that, bro. Laptop, more recent. Kept that till the end, cuz I had lotsa great guys on it. Too bad! Seven in the morning of January 25, all wiped! Right after my last civilian jerk! Ah!

Shower—yeah, my hair is WAY scraggly! Guess they’ll do something about that in the next few hours! In the meantime, just tryin to get everything clean. Haven’t shaved in the past few days, so I coulda gone for that hipster look, but that was just me bein lazy. New blade in the shaver and voila!--as innocent as a newborn baby! I do like the clean look. Now about clothes for today . . . .

Goes without saying, I’m wearing my best shorts—CK’s, dark blue, a size too small, so my junk shows. OK, I know they’re just gonna take em off of me, but I want to show up lookin my best. So what’s my best? I laid out two kinds of clothes. Well, they weren’t totally different, since I had to wear my parka, no matter what. It’s my only actual winter gear--and looking out, I see it snowed last night. But the parka’s just the outside. Under that, what?

One set of clothes--jeans and a gray tee, and a college baseball cap. And my sneaks. College boy outfit.

The other set of clothes—my nice slacks (khaki), my dress shirt (teal), my dress shoes (LaFarge). The outfit I was planning to wear if I got an interview for one of those internships. But no tie! That would be overkill. No cap, either. That would be underkill. I guess they call this business casual!

OK, which? Hard decision, but I opted business casual. Seemed like a good choice for your first day in a new job. Cuz that’s what prison is! I finally got a permanent job, and I don’t wanta blow it (LOL!). I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Nice lookin dude! Woulda made a good office slave.

But now it’s time to go. Can’t be late for my date with prison! Not to mention Nick! I notice I said him second--a good sign. No more Brens in my life. I want a life, not a boyfriend. I also want a boyfriend! But prison is more than just one guy. And that’s what I’m goin for today. The whole package—for once!

That’s what I’m thinking as I hop on my bike and ride happily through the streets. I even smile at a guy that almost doored me. There’s always lotsa bike racks in a college town, even next to the Justice Center, so it’s easy to find a place to lock up my bike and say goodbye to it. It’s been a good bike, and now somebody else can have it. Some criminal who’s willing to cut off the lock!

But fuck! For a little town, this Center thing is big! Lotta big useless lobbies. I don’t mind all the marble, but from an engineering point of view . . . . Oh well. I’m just here to find the courtroom where I’m gonna be sent to prison. Also to find my lawyer. “My” lawyer—ha! But there he is, sittin on his can on a line of benches outside the courtroom, staring at his cell phone.

“Oh hey,” he says, “uh . . . . ”

“I’m Jonah.”

“Of course you are. Sorry about that.” Then he justifies his existence by telling me a lotta useless stuff about what happens in court.

“So what do you want me to do?” I ask.

“You? Just stand there. Say yes to everything.”

“OK. I will.”

This time I get to be in a real courtroom, although it isn’t as big as they are in movies, and you can tell it’s all wood veneer--not a bit of real wood. There’s a lot of people already seated. In fact, there’s people in the jury box! “I didn’t think this would be a jury trial!” I say.

“Oh,” Trevor says. “Sorry. Shoulda told you. Way they do this, there’s a trial goin on, and they always wanta get the jury in place right away, make sure they’re all here, but then they bring you in for a couple minutes, get you sentenced, and go on with the trial.”

“Oh.”

“Saves time. Soon as the judge gets here, you’ll be on your way.” He stops. “Sorry, Jonah. No offense.”

“Nope.”

I agreed with the guy, despite his being a total asshole. I just wanted to be on my way. But I didn’t have to talk with him for very long. Just like on TV, the judge came in and everybody stood up, and things started happening. The judge was a middle-aged guy that looked like a lot of those people I used to caddy for. He turned to the jurors and said, “Before we proceed and the parties come in, we’ll just expedite a couple of sentencings we have here today . . . . Counsel for defendant Hayes?”

