Lotta bullshit

The following is an excerpt from Part One:



I end as abruptly as I had started. Immediately rolling my eyes upward, my chin drops and mouth opens slightly, as if to say Where did that come from? I know, and he knows too, that it is pent-up frustration. I look at him squarely, announcing, “My name’s Raymond.”



“I’m José. It’s with a J.” He smiles and winces slightly. With a little nod, he leaps onto the upper bunk, rolling lazily onto his back with his hands behind his head.



“That sucks men,” he says softly. “Once I had a cousin who was pissed at me for somethin’ an’ he started screamin’ that I molested him. Finally though, he tole his mother the truth. But damn, I was mad at hin for a lawn tine after that.”



I just stare out the window. In no time I hear the grumbling of easy afternoon snores emanating from my new compadré. Up until now I had chosen not to communicate with anyone, other than for mundane topics such as “I’m looking for the hospital,” or “Anyone wants my container of milk?” Many individuals have routinely approached me with the standard icebreaker, “Whadda ya in faw?” I usually retort, “Lotta bullshit,” attempting to avoid further interaction at all costs. If escaping interrogation is not automatic, I switch the subject as inconspicuously and graciously as possible. A theme like the weather often suffices.



I become adept at topic hopping. Soon I learn that introducing the ever popular, albeit stomach wrenching topic of prison food, provides a reliable exit into neutral territory. Reminiscing about the morning’s serving of cold clumps, aka oatmeal, or last night’s hockey puck supreme being passed off as a meatloaf usually does the trick. If not, I can rely on providing general descriptions about foreign objects found in the food. Hair is a favorite. Even better, the gut-curdling sight of swamp juice, oozing from under the kitchen door to the mess hall floor, definitely inspires a repulsed reaction. An effective encore theme is the slop-drenched woolen blankets, strategically tossed over forlorn spaces where mismatched tiles once adhered. The Exorcist-like, god-awful wretchedness conjures the desired reaction.