Incarcerated Spaces - Dave Nash
He’s walking through the lot as fast as he can between, around, past extended-size F-150s and jacked up Silverados. Charles can smell the loamy soil down wind from the Mississippi; something in his blood, his grandfather perhaps, tells him he should prepare for spring planting, but instead he is headed inside, business calls. As a state agent Charles has no trouble with security, they save the pat down routine for visitors. The lieutenant on duty leads him through the disciplinary segregation wing to the scene. Disciplinary segregation meant solitary, but given the overcrowding situation Illinois faces, double celling has become the practice. Of course this one is empty now. Charles leaves his bag at the threshold; something in him doesn’t trust the double standard doors. Smaller than a parking space, the cell is decomposing, metal corroding, paint fading from cinder blocks colored like oxidized copper. Charles turns his gaze from the crumpled styrofoam containers of yesterday’s meal thrown into the corner closest to the toilet. That single piece of shiny metal with its tiny seat protruding and compact sink on top. This one has dents and creases that refract the dim light from the bulb housed overhead behind the plexiglass. “We thought they’d be a good match. They were of the same age and place.” This is the Land of Lincoln. The bottom bed was still made. “He’d just been transferred.” The new guy hadn’t slept. Guys like the lieutenant would point out that double celling has reduced self harm. Two men stuck here for almost twenty-fours hours a day, eating, sleeping, and defecating within feet of one another. What else would they do? These two might have started going at it as soon as that door slammed. What are you in for? Murder. Me too. So that makes us even. Nothing to lose. Fight or fuck - are the only ways out. The last check was at 9 PM. Let’s do this. How do you want it. The top bunk’s mattress flipped over as the walls and door stifled their grappling. With the bunks and the john and the shelves, they had less than eighteen inches to maneuver. The guy on top used his shoelaces. You’re stronger, but I’m meaner. There’s procedures to follow. Outside, he’ll breathe in the space between the damp slate sky and unending umber fields.
Originally published by Midwestern Heat 2023
Dave Nash (he/him) listens to jazz sampled by hip-hop hits while he types. Dave is the Non-Fiction Editor at Five South Magazine and he typed words that can (will) be found in places like Jake, Atlantic Northeast, South Florida Poetry Journal, Hooghly Review, miniMag, Roi Faineant Press, and Boats Against the Current. You can follow him @davenashlit1.
