Keep Your Head Down by Mark Manifesto

 

Some days, the concrete wall opposite Virgil’s bunk was flat gray stone. The beautiful emptiness all those monks in Tibet, China, and dying strip malls search for. Other days, a window to worlds beyond, a canvas for the expanding Rorschach-blot images. 

The certainty in it was pain, damning. 

It had always been easier for him to let go and see how things turn. 

A foghorn alarm echoed from cell block C1, maybe C2. The schedule was always changing. Not a bad idea, but he couldn’t decide what’s better: allowing New Mexico’s most dangerous criminals to get comfortable or having them in a state of constant unease? Virgil didn’t bother pondering the question that morning; the wall required his full attention before he was called to build the devil’s throne.

His canvas-sneakered feet hung over the bunk’s edge swaying, his head leaned against the wall. With how long his hair had gotten, it made for a nice cushion. Unblinking, a world away, the previous night’s dreams replayed on the concrete in vivid detail. The dark-skinned Yemeni boy prying open munition crates beneath a blistering sun, fighting hunger pains within the Rub' al-Khali as he lined up his shot on the firing range, and crying rageful tears at night over a world which had forsaken Allah. Virgil saw him a year from now in Sana’a with his brothers of Ansar Allah, firing upon government forces from a third story window; in two years, training children slightly younger than he; in three, lying in an unmarked grave. 

The scene distended into another: the woman in Alberta on her couch staring bemused at her Lotto Max card, snow pelting the windows, giddy with thoughts of altruism and a life without debt. He too saw her twenty-three months from now, bawling in a cell much like his own and repeating the question, “I didn’t know how much I had to pay.” 

A cramp balled inside Virgil’s stomach. It might have been more bearable had he not taken on their suffering so acutely, the bullets piercing his chest or cuffs locking on his wrist— again. A million different pains from a million hearts. Maybe if he could intervene, it might hold some value. Maybe if he could see his own sentencing, but no such grace shined upon him. It was better to take the nightly adventures through the world’s souls without care. 

He squeezed the dense rubber ball tightly and threw. Dunk. Back into his hand. Was it the act of throwing, the impact against the wall, or the catch that was satisfying? Was it his dream that made the images true, or vice versa? Virgil wasn’t delusional. One man doesn’t change the world. Dunk. The ball slipped past his hand. Pain flashed as it pegged his eye and bounced to a stop under the sink.

Thick-soled footsteps clicked down the cellblock. Virgil sighed and ran his fingers through his beard and hair. Would he have liked Warden Ross had he not been a pill bug under his boot, if he had remained ignorant of what lay beneath the veneer? There was a slender Colonel Sanders vibe about him—though with more turquoise and full-brimmed hats—that was steeped in Americana charm, and his molasses-like voice was something like Tennessee in the spring. Still, the answer was no. Perfume only goes so far.

Officers Santos and Stevens stopped before his cell. “Open B113,” Stevens called on the radio. Santos’s jaw grinded side to side as he stroked his mustache and eyed the surrounding cells. 

“It’s not breakfast yet,” Virgil said, looking back to the wall which had returned to nothing.

“Nope,” Stevens said. The lock beeped and the steel door rolled. 

Virgil sighed and thought once again how he was a rag wiping up shit. No matter the cleaning or wringing, that sort of stain and stink is eternal.

He jumped off the bunk and submitted the shackles. Spiteful eyes followed their path from behind bars. Virgil tried not to hold it against them, knew better than most that desperation led to depravity, but jealousy is rank, especially when unwarranted.

From block to block, through the familiar labyrinth of concrete and linoleum, beyond the necessary number of gates killing any hope of escape, Virgil followed them to the northern wing of the fourth story. At least up here, between passing guards and doctors who paid him no mind, he felt like he used to before incarceration. The pitch white paint reminded him of purgatory. Santos's fist pounded hard against the thick steel door. 

Virgil clenched his jaw against the powerless sensation of falling and reminded himself that everything was some sort of transaction. More often they were ionic. Should sodium feel some sort of way when chlorine takes an electron? 

The lock shlunked. Warden Clint Ross smiled, wide and yellow. His suit matched the eggshell paint of the office. The horned bolo tie bore a dull iron shine. “Thank you, Jermey. Andrés. I’ll take it from here.” 

