The Cellmate

      “What are you in for?”

           A long, skinny body relaxed on the flat twin mattress against the right wall. That left me to infer the unwelcoming mattress to the left was mine. I ignored my new slender roommate and walked over to the left. I let out a sigh and sat down on the bed to face the middle of the room. I took in the whole scene, which wasn’t much. Tiny tin sink. Tiny, stained mirror above it. Tiny tin toilet. Cold, hard floor. Cold, dark walls. Flat mattresses on metal frames bolted to the ground for safety. Taking in the grim living quarters, I felt a chill come over me and the simultaneous feeling of pity. This is how they really live in here? I shake the pity away. We all make choices. The other prisoners had made theirs and I had made mine. Which is why I was here now, in a prison cell. A choice I had made. I resume my visual search around the cell. I spot a few books on the tank of the toilet. I guess our new friend enjoys some leisurely reading. How nice for me. I take a better glance at the cell walls and corners, searching for something. Ah, there it was. Very top, right, front corner of the cell pointed to view the whole cell. A camera. I wink at it, as if to challenge whoever may be watching. I’m grateful the cellmate didn’t see me. I don’t want to come off too cocky so early into my sentence.

           “Helloooo?” The cellmate sits up from his reclining position, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor. His hands pressed firmly into the mattress on either side of him, appearing ready to lunge up at any point. I finally look over to him now and raise my eyebrows in response.

“I said ‘what are ya in for?’”

           I took my time to reply, debating what version of the truth I wanted to share. I decide to go for the version everyone should believe anyway.

           “Murder.” I say it simply and flatly. No emotion is better with these people is what I’ve heard. He cocks an eyebrow, studying my face, waiting. But I stare flatly back and he finally scoffs and returns to his lounging. I copy his posture and try to get comfortable on the flat bed, propping up an even flatter pillow under my head.

           “Hey, so could I borrow one of those books, maybe?” I speak with a more relaxed tone now. The cellmate looks over to me now, makes a thoughtful face, and finally nods. He springs up and walks the short distance to the toilet tank on the back wall centered behind our beds, grabs a dingy paperback and tosses it to me. I catch it effortlessly with a quick, “thanks!”

           I begin to pretend to read it.

           *

           Time ticks away slowly in here as I wait for the cellmate to bring up our offenses again. If he’s interested, he hasn’t hinted to it in weeks. Time has dragged through meal times, yard time, communal shower time, and everything in between. It’s phone call time when I finally resign to broaching the subject myself. The cellmate had come back from making a phone call, looking pretty happy with himself. As he plops onto his back, putting his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles in what I’ve come to learn is his usual way, I ask about the call.

           “Who’d ya use your call time for today?” Unlike his usual demeanor, he seems anything but suspicious of the question. He just smiles and shrugs. I dig a little more, curiosity finally getting the better of me.

           “A lady friend, perhaps?” This sparks a chuckle out of him at least.

           “Ha, no, not this time.” He shakes his head.

           “Ah, your mum then?”

           “No.” A little firmer than before. I try and read him.

           Finally, I offer, “Ah, well, had I been permitted, I would’ve called my old friend.” His gaze shifts to me, interest piqued.

           “An old lady friend?” He mocks.

           “Ha, no, none for me either, buddy.” I smile, reminiscently.

           “Oh. What kinda friend then? An old college mate?”

           “Eh, no, not exactly.”

           “A business partner?” He was getting impatient now. In the weeks leading up to now, I had divulged very little information about my own life. All the while, he had told me about his sisters, his deadbeat father, and an increasingly dull and simple mother. He had told me about the trouble he caused as a youth, the schools he went to, bragged about positions on the sports teams before he was kicked off for misconduct, among many other things. However, he still didn’t tell me what I was most interested in hearing. At the same token, I offered very little about myself and what was shared, unbeknownst to him, was fabricated.

           “Ha, one could call him that.” I teased. He sat up now, squirming to talk. On the edge of his bed, he leans forward and rocks side to side, getting a better look out the cell bars to see if anyone was nearby.

           “Was he your partner in crime?” He teases now, in a hushed tone, grin spreading across his face. I chuckle at this.

           “Well, depends what crime we’re talking ‘bout.” I say coolly.

           “Well, ya never really told me why you’re here.”

           “Didn’t I?” An eye roll, pointed at me.

           “Well, yeah, but not like, ya know…any details ‘bout it?” I sit up at the edge of my own bed now to face him. And in quiet whispers, I fabricate yet another story of this version of myself, just to satiate the cellmate. Just to gain his trust. I tell him an elaborate, yet believable, story of how my “partner” and I were driving down the interstate one day, bored out of our gourds. When, lucky us, we stumble upon a lovely lady with a flat. We stop, to presumably help her. My partner pretends to “take a look” at the tire for her, while I distract her. Then he comes up behind her and that’s when we threw her in our truck and carried on down the interstate. The rest of my gruesome story involves an abandoned barn and a sequence of events they couldn’t share on the tele, “on accounts of how horrid we left the little lady.” His eyes widen, but I can tell it’s because he’s not all that impressed with my story. Thankfully, it’s not because he doesn’t buy it.