So hmm! That wasn’t me. It was another young guy. This guy stood up with his lawyer and “approached the bench.” The judge took about an hour (that’s the way it seemed to me! actually it was a couple minutes or so) to shuffle through some papers. Then he said, “Defendant Hayes, I have reviewed your confession and am prepared to pass sentence. Do you have any statement to make before I do?”

Defendant Hayes looked like he’d be a pretty hot dude, if he wasn’t wearing a suit and so on. He had “frat boy” written all over him, but--nice shoulders and ass! His lawyer nodded at him, and the guy started talking. He was like a machine that needed to be turned on.

“Your Honor,” he said, “I feel that my confession . . . uh . . . says it all. I mean . . . . I take full responsibility for my bad decisions. I was, uh, intoxicated that night. I should never have been driving. The injuries . . . . ”

“Resulting from,” his lawyer said.

“The injuries resulting from the accident. I caused. My actions are something I will always regret. I hope you will allow me to make up for my . . . bad decisions while, uh, completing my education, Your Honor. Thank you your Honor.”

“Mr. Hayes,” the judge said, “I have heard your statement. Justice demands, however, that your conduct be punished according to the laws of the state. Therefore, Clayton Jefferson Hayes, I hereby sentence you to the term of five years to Life in prison, to be served in an appropriate facility of the state Department of Corrections. Bailiff.”

Clayton Hayes staggered and started to sit down. But before his ass got to the chair, a guy in uniform came over and said something to him in a low voice, which must have been “turn around,” because he did, and the guy pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed them. Then his lawyer said something to him, which was probly “goodbye,” and the guy in uniform took him out through a little door beside the judge’s bench. The judge didn’t look; he just kept scribbling on something. Then he said, “Next case,” and that was me.

My lawyer stood up, and I stood up beside him. The judge was obviously doing a speed read of my documents. Then I heard, “Defendant Cook, I have reviewed your confession and am prepared to pass sentence. Do you have any statement to make before I do?”

“No,” I said—my voice cracking. I cleared my throat. “No, Your Honor.”

“In that case,” the judge said, making some kind of note on something he had on his desk, “Jonah Holden Cook, I hereby sentence you to the term of three years to Life in prison, to be served in an appropriate facility of the state Department of Corrections. Bailiff.”

“See you, Jonah,” my lawyer said, and before I could answer he disappeared up the aisle. The bailiff was coming for me. From “turn around” to “come with me” took only a few seconds. I was handcuffed behind my back and pointed towards the little door. I looked at the judge, who kept on writing whatever he was writing. Then I looked at the jury. They had nothing else to do, so they stared back at me. They were watching--from a mile away. I’d left their world. And now I was going to another one.

hi I’m jonah

By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 20: Follow Me to Prison

The door at the back of the courtroom led to some hallways, one after the other. It was interesting to see how they changed, especially if you’re like me, always looking at the way things are built. At the start you got the wood veneer treatment—I know, I keep bringing that up, but I really hate that stuff. I mean if you have to fake it, why do it so everybody can see that it’s faked? Anyway, after that there was wall board (usual stuff), then concrete, then a lot of gray tile, the kind of tile you see in a restroom or something, then tile on one side and bars on the other, floor to ceiling, and that’s where I was going.

“Face the bars, kid,” the bailiff said. “Hands on your head.” When I faced the bars I was looking into the little room on the other side of them. It was a cell (of course!) and it was all made of tile--walls, floor, ceiling. There was a bench on the side facing the bars, and Hayes was sitting on the bench. I don’t know if he was watching me, cuz there was a big thing going on with the bailiff rubbing his hands up and down my body and going into my pockets and taking everything out. He fished out my wallet and my phone and my keys and everything, and he dropped all my stuff in a big brown envelope. Then he got the cell open, and he told me to “walk in” and put my arms through “the slot.”