Virgil clenched tight to his pride as he stepped in, iron-fisted. Ross closed the door behind, and gestured Virgil to the seat across from his desk. Beyond the window stretched endless miles of dry shrubs, tawny rock, and tall grass. Some people found the steppe oppressive, monotonous; Virgil didn’t find it anything—anymore than one finds their own reflection. 

Ribbons, placards, pictures, and degrees lined the walls. The desk lay strewn with files, stamp pads, and a line of amber stones with petrified insects. Warden Ross groaned as he sat and straightened the strings of his tie. 

“How you doing, Mr. Ramos?” Ross said, rapping his knuckles on the desk.

Virgil didn’t know why Ross bothered with formalities or bothered with him at all. Regardless of his help, things already were set in motion. Ten years from now, the man would lay his hand on the Bible before the U.S. Capitol and swear his presidential oath. Tears would be shed, babies would be kissed, and, if Virgil played his part, maybe he’d be at home, fully pardoned, and not watching.

“The same,” Virgil said.

“Better than worse.” Opposed to the casual lean and grin, the rapid scratching of Ross’s middle finger against his thumb clued the nature of this call. Virgil reminded himself of the time that had already been taken off, and that no matter what, it was worth it. “As you might suspect, I need your help.”

“With what?” Virgil asked, inspecting the office to avoid eye contact.

“The biggest step yet,” he said, kicking his feet onto the corner of the desk. “And by the way, thank you again for your advice last month. Not only was the Redstone executive amicable as you said he would be, but the Ms. New Mexico Pageant was a ball. I’ve already bought my ticket for next year.”

“Glad to hear it.” Virgil was lucky his chair was at the distance it was. Any closer and he’d be suffocating on halitosis. 

“My predicament is whether or not to formally announce my campaign for state senate.” Between pauses, the warden went to town gnawing on his nails. “I’ve gotten a lot of input recently from other senators saying this is the year to make a push. Sterling shit the bed with his handling of all the school shootings and, with all the friends you helped me make, I’ve got the financial backing to really make a run. But I deal in certainties.”

Soothsaying for freedom. If only it was that simple.

“We’ve got the penitentiary talent show soon and I’m wondering if that’s the time to strike. There’ll be a lot of important people there. Maybe even our newly appointed queen. Ms. Kardashian’s assistant called last week and said her family wanted tickets.” He shook his head. “God is good, my friend.”

“Can’t say either way.”

“What I’m thinking is after the show, when the emotion’s high, the energy’s roaring, and the T-shirts are all fired out, I get all the inmates behind me—show we’re a family—and I hit ‘em with the news. I feel it’ll send a strong message. Something that people will point back to. I just need to know if it’ll pan out in the long run.”

Either that or see out his forty-year sentence—if Virgil lived that long.

“How much?” Virgil asked.

“The legal max. Fifty-four days off for this year.”

“Done.”

“You’re a good man, Virgil,” Ross said, putting his feet down and spitting out a cuticle. He reached into his top drawer and got to work filing the jagged edges of his fingernails. Naught but the sound of manically grinding keratin and low buzz of electricity in the ceiling. Virgil averted his gaze to the buttons on his yellow jumpsuit and prayed for silence.

“One other request,” Ross said, in an exhale. He placed the file down and started a rapidly neurotic rolling of his fingertips over his thumbs. The green shine of his eyes took on a black hue with the downward angle of his head. The silence Virgil wanted took the room yet brought none of the comfort he thought. “... I need one.”

Virgil looked at the books on the shelf, tomes on psychology and legal practice intertwined with volumes of ancient religions and texts written in what he guessed was German. 

Ross went on, “And I don’t want to hear that BS about how you can’t always see ‘em—”

“I can’t.”

“BS.”

Virgil felt the man’s darkness seep through the air into his veins. He tried to pretend it was run-of-the-mill depression, but it always failed. Maybe eventually. He gathered the strength to look into the widened black holes that were his pupils. “You don’t need me for this. You were doing fine before you knew me.”

“I deal in certainties, Ramos. I have a lot to give this country, but that requires that I’m here to give it.”

Virgil fought the trembling in his hands by squeezing them together. 

Ross said, “I’ve been trying to fight it, but the need is crawling through me. I have to get it out.”

Veins pulsed in Virgil’s temples as he fought his heart.

“I’ll go over the fifty-four days for this one. A full year off.” Each breath whistled through his teeth. “Just give me a name and a place.”