           “That’s it?” He says. I hold my breath.

           “Well, I mean yeah. What were ya expecting?” He lets out a laugh, louder than he meant to. I sigh, relieved. He covers his mouth to stifle the laughter.

           “It’s just that, that’s not what I think of when I think of murder.” He says it in a chillingly casual tone.

           “I mean, we killed her, what else is there to murder?” Another laugh. This time, almost maniacal.

           “Well, for me and my partner, we started off doing that type of thing. Ya know, typical damsel in distress,” he flails his arms, miming womanly distress, “pretend you’re gonna help, but then take her somewhere and kill her. But there was always something… missing.”

           I play excited. “Ya know, I kinda got that feeling, too. I mean it was over so fast. Crazy to think of the time I’ll do in here for something that lasted barely an hour.” An eyeroll of my own this time.

           “Exactly!” He’s excited now, too. “I mean, what was the point? So we kinda…stepped things up a bit.” He studies me now, waiting for me to pry. And I do.

           “Well, what do ya mean? Like ya drove further away or took ‘em from more obvious places or somethin’?” He studies me again, the way one does when they wonder if they can finally trust someone enough to share their dark secrets with.

           “Well, ya know how y’all took yours to an abandoned barn?” I nod, genuinely intrigued. “Well, we found a place similar. A place we could keep ‘em.”

           I feign fascination. “But, like, for how long?”

           “As long as we wanted. Till we grew bored with ‘em I guess.” I shrugged and made a questioning face. He understood.

           “Then we’d kill ‘em.” I nodded, impressed, like he was the first genius to think of this crime. He started to settle on the bed, signaling the conversation was coming to a close. I played the curious student.

           “Okay, so where does one find a place like that?” He moved only his eyes in my direction, finally growing weary of the topic. More enthusiasm needed on my part. I scrunched further over the edge of my bed and whispered quieter, “I mean, it was hard enough for us to find this barn, we thought we’d won the jackpot, yeah?” The tension in his body loosened a bit. You could tell he was proud of what he’d done, of what they’d done. I don’t know who was itching to talk more: him or me.

           “Well, much like your barn, this place was off the interstate. My partner used to run the old mill, but it’s been since shut down and no one’s bought it up in years. Since he’s been the one in charge of selling and showing the place, we been able to get in and outta there whenever we want. For whatever we want.” He moves his eyebrows up and down.

           “Or whoever ya want, am I right?” I force a laugh. He laughs at my joke. More trust gained. Our laughter trails off but I still don’t let the conversation die down.

           “So it musta been pretty far off the interstate. It’s gotta be secluded enough, no one can hear ‘em scream, yeah?” I force another little chuckle and nod encouragingly, like the screaming part excites me as much as I’m sure it does him.

           “Well obviously, we’re not amateurs here like you and that buddy of yours,” he jokes, still smiling. That’s a good sign.

           “Man, I wish I coulda found you two guys instead. Ha! But me and my dumb partner both got caught and locked up, so our days of that are o’er I guess.” I sigh. He seems comforted by the idea that neither of us can steal his prime real estate because he continues on.

           “Yeah, I mean it is the perfect spot. Off the interstate, right at the city limits sign, there’s that one long road. Take it about fifteen minutes, then you find the old mill road. And well, ya know the rest.” He lies back now, relaxed, grinning, clearly pleased with himself. He lets out a long sigh. Gazing longingly at the ceiling, he finally says, “he’s still taking ‘em there. Wish it was me out there instead.”

           I just nod. And nod. I look up to the very top, right, front corner of the cell and keep nodding. The sign we agreed on when I first made the choice to come into this cell.

           A loud buzz startles the cellmate from his undeservingly relaxed position. The buzz only means that someone is entering. Or, in this case, leaving.

           “Got what ya need, Detective?”

           “Oh yeah, Linda, this guy’s a real chatterbox. Had to play the long game, but he eventually opened up,” I reply, standing up. Linda, a corrections officer I’ve known for the better part of two decades, laughs now. I join her. The cellmate jumps to his feet.

           “WHAT!” I ignore him and slam the cell door shut. I arch to stretch my back with my hand on the lower part.

           “Linda, you weren’t kidding, those beds are a nightmare.”

           “I tried to warn ya, Sir,” she quips.

           “You though,” I wag a finger at the cellmate who’s now gripping the bars on the door, clenching his teeth incredulously. “You better get used to it. And your partner, too, since he’s good as caught now.”