Slot? What he meant was, there’s a little gap in the bars, and once you’re inside you can turn around and push your arms through the gap and he can take off your cuffs. Good engineering. But I was so involved with finding the hole and so on—it’s sort of like the first time you have sex!—that I wasn’t even thinking: I’m locked in a cell! But once the cuffs were off and the bailiff was walking back to the courtroom, I had nothing to do except think about that. I’M LOCKED IN A CELL. I’M LOCKED IN A CELL! I mean, I’d spent all that time planning and looking forward and feeling anxious that maybe it wouldn’t happen, and now it had happened! When I was arrested I was locked in that questioning room or whatever, but that wasn’t the kind of place where I wanted to spend any time. It was just a place where maybe you could talk your way out of it. But this cell was even better than I thought it would be. Nothing says “You’re locked up for good” any better than your first look around the kind of cell they put me in. Everything’s either steel or that ugly gray tile, which you know has concrete on the other side of it. There’s no way you’re talking your way out of this. And if you’re wondering how long you’re gonna be in there, the answer was that weird thing in the front corner, next to the bars, which was a little steel toilet! I’d never seen one of those things before, and I was really impressed. No tank or anything, just a steel seat, but when I say “seat” I don’t mean there was the usual ass-shaped “toilet seat.” Oh no. If you want to sit on it, you’ve gotta put your ass on the toilet itself. Quite something for a middle class boy to see for the first time! But it meant I was there for the long haul. They weren’t just puttin me in to wait and see if the judge changed his mind that morning.

So yeah, I wasn’t just looking forward to bein locked up—I WAS locked up!

At first I didn’t pay much attention to the other guy in the cell, but after you look at the toilet and go to the bars and grab them and yeah, they don’t move! then you start looking at the other dude, who’s sitting over there on the bench in his nice suit, head in his hands. When the cell door slammed behind me, his head jerked up, but now he was back in the Well of Sorrow. Bad thing was, the cell wasn’t enormous (I guess cell’s aren’t!); it was just big enough so if I sat down a ways off from him, he’d think I was avoiding him, but if I sat down next to him, I’d be invading his space. Then I thought, we’re in jail—it’s not his space to begin with. Besides, I felt happy and I wanted somebody to talk to.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Jonah.”

He gave me this bleary eyed look, and I could see he’d been crying. Interesting—I’d never had a frat guy like that even look at me, much less radiate any weakness into my surround. More interesting—my dick got hard! It did! It was pity! I got hard because he was a hot dude and now I, Jonah, was this big pitying presence. So that was something to know.

“I’m Clay,” he said. “Wish I could say I was glad to meet you or somethin.”

“Listen,” I said, “it isn’t the end of the world.” Jonah Cook, master of clichés.

“Dude,” he said--looking at me with his big BEAUTIFUL wet brown eyes--“he gave me five years to LIFE!”

God, these guys are hot when they’re like this! I never knew. I was tempted to say something like, “Yeah, bad for you dude, you’re gonna spend the rest of your fuckin life behind bars!” And point at the bars!

But no, I couldn’t do that. Which was kind of sad, but yeah. I just said, “Look, you probly won’t serve more than five years. If you’re good.” I couldn’t resist putting that in. After all, what did a frat boy ever do for me?

“Might as well be life,” he muttered. “It’s the end of everything. College. Business school. Jobs. I had a fuckin great internship already lined up—in Amsterdam! My dad’s partner got it for me. Now he hates me. Even the guys in the frat hate me. All this shame I brought on them.”

“What happened. What did you . . . ?”

“What did I do? Oh man, you’re just like all the resta them.”

OK, so I moved to the other side of the cell, and I just sat there, feeling weird, like you do when you realize that somebody suddenly doesn’t want you around. Like I cared, really, but . . . . I wished it had turned out different. Maybe if I’d been better with words or something. But nah! I was goin to prison, why should I worry about shit like that?