A sharp cramp twisted the back of Virgil’s throat.

“I don’t want to have to remind you that I can just as easily add time. As it stands, you’ve got thirty-five left. You can still enjoy your golden years if you pull your weight.”

What difference does it make, Virgil asked himself. Just play ball. One way or another, Ross was going to find some girl to ruin, only if Virgil didn’t help him, he might end up on the wrong side of a cell, unable to hold his end of the bargain. 

“There’s solitary,” Ross said, counting off his fingers, “Missed meals, voided shower time, plumbing backups, a whole rainbow of pain. I can take away your water. Save yourself some trouble, get something out of this.”

Even if the man’s path was assured, did that mean Virgil had to follow it to hell?

“Don’t pretend you’re any better than me,” the warden said. “There are murders and victims in this world. We sit in the same camp.”

He couldn’t help it. “Fuck you.”

Ross grinned with only his lips. “You already fucked yourself. No one made you walk into the bank, no one made you kill an old man, and no one is going to get you out of here but me. You need me, Virgil. So does this country. Don’t ruin it over some girl no one will remember.”

The room’s air became stifling and stagnant. 

“It doesn’t matter who you choose,” Virgil said. “No one will know.”

“Then maybe your little girl?” Ross said, raising his eyebrows. He interlocked his fingers with a click of turquoise rings. “Maybe your wife. If it doesn’t matter, why not teach you a lesson?”

Sweat beaded on Virgil’s brow. Was it possible to kill him before the guards intervened? His eyes scanned the desk and shelves. Pens and pencils, maybe a block of amber. Virgil pulled at his cuffs in order to divert his thoughts into pain. The man wasn’t serious. He only went for women on the road, strays. Never took chances … But the truth was Virgil knew Clint only as a two dimensional figure, a page of pictures, on one side, the stern warden who sought for the reinstallation of values across the country, on the other, a fanged monster with a chloroform rag and a tool belt, lurking in a barn. The depths of either, the lengths they’d go to … he just had images.

Ross’s nostrils flared to show the bushel of white hair within. “Suit yourself. Jeremy, Andrés!” The door opened. “Mr. Ramos has asked for an indefinite stay in solitary. Can you help him get comfortable?”

The dull ache of tears arose in considering the coming pain. His jaw went taut. Why not just say yes? Ross was a speeding bullet he didn’t have to take. The words rested at the tip of his tongue, ready to launch, yet his lips remained sealed.

Officers Santos and Stevens pulled him up by the elbows and with the force of diverted domestic issues. The last he saw of Ross before he was pulled out of the room was the man breathing through his lower teeth. A small win for a lost war.

Sweat darkened the neckline of his jumpsuit ochre. Thoughts drowned beneath the flood of sensory input. His rubber soles clapped hollowly. The smell of concrete sat dull and earthy in his nostrils. Hateful eyes watched his return behind bars. An alarm rang from the mess room. Virgil walked the familiar stretch of windowless white, steel doors. A strong compulsion arose to beg but, beyond pride, he knew it was useless.

“Open Solitary Cell D219,” Stevens said, into his radio. 

Virgil’s heartbeat sped into a hammer. Light spilled into the dark cell as the door creaked open, naught more than a stainless-steel toilet and cot. The scents of bleach and shit burned his sinuses. With a firm hand to the back, he tripped in and beyond the eyes of any who would care. Both batons gave off a sleek sound as they slipped from the belt rings. He braced, but it never did much. 

Unable to fully turn, Virgil caught a quick sight of the sole of Steven’s boot. The blow compacted his ribs and sent him crashing against the far wall. Both men charged. Virgil raised his arms. Shock took some of the sting out of the blows, but not much. Overhead, from the side, sharp jabs. The baton’s black polish caught the light in downswings. White pain flashed from his forearms and shoulders; a piercing swing to the ribs dropped him to his knees; a clean crack from above and his vision strobed black and white. The concrete cooled his cheek. Their boots squeaked as they shuffled. Through a dull, distorted sense of touch, he felt a warmth running down his face.

