# PB & Jail (Short Story, Language)



## Winston (Jul 18, 2011)

The man wasn't sure what woke him first, the coughing spasms or the pain in in his shoulder.  He pulled himself up slowly off of the hard floor and stumbled toward the stainless steel toilet.  As his eyes slowly focused, he began noticing smells.  Unpleasant smells.  The man cleared his throat and spit flemm into the commode.  He remembered that when he was here, they didn't let him spit on the floor.  Wherever here was.
     The image of other men appeared around him as the fog in his head lifted.  He wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve and made his way back to wall he was propped-up against earlier.  The men seated along the wall stared at him, and mumbled softly amongst themselves.  The man noticed that smell again.  Whatever it was, it was coming from him.    
     "Welcome back, Pete." A bearded man spoke with a slur.  The man thought for a moment.  _Yes, that's my name. Pete. _ Pete regarded the bearded man.  He hoped he did not look that bad.
     Pete thought about the short welcome.  _Welcome back from where?  _For some reason, that detail was clear.  Pete wasn't from anywhere.  He had no home.  
     He looked around the drab, beige room.  Above them were those bright industrial lights designed to give you headaches.  Large windows with wires in them ran along one wall.  Next to the window was a metal door with a large loop handle.  Pete looked down his legs at his feet, noticing he had no shoes.  _Where the hell are they?  _Another clear detail:  The shoes need to be taken off and left outside the door.  That was another rule.
     As his head cleared further, Pete remembered they had a lot of rules here.  That part sucked.  But it was warm and dry.  He remembered that later on, he would get a blanket and his own mattress.  They always made you wait, though.  Those assholes.  Alot of them were just plain mean.  Not all, but a lot.
     On cue, a figure appeared outside the window.  She was big and tall and wore a uniform.  The woman wrote something on a piece of paper taped to the door, then spoke something into a radio she was carrying.  Pete remembered her.  Not any details, other than that she was an Amazon that could hurt him.  He remembered he didn't like her. 
     It slowly was all coming back to him.  He didn't have a home.  But this was as close as he had.

     Pete rubbed his sore shoulder.  He still couldn't remember why it hurt.  The bearded man was looking at him again.
     "Do I know you?"  Pete croaked hoarsely.
     "You were a lot more fucked-up last time you were in," the bearded man responded.  "'Not surprised you don't remember me."   
     "Got a name?"
     "People call me Rye."
     The two men went silent and looked absent-mindely around the cell.  Some men were sleeping, others stared at the featureless floor or ceiling. Nobody looked at each other.  Pete remembered there was a rule about that, too.  One of those unwritten rules.
     "You didn't ask my name,"  Pete blurted to Rye.  His throat was feeling better now.
     "I remember you, Petey.  I don't forget shit."
     "You calling me shit?"
     "Have you smelled yourself, Einstein?"
     Pete felt anger building up inside.  It was a familiar, warm feeling.  He clenched his fists and leaned toward Rye.  Rye looked shocked, for a moment.  Then he burst out laughing.
     "Yeah.  You can't control your fucking temper.  That's gonna get you in trouble, boy."
     Pete slowly leaned back against the wall.  Somehow, he knew this guy named Rye was right.  A few of the men in the cell looked over at the two of them, then quickly looked away.
     Rye continued.  He slurred as he spoke, but still made himself clear to Pete. "Listen, kid.  I don't know why I even should give a shit about you.  Maybe you remind me of a dumber, uglier version of myself when I was a punk kid,"  Pete blinked at Rye.  He knew he should be angry, but Pete was strangely at ease as Rye continued, "When the C.O.'s come to pull you out, just do what they say.  Don't be a smart ass.  You'll get to your housing unit, breakfast in the morning.  Dayroom time later maybe...."
     Even though Rye continued to talk, Pete focused on his rumbling stomach.  Rye had mentioned breakfast.  Pete was sure he couldn't make it that long.
     "....you getting' me, kid?"  Rye sneered, sensing that Pete wasn't listening.
     "Hey, don't they serve sandwiches at midnight?"
     "Yeah," Rye answered, "PB&J's on nasty wheat bread with a half-pint of warm milk."  He mockingly rubbed his belly, "Fucking delicious."
     Pete now had lost all focus, save one.  Each time his belly rumbled, he envisioned the sandwich and milk.  He sat and fidgeted for a few minutes.
     Rye was picking at something in his beard when Pete interrupted, "I wonder what time it is."
     Rye flashed a crooked smile back at him and lifted his wrist to his face, "Well, let me check my Rolex here," he stared at his bare wrist for a moment, "It says it's time for you you to shut the fuck up.  Seriously dude, just go to sleep or something."
     "I'm hungry."
     "Tough shit, kid.  You're ugly and smelly too.  Now leave me the fuck alone."
     Time crept agonizingly slow for Pete.  He tried closing his eyes, only to be awakened each time by the gurgling of his empty stomach.  He looked up.  He looked down.  He looked at the holes in his dirty socks.  The fluorescent lights buzzed.  Water dripped slowly from the sink above the toilet.  _Drip, drip, drip...
_Indistinct sounds began to filter in from outside the cell. Pete heard some metal clattering.  He swore he heard the sound of plastic hitting a stainless steel cart.  A squeaky wheel echoed down a nearby hall.  A door opened next to them.  He heard men shuffling to the door, the sound of items being thrown and caught...
     Then he smelled it.  It was a mixture of plastic and oil and wheat.  Somehow, that smell made it's way in.  Pete began to involuntarily salivate, and shuffled in his seat along the wall.  He looked over his shoulder at the uniformed figure now at the door.  A key _clicked  _into the lock, turned slowly.  Tumblers inside the door snapped.  Pete's stomach growled in anticipation as the door swung open...