But I did feel strange because, sitting there on the bench, I felt like I was missing something. I mean something I should have had on me. It was like, “I’m missing something. What did I forget?” Then I realized—this is because I don’t have my phone or my wallet or anything! And that was almost the first time I ever felt that way, cuz I’m so careful, I always take my stuff with me, and I always keep my phone charged too. Just in case. But now I didn’t need to do that anymore! So I stopped feeling like I was . . . not complete. Even though I did wonder if I’d ever text anybody again . . . . Or surf the net . . . . Or sit around waiting to see if Brendan texted me back! So that was OK! I could do without that!

Maybe I’m just a slow thinker, but this stuff took a while. Then the bailiff came down the hall with another guy, who I recognized by the uniform was a regular cop, like the ones that arrested me.

“Just these two?” the cop said, looking at some papers he had in his hand.

“Yeah,” the bailiff said. “That’s all for today.”

“OK,” the cop said. “Feed em first, then I’ll run em out to Glen River.”

My heart leaped! Glen River! Uncle Louie did his job! It was all coming true!

“Pretty late breakfast,” the bailiff said. “Why bother?”

“Usual bullshit,” the cop shrugged. “They claim it’s a state reg. Ask me, just a way to make us pay for their feed.“

And they walked on.

I couldn’t resist. “Hey!” I said. “We’re goin to Glen River!”

Clay looked back at me. Still bleary eyed. “Huh?”

“The prison they’re sending us to . . . . It’s called the Glen River Unit. It’s about 20 miles from town. We’ll be there right away!”

“They’re sending us to prison? NOW?” It was like he was saying, “Open heart surgery?! Today?!! I’m not even sick!!!”

But I’m starting to worry, like I did before--maybe I should start acting unhappy or something, so they don’t think I’m nuts. I just want to be locked up, not have a buncha shrinks let loose on me! So when one of those cops comes by and—speaking of breakfast--pushes some food through the bars (“Here--you gotta long day comin”)--I look at it and say, “That all you got?” He gives me a dirty look and walks away. But OK, he thinks I hate the food, so now I’m normal.

Actually, the food was OK. A bottle of water and this sort of little sandwich thing with egg in it and some ham. Cold. Anyway, I enjoyed it. Clay was looking like, “I shouldn’t be forced to eat this garbage. But I’m hungry, so I will.” He was sitting on the bench, stuffing it down.

About when we were finished, the cop showed up again. “All right, put your garbage in the trash. Here’s the trash bag.” He pushed a plastic bag through the bars. “You need to use the can, this is the time.”

“Whadda ya mean?” Clay said. “Time for what?”

The cop looked at him like, you’re stupider than anybody I ever imagined I could possibly meet. “Time to take your ass to prison, DUDE. Car will be here in ten.” He huffed off.

I like things clean, so I dropped the water bottle and the wrappers from the sandwich thing in the little plastic bag. Then I looked at the toilet. I was glad I didn’t have to shit. I didn’t actually have to piss, either, but hey, piss at every opportunity! So I whizzed out my junk. Usually I’m a LITTLE bit piss shy, like you know, and this time it was weird, cuz there was no place to turn. I mean, one side is totally bars, and any of those cops could come wandering along and just watch you while you’re pissing, and the other side was Clay. Which would be really intimidating—big handsome rich frat boy like that—IF I wasn’t the one that was on top of this situation! I mean, I was the one that wanted to be here, and he was the one that was sniveling away on the bench. So it was, like, really fun to get the piss started without the usual fuck-I-wish-I-was-alone feeling that I always got in the locker room, and just sort of let him see how a real criminal dude does things.

I can’t say he seemed appreciative. When I was through he just sort of stood up and shambled over and kept not-looking my way while his piss splattered into the can. Makes quite a sound, too, when the can’s made of steel! Guy must have been wincing every second, listening to all that jail piss banging around in there. And then they came to get us.

