1
The sound of footsteps far off. Heels hammered on the concrete floor ina martial rhythm.It was the chief guard making his last rounds.“All clear,” the watchtower reported.To reach this section, he would have to pass through two iron gates.I emerged from the quilt tightly wrapped around my shoulders and satup. In that position I felt the cold dawn air cut into my back. I took off the felt slippers I wore at night over thick wool socks, and then the capI’d made out of another sock. I put on my prison uniform stenciled withthe numbers of my building, my cell, my registration. 1444 had been my name for a long time. I’d almost forgotten my real one. When did they give it to me? At roll call, mail call, on work detail, when I had a visitoror was getting a penalty, it was always with that number, preceded or fol-lowed by an insult, that they conceded that I did exist.Standing on a low table, I pulled down the cardboard that, in viola-tion of the rules, shaded the fluorescent bulb that shone day and night.The prisoner had to be observed 24/7. Daylight never ended, daylightwith no sun. I’d torn apart a cardboard carton from ramen noodlepackets, covered it with writing paper, then attached it to the light fix-ture with sticky tape. I attached a broken chopstick to this shade to raise
3
OldGarden_chapbook:Layout 1 5/21/09 9:50 AM Page 3
Add a Comment