Help, I Am Being Held Prisoner

24

WE MET IN THE TROPHY ROOM, all eight of us, to talk things over.

The trophy room was next to the supply area, just off the basketball courts, a large paneled rectangle with glass- fronted cabinets containing the trophies our teams had won from one another or in league competition with amateur groups from outside the prison. Also on the walls, protected in glass frames, were the uniform shirts with the numbers that had been retired in honor of outstanding athletic performance; there was 2952646, a baseball pitcher with a 27-5 win-loss record in the 1948 season, and next to him the unforgettable star quarterback 5598317, and across the way Stonevelt’s only four-minute miler, 4611502.

Most of the floor space in the trophy room was taken up by a long library table or conference table, surrounded by a dozen all-wood captain's chairs. Teams generally were given their pre-game pep talks and post-game lectures in this room, with these visual indications of past excellence surrounding them to spur them on. What we were having now was something like a post-game lecture, following a game that had been very badly lost, except that no one was lecturing. Everybody was simply griping, and I had to keep reminding myself to do my share.

Joe Maslocki said, “When I saw that fucking police car in front of that fucking bank I couldn’t fucking believe it."

“When I saw your faces,” Bob Dombey said, “when you all came back, I knew right away something went wrong.” Billy Glinn cracked his knuckles. Billy never talked much at meetings, but he cracked his knuckles a lot, and I didn’t like the sound of it. I wished he’d stop it.

“Stink bombs,” Phil said. He said it every ten minutes or so, and every time he said it he sounded even more disgusted than the time before.

“We had practical jokers in the army,” Eddie said severely. “The men knew what to do with them.”

I didn’t want to hear what the men did with them. I said, “It’s a goddam shame, that’s what it is. All that work, all that setting up, for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Max said. “We can still do it, Harry.” I said, “What? But everybody gets paid tomorrow. All that extra money in the bank, all that Christmas money, it’ll all be gone.”

Max said, “There’ll be more.”

“That’s right,” Jerry said. “The end of the month, same thing. Two weeks worth of paychecks.”

I said, “But without all the Christmas Club money and everything.”

Billy cracked his knuckles.

Joe said, “There'll still be plenty. There won’t be as much, but there’ll be enough.”

I was going to have to go through all this all over again? “That’s wonderful,” I said, and Billy cracked his knuckles.

“We’ve got the laser,” Max said. “We’ve got the typewriter and Eddie’s uniform and the key to the truck. We’ve got the guns. We’ve got everything we need.”

“We just stash it all,” Joe said, “and give it another shot two weeks from now.”

“That’s great,” I said.

Eddie said, “There’s nothing wrong with the concept of the operation. It isn’t the first time in history an incursion had to be delayed because of unforeseen circumstances.”

Billy cracked his knuckles.

“Some unforeseen circumstances,” Jerry said ruefully, and shook his head.

“Stink bombs,” Phil said. There was so much disgust in his voice this time I half expected him to throw up on the table.

“There’s nothing worse than a practical joker,” Bob Dombey said.

Joe said, “You can say that again.”

“One time in New York City,” Bob said, “I was walking south on Madison Avenue, and a perfectly respectable looking man in suit and tie stopped me and asked me if I’d mind helping him a minute. I said of course not. He had a length of string, and he said he was an architectural engineer charged with redesigning the facade of the store on the corner. He asked me if I'd just hold one end of the string against the storefront for a minute while he measured the distance across the front and down the side. He said there was a time element involved and his partner must have been stuck in crosstown traffic, and that was the only reason he was asking. So I said yes.”

Joe said, “I would have told him to fuck off.”

“He was very persuasive,” Bob said. “I held the string, and he backed around the corner, paying string out as he went. This was at lunch hour, crowds of people going by, I never expected a thing.”

Jerry said, “What happened?” He looked fascinated.

“I must have stood there five minutes,” Bob said. “That's a long time when you're just standing on the sidewalk holding a piece of string, with people bumping into you. I began to feel like a fool. So finally I followed the string around the corner, and there I found a perfect stranger holding the other end of it. A man with a briefcase.” Max said, “Who was he? The partner?”

“It turned out,” Bob said, “he was another victim, just like me. We became a bit short-tempered with one another before we found that out, though. We did some yelling at one another. A whole crowd of people was standing around us.”

It was hard to imagine scared-weasel Bob Dombey yelling at a man with a briefcase, but it must have happened; Bob's face was getting red with indignation just thinking about it. He was almost squaring his shoulders.

Jerry said, “I don’t get it. What happened?”

“This fellow,” Bob said, “did the same thing to both of us.”

“Which fellow?” Jerry’s face was as crumpled up as a throw rug in his effort to understand. “The one with the briefcase?”

Bob shook his head. “No, the first one. He approached me with his story, and then he went around the corner and told the same story to the man with the briefcase. Once he had two victims holding the two ends of his string, he simply left.”

Jerry shook his head. “I still don’t get it,” he said. “What’s the point? Where’s his profit?”

I felt I could safely enter the conversation at this juncture. “Practical jokers aren’t out to make a profit,” I said. “There’s no point to it at all. The trick is its own reward.” Jerry turned his crinkled face to me. “You mean they do it just for the fun of it?”

“Right.”

“What fun?” He turned back to Bob. “Did this guy stick around to see what happened?”

“No,” Bob said, “he just left.”

I put in my oar again. “Practical jokers don’t have to actually be present when their trick springs itself,” I said. “In fact, most of them prefer not to be. They just set up their little time bombs and go away.”

“Like the stink bombs,” Phil said. More disgusted. “Right,” I said, and Billy cracked his knuckles. I really wished he wouldn’t do that.

“You know,” Max said, “we got one of those birds right here in this prison.”

Jerry turned to him. “Yeah? Who?”

“I wish I knew,” Max said. “The son of a bitch put Saran Wrap on one of the toilets in C Block.”

Billy cracked his knuckles.

“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” Max said, “if I was just taking a leak.”

I closed my eyes. I listened to Billy’s knuckles cracking. They sounded like boulders knocking together at the very beginning of an avalanche. And guess who’s at the bottom of the mountain.

Speaking thoughtfully, Joe said, “You know, one of my cigarettes blew up on me a couple weeks ago. I figured it was something wrong with the tobacco. Could that be the same guy?”

I opened my eyes. I must not draw attention to myself, I thought. I stared at the retired shirt of 4611502. Be like him, I told myself. Be intrepid. Be unflinching. Be ready to run a four-minute mile.

Phil was saying to Joe, “You, too? One of my cigarettes went up, too. Scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m telling you,” Max said, “we got one of those practical joker birds right here inside this very prison.”

I have to take part, I thought. I have to divert suspicion. I have to do it right now, right this second, because if I do it later I’ll just attract suspicion. I opened my mouth. What am I going to say? Nothing about blood types, all right? I said, “You know, he got me, too.”

They all looked at me. Billy cracked his knuckles. Joe said, “How, Harry?”

“In the mess hall,” I said. “The sugar and salt had been switched. I put sugar all over my mashed potatoes.” Jerry, his eyes alight with discovery, said, “So that's what happened to my coffee that time!”

“And my eggs,” Bob said.

“And my cornflakes,”Eddie said.

Max said,“I’d like to get my hands on that bastard.”

“The one I want,” Phil said,“is the one in town, with his fucking stink bombs.”

“That was probably a kid,” Max said. “Stink bombs, you know, that’s the sort of thing a kid does.”

“I get my hands on him,” Phil said, “he’ll never grow up.”

Billy cracked his knuckles.