There were two cops, both of them sort of young and sort of beefy—like next week they’re gonna be “overweight” and the week after that they’re gonna be “fat.” They pulled us out of the cell and had us kneel on this steel bench that ran along the opposite wall. Which wasn’t easy, by the way, because when did I ever do that before—kneel on a bench? And that bench wasn’t exactly easy on your knees. Although they did tell us to put our arms up and our palms on the wall, so that steadied us. Then they came along behind and locked up our legs. Literally! They put big things like handcuffs on our ankles, and when we heard them click, we knew they were locked on. Cold, too, because they were locked right onto our ankles, not onto our pants. Then they told us to get off the bench—and that was lots harder than getting onto it, because you found out there was a little short length of chain between your legs, so you couldn’t just put one foot on the floor and then the other, you had to sort of slide your way off, and actually while we were doing that the cops had to put out their arms to make sure nobody broke his neck. Not exactly a love hug, though!

After that, they made us stand side by side and they put a handcuff on my left wrist and a handcuff on Clay’s right wrist, and now we were cuffed together! I guess that meant they weren’t afraid of us lashing out with our other two big strong arms and beating them up and running away. They could tell that Clay and I weren’t up to that. It would probably take months of planning for somebody like Clay to coordinate anything with somebody like me. Naturally, I was glad I didn’t have BOTH of my hands in cuffs, just so I could itch my nose if I wanted to. And it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to be cuffed to a hot dude like Clay, although he clearly didn’t feel the same as I did. As soon as they started puttin those cuffs on us he started draggin his hand away. But it was too late—his hand was caught in the cuff and the cuff clicked shut and that was the end of that. We were a couple!

“There’s the door,” one of the cops said, pointing way down the hall, where there was a little door with EXIT on top of it. “Walk.”

So Clay and I started down the hall. Hard to keep your mind on anything except learning to walk with your legs chained together and your arm locked to another guy’s arm. You just try to shuffle along, and not shuffle faster or slower than the other dude. I know that was hard for Clay, because he was doing his best to be the innocent young man that was like, forced to breathe the same air as trash like me. He seemed to be trying to jerk his body up straight to show that he still had dignity, despite the shuffle shuffle shuffle that his feet were making in those shackles. But speaking of body language, you could tell that the cops weren’t thrilled to be taking this little morning stroll with us. Pretty clear they were tired of us (already?!) and just wanted us to hurry it up and get it over. But we couldn’t, so they hovered along beside us, making grumpy little moves. One of them stopped pretending to be real and started checking his phone.

So shuffle shuffle shuffle clank clank clank, we get to the end of the hallway, and one of the cops unlocks the door—which isn’t really little, it just looked that way from a distance, duh! Also it’s made out of steel, and it’s thick, so it takes him a while to get it started and swing it back. But then we see, this is the door to the outside! There’s a rush of sunlight and cold and noises from the street--which seems like it’s a long way off, but at least somebody got the snow off the path. Then it’s down a ramp to a sidewalk, then along the sidewalk to the other side of that little flat lawn that you always see around government buildings, even the jail. Although this morning it’s white instead of green, because of the snow. Then across the sidewalk beside the street, and you see there’s a cop car waiting at the curb—and it’s just for you! To take you to prison!

So this is all downtown, and there’s quite a few people on the street, and the cops get all tall and official and gesturing for the pedestrians to stand back, cuz naturally people are really curious to look at two guys chained to each other, waddling along and clanking. Of course Clay is bowing his head and trying to hide, which he can’t, but it’s too bad he tried, because he really was a hot, handsome guy and when did I ever get the chance to be chained up to a guy like that, and maybe I could be on the 11 o’clock news with him if he’d just stop being such a pussy! I was actually looking around, hoping to see a camera or at least some people I’d known before, so they could see what a dangerous criminal I’d turned out to be--paraded around on the street, attached to another big handsome criminal. Too bad, there wasn’t anybody I recognized, but I did enjoy the cops clearing the way for us, and the looks on people’s faces. Fun to watch them showing Contempt and Fear. Some of them looked like Clay and me were about to get loose and run around HURTING them. That’s what they cared about—not gettin HURT. Or havin a cop yell at them for being in the way. But the on