The Guard

“Rodriguez, lights out in five.” The guard stalks over to Rodriguez’s cell and raps on the bars. “Quit fuckin’ around, wouldja?”

Rodriguez scowls, flipping the guard off when he thinks his back is turned. But the guard sees. He always sees. It’s his job, after all. But he stays quiet-- one rude gesture isn’t worth it.

After completing his rounds, the guard ambles down the long, concrete hallway that ends in his office. He’s in no hurry-- after all, watching over a complex of sleeping inmates isn’t exactly a job that requires haste.

His chair gives an angry squeak as all his weight sinks down upon it: “over an eighth of a ton, darling,” as his ex-wife would remind him. Her heavy, nasally voice echoes around the silent security room. Boy, the things he could’ve said to her.

The guard takes a sip of the black, bitter liquid in the chipped mug, and, upon finding it dismally cold, winces and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a silver flask. Much better, the guard thinks.

The ancient computer system whirrs noisily as it comes to life, and the guard punches in his username (“dharris65”) and password (“password”). The six monitors in front of the guard flicker on lazily, and project grainy views of empty hallways. The guard presses a button to begin recording the security camera footage, leans back in his chair-- which creaks in protest-- and closes his eyes.

I spend my entire day around these assholes, the guard thinks. What kind of karmic bullshit is this?

He thinks of his best friend from high school, Grant Mullins. They had had the same childhood: wealthy, white, comfortable. But Grant Mullins, according to Facebook, now owns a multinational clothing company that manufactures sweatpants with the company logo printed on the ass (you know the type). And me? The guard scowls. I’m here, watching over a group of thugs who hardly deserve to live. Where’s the justice in that?

He recalls the last time he saw Grant Mullins, at a high school reunion some number of years ago-- time is so foggy these days, he remarks. There was him, with his ill-fitting sport coat and fist tightly clamped around a glass of wine. And there was Grant Mullins, debonair as always, smelling of cologne worth more than the guard’s yearly salary. He approached the guard, flashed his blindingly white smile, and greeted him as though no time had passed since their days of ditching calc class. You betrayed me, the guard thought. You were my friend. He gripped the wine glass so hard he was sure it would shatter. But, he put on a show. He smiled, chuckled, and joked around with Grant Mullins. The enemy. The greedy, rich, monstrously handsome son of a--

The guard’s eyes snap open. Enough of that. He takes a swig of the cold concoction in his mug, pushes the thin glasses up on his round nose, and sits up straight.

He glares at the pixelated jail cells. That one’s Jordan’s cell, he thinks. That bastard robbed a convenience store while holding the clerk at gunpoint. People like him shouldn’t even be in this country, the guard chuckled bitterly. Probably an illegal anyways. Boy, the things he’d like to say to Jordan. The guard leaned in close to the monitor, eyes locked on the image of Jordan’s cell. Boy, the things he’d like to do to Jordan.

Reluctantly, he tears his eyes away and allows them to refocus on another set of bars. Those belong to Osborne-- though both guards and inmates called him Snooze. That lazy son of a bitch, the guard thinks. Jail’s too good for him. Man deserves the electric chair-- no, worse. The guard’s eyes flashed with contempt. The things he could say to Snooze.

The guard whiles away the hours, glaring at each inmate and picturing in intimate detail what would happen were he allowed to dispense justice. When at last his shift draws to a close, the guard shuts down the computer system and, with effort, swivels his chair to look at the back wall of his office. It’s littered with superhero memorabilia-- Batman comics, Spiderman t-shirts, and a Sharpie-scribbled scrap of paper from when he met the Flash at Comic-Con.

The idea of a masked vigilante had always intrigued him-- aroused him, even. A man taking the law into his own hands, when the fumbling, floundering government failed to deliver justice. With absentee parents, the guard had been raised by comic books and television from childhood into his acne-ridden teen years. Superman taught him more than any brainwashed, mind-addled public school teacher had. These men, he thinks. These men are what America stands for.

Several days later, the guard has a morning shift. He walks the cold concrete halls, rapping on metal bars. “Wake up, ya sack of shit, c’mon now.” He passes Snooze’s cell, then Johnson’s, then Cole’s, sneering coldly at each. Finally, he reaches Rodriguez.

“Hey. Dimwit. Get up or I’ll find someone who’ll make you.”

Rodriguez, laying facedown on his bed, groaned.

“Rodriguez. Hey!”

Rodriguez made no comment, and the guard’s blood boiled. How dare he? Here I am, busting my ass at seven in the morning, and this asshole doesn’t even have the decency to answer me? Boy, the things I wish I could call him. The guard’s mouth works furiously as he swallows all the nasty comments bubbling up inside him.

“You better be up in five, or I’m calling the warden.”

The guard completes his rounds and, once the rest of the prisoners have been woken up and escorted out of their cells into the yard, returns to Rodriguez’s cell. He raps on the bars. No answer. He calls Rodgriguez’s name several times. Nothing.

At this point, the guard realizes something must be wrong. Rodriguez hasn’t moved an inch, and the guard can’t hear him snoring. Protocol dictates that he should call the infirmary and get him checked out, so the guard reaches for his walkie-talkie. But something stops him. This man, he thinks. This worthless bag of bones. My tax dollars go towards keeping this criminal alive. This is the Joker. And me? I am Batman.

Slowly, hardly moving at all, the guard retracts his hand from his belt. He pulls out the tablet used for tracking attendance, and double-taps Rodriguez’s name. Then the guard goes downstairs, enters the break room, and puts on a pot of coffee.