no room

           “Welcome to hell. This is hell.” Or it may as well be. It's prison. Oh, sorry. Not prison, death row. Visitors are allowed between two and three pm every other Thursday. The meals are cafeteria style. State regulated. Must be hypoallergenic (there goes salt and pepper), cooked to a certain temperature (in other words burnt and dry), and other fucking prison regulations. There are guards inside and outside and everyone here is going to die, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, unless we win our trials or can appeal. Tried that and failed. Goddamn it. Can go one court higher, but I'm sevety-five and tired of trying.  Hell, I'll be dead in a few years anyway. I can have anything I want for my last meal (anything's better than here anyway). Maybe I could eat some pussy and tits. Yeah, right. 

           Horn goes off. Room checks, required showers, VR bullshit. Why train us in careers if in a few years we'll be dead anyway, but have to participate or back to solitary confinement. Once, I was in solitary confinement for a month and lost it. We think we want to be alone quiet time, but we need company too. Trust me, bad company's better than no company. Learning computer tech bullshit. Bullshit because why will I need a computer after I'm fried? Doesn't make sense. There's TV, AC, nurses, the basic bullshit we need to keep us healthy so we can be fried. Doesn't make sense. Can write redacted letters and read redacted letters. Can contact attornies alone. If only they were shrinks. Need to get affairs in order. No, I need to have an affair. Horn goes off.  Shower time. Don't drop the soap. Want pussy, not dicks.  Clean orange suit and white underwear everyday. Does this make me look fat? Who gives a fuck? Can have books from limited library in prison. Kill time. Hard to read with TV in background until lights out. Then, can't read in the dark. Horn. Dress and go back to cell. Watch news, read, write, right? Breakfast after five minutes. Same shit. Scrambled eggs, soft waffles, sugary syrup. Wander what they give the diabetics? Who gives a shit? Horn, go back, they lock doors and we must brush our teeth. At least we don't have handcuffs in our cells. 

           Then, they pull me and Charlie, the guy three doors down from me and they seat us at both around a table which doesn't look like an interrigation room. It looks like the coffee break room. There's a pot of hot coffee, which doesn't make sense, since we could hurt them with hot coffee. Then, the warden offers us both a cup of coffee in a regular glass mug, which is weird since we all know either of us prisoners could burn the warden with the coffee of break the mug and turn it into a knife. Weird. The warden then explains a lot of bullshit about government regulations, prisoners, and space. I don't know what the fuck he's talking about and looking at Charlie, neither does he. So, after two hours of coffee, potty breaks, and bullshit, the warden gets to the fucking point. Both I and Charlie are old. More people have been arrested for murder lately and need to be put in maximum security prisons like this one, but there isn't enough room.

           “Great,” I say.  “So, one of us gets to move out and go back to our families?”

           The warden takes a pause and says, “Well, not exactly. See, we need more space and both of you are senior citizens on death row, so we're going to have to execute one of you through electricution, but we aren't sure which one yet.”

           Great, I'll probably need to call an attorney to see how to get Charlie fried instead of me or he'll do the same.

           “So, what we've decided to do, after talking to your families, is flip a coin.”

           You gotta be shitting me. I know there's always a camera on for security, but I look at the ceilings and there's no cameras in their break room.”

           “Which one of us'll call heads or tails, me or him?” Charlie asks.

           “Well, neither, actually. Your families and attornies already made that choice for you. Charlie's family chose tails and Rick's family chose heads.”

           “Ok,” I say. “Then why did you call us in here?”

           “So you could both witness the flipping of the coin. First, I have to let you both see it's a two-sided coin. Not double-heads or double-tails.”

           The warden shows us both sides of the quarter. Washington is on one side and the bald eagle is on the other. 

           “You both agree it's a real coin?”

           If either of us said no, would we both live? So I ask that.

           “No, we'd just have to have another guard come in here to verify that it's a two-sided coin.”

           We both agree, it's a two-sided coin.

           The warden makes a fist with his right hand and puts his thumb inside the first. The quarter is placed on the fist heads side up. Then, the warden's thumb goes up and it looks like a thumb's up. The quarter twirls in the air the way quarters do and it flips into the warden's left hand who makes a fist over the quarter and then slaps the quarter onto the back of his right hand. And there's a pause. Why? We can't change our minds from tails to heads or head to tails. We can't undo what the result of the toss is. 

           I take a sip of coffee. Real, smooth coffee. I will get my delicious last meal if it's me. A ribeye steak cooked ultra-rare, Baby Ray's BBQ sauce. Salt, pepper, seasoning. Steamed vegetables. Calf liver and red onions cooked brown. A real, dark beer in a glass mug. The food on a real plate. Hell, I'd be dead in a few years anyway. As the warden lifts his hand, I close my eyes because I'm scared. I don't care if it's me, but my instincts do. It's quiet. Is it me or Charlie who's getting the chair. I see nothing. I hear nothing but the air-conditioner fan in the background. I can't stand it. 

           I look across at Charlie who has his eyes closed. I look at the warden, who's eyes are closed too. Doesn't make sense. Why would the warden close his eyes? I look at the quarter and then I put my hand over my eyes and shut them. 

           It doesn't matter. Charlie or me, me or Charlie. We'll both be dead in a few years and it won't affect you, the reader, either way. Hell, you'll still live no matter which of us motherfuckers die. So, go flip a quarter and end the story anyway you want because you are the warden. You're the judge, jury, and executioner and you'll either like this story or not so who gives a fuck? Charlie, me, me, Charlie? Now, go flip an old fashioned fucking quarter.