     "Peter Bailey Johnson!"  The guard yelled into the cell.
     With lightning fast reflexes, Pete stood up and met the officer at the door.  "That's me!"
     "You're being released on O.R., we're overcrowded," the officer informed Pete. "Follow me to Booking to sign the paperwork."
     Pete stuck his head out the door.  He saw the sandwich cart at the next cell.
     It was empty.
     The officer now looked slightly annoyed, "You've been here enough.  You know where Booking is.  Grab your shoes and let's go."
     "I wanna sandwich."  Pete's voice was clear and firm.  Too firm.
     The officer took a deep breath,  "They just ran out.  They'll have more ready in fifteen minutes, but you'll be released by then."  The officer positioned himself behind Pete, placing a guiding hand on Pete's shoulder.  His sore shoulder.
     Pete whipped around and placed his face one inch from the officer's.  He clenched his fists and grit his teeth.  "I'll wait."
     Pete didn't see the Amazon officer come up behind them.  In less than a second, both of Pete's arms were twisted behind his back.  His dirty socks dragged on the concrete floor as he was carried.  He heard a disembodied voice, "I've got one for the rubber room, standby."
     The realization of what was happening slowly dawned on him.  The three of them turned a corner, where another officer stood by an open cell door.  Pete landed roughly on the padded floor, pressing his sore shoulder into his neck.  The door closed with a sickening thud.
     As the officers walked away, they heard banging and screaming coming from the Safety Cell.  They were used to it.  It was padded.  The fuck-head couldn't hurt himself.
     "*I want my sandwich I want my sandwich I want my sandwich....."*


----------



## jburden (Jul 19, 2011)

You do a good job here slowly teasing out the details as this character slowly starts to remember some things but not others.  I did find myself wanting to know more exactly of what his problem was and why he couldn't remember things (I'm assuming because he's a homeless alcoholic with the accompanying mental/psychological problems), but leaving your readers wanting to know more is certainly not a bad thing.

I did feel that the end came on too quickly.  You spend a lot of time building up to it then it's over in a flash.  I'm specifically referring to the part where the Amazon comes up behind Pete, twists his arms behind his back, etc.  It feels like that part should be more drawn out, especially considering all the effort you put into giving us an immediate sense of Pete's hunger, how the moments move by so slowly, etc.  Maybe it was your specific intention to do it that way, but I'd find the story much more satisfying (almost as satisfying as a peanut butter sandwich) if you were to expand the last part, going second by second as Pete slowly starts to realize that he's not going to get his sandwich.  Make us feel his want and his pain.

Finally, if you're going to switch to the jailers' POV at the last second, I think you need to stick with it and change that last line so it's something like, "As they rounded the corner, they heard his voice fade as he shouted "I want my sandwich!  I want my sandwich!"


----------



## Bilston Blue (Jul 19, 2011)

Hi Winston

My first recommendation would be to space out the paragraphs, make it a little easier on the eye.



> The man cleared his throat and spit flemm


Tense slip here, and sp. _Spat phlegm_.



> Above them were those bright industrial lights designed to give you headaches.


I'm not sure this works. The story is being told by the narrator in Pete's point of view, but this sounds like the narrator addressing the reader. Sounds like the narrator thinks the lights are designed to give you headaches, and not Pete.



> Water dripped slowly from the sink above the toilet. _Drip, drip, drip..._


I think the sentence works well enough without the drips added in italics.

I'm not sure a piece so short needs a change of viewpoint at the end.

Other than these nits I enjoyed this nice little read. Short and to the point.

Scott.


----------



## AlbumAddict12 (Jul 20, 2011)

I like it.  I'm new here and it's one of the best pieces i've read so far.  I like the tone.  I disagree with jburden.  I don't think the ending is rushed.  I think it flows well.  I do agree with Bilston about the drip, drip and I like the descriptive of the lights, but agree with the issue of POV.  Perhaps "Above them were the bright industrial lights designed for a primary purpose of inducing headaches" or something like that...

Great job.


----------



## rundahl (Aug 27, 2011)

Winston this was so fun to read. Having had some experience with criminal justice and people with substance abuse issues I can see authenticity in the writing. The description of Pete's confinement, the mental fog that slowly lifts, and the salty down to earth bunk mate (Rye) bring to mind Tom Sawyer and Huck Fin. The brashness of all characters involved kept me in tune with the story if for no other reason than the fact that people like the ones in this story exist. It seems like Pete is young man who is defiantly repeating the same mistakes expecting different results. The story makes me want to gain some historical perspective about Pete. The story makes me want to investigate more of the hard learned lessons Rye can pass onto Pete. While Rye and Pete may share living accommodations they also seem to share a propensity to live life on the fringe and buck authority, making the mistake of thinking the rules don't apply to them. These charractors may be unlucky souls but they are also holding the rest of the world at arms length because they are struggling to survive. Love the story-write more.


----------



## DAAR84 (Oct 18, 2011)

In regards to the rules & regulations... 'that sucked' is rather brief and just doesn't seem to flow. Maybe something with more length, depth, etc, than such brevity. 

Also, I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of PB&J with warm milk during the intake process. They sure as hell didn't feed me when I was going through intake, holding, and processing!


----------



## River (Nov 16, 2011)

Good job.


----------