Limp and spinning, he was suddenly floating, pulled up by the collar of his jumpsuit towards the toilet. The bowl was too dark to get a reflection. Suddenly, he plunged through the water and smashed his forehead against the bottom. Panic forced the air from his chest. He held just enough sense not to immediately inhale, but with each passing moment, helplessly flailing, manic with burning lungs, the need became him. His hands clawed backwards until they were forced down, until they couldn’t move, until blackness overcame him—

Ripped by the collar, Virgil gasped and heaved life. He flopped to the ground and curled fetal. Tears flushed his eyes, but he refused to yield. A moment of peace. His senses stilled as breath returned, but with it returned the throbbing sites of pain across his body. His slight hope of completion fell in sight of the tight aerosol barrel of Santos’s pepper spray canister. He closed his eyes just in time to avoid direct capsaicin impact, nevertheless, his flesh boiled, and each breath drew from hellfire. He wiped futility with his sleeves, only worsening the pain through contact. There wasn’t enough air to scream or curse. The door slammed, and could he open his eyes, he knew there’d be no point. Darkness was once again his reality.

There on his side, holding his face and releasing in an attempt to disrupt the pain, breathing through his teeth to filter the burn, waiting for it all to end, Virgil remained in a timeless and synthetic evening. 

Eventually—who knows how long—the burn subsided, the pulsating gashes and bruises dulled. He opened his eyes to the dim crack of light under the door. What had he done in a past life that warranted this? Why not just death? Why bother with ‘rehabilitation’? The Egyptians had it right. Take a hand or an ear, let the world know what you are and be on with your squalid life. But this? It was demonic. A business. But based on what? For what? 

The unknown routine of alarms rang beyond his door. Maybe it was lunch. Was Ross serious about Ursula and Ana? Was it selfish of Virgil to value their lives over some unknown girl? A man can only do so much. He washed his face in the toilet and crawled towards the bed. The jumpsuit clung to his frame by either sweat, water, or blood. Darkness wasn’t all that bad in the short term. The worst part about it was that it robbed you of a body and forced you inside.

There was no winning this battle. No more than winning against time or a hurricane.

Hours, maybe days passed, the asymmetric throbbing of his skull a bell for the mediation. In time, his eyes grew heavy. He considered Ross’s request and set his focus for the coming labor. His eyes closed on tears and after a great measure of time, Virgil fell into a restless sleep. 

An image bloomed from blackness, Warden Ross, clad in a cream suit, on stage at the Stieren Orchestra Hall, hat to his heart and mike in hand, backed by a team of inmates who’d just poured their hearts into acts they thought might prove themselves to be more than just a number. He speaks of their talent, of the talent in each of us, of the stage, the country’s, the world’s. He spins to catch a charging inmate and decks him with a turquoised fist. The crowd goes wild. Guards rush the stage. He proclaims that he’s running for the Senate. From that, the image spirals towards the familiar scene of him swearing before the world to uphold all his duties, the same as those before.

The colored cloud washes away to a woman alone at a roadhouse, a frilled leather pack slung over her shoulder, watching the handsomely stubbled boy—who isn’t looking back—near the mechanical bull, looking through a sea of old messages, pausing on the last from her mom. ‘Burn in hell, you dirty heifer. You chose yourself over your child.’ She turns to a white-haired man in a beige suit, weighed by a pound of iron jewelry, a ten-gallon hat, and a bull-shaped bolo tie. He tips his hat, she feels wanted, and winks back. A rag falls over her mouth under a moonless sky. It smells like a wet cat. Her cries fall on deaf ears and bones go undiscovered beneath Mexican soil.

An unexpected third image flowers from the darkness. A dark-skinned princess, five years old, Virgil’s own Ana, bright in a tiara and pink dress, her smile white and brimming upon the lap of a handsome black stranger she calls ‘Dad’ while her mother lays cookies on the table. The three laugh at some sitcom in the background, all cuddled on the couch. Ana kisses the stranger on the cheek and Ursula tells him he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them. 

Virgil’s eyes shot open. Sweat steamed down his brow. The mattress was a moist pool. He sat up and choked on the pain of Ross’s fingers around his throat, the nails in his arms, dazed by the image of Ross’s veiny face over him and the smell of his breath. Virgil’s teeth chattered; his heart pounded. Who cares? he thought. Dad, he repeated. Ana called him Dad. In just two years. 

He had to get out of here. 

He pounded against the door. The viewing slide opened. “Bring me to the warden.”

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Recent publications by Mark Manifesto: 

https://www.patreon.com/collection/31691?view=expanded (Issues 14,15, and 17)