I heard a knock at my cell door as I sat at the counter top sketching from a step-by-step art book. I refused to acknowledge it. Interruptions are rarely important. I continued my activity – a poor attempt at making a grapefruit look like a grapefruit. It was awful. The shape was odd and horrible shading left the grapefruit looking flat and unrecognizable.
My visitor had not been deferred. He began knocking again. This time with fervor. The loud taps of his knuckles against the door were brutal on the previous silence.
I stopped sketching and turned toward the dark skinned man in the window of my door. He smiled wide. My jaw tightened as I fought to be kind. I don’t think he noticed. “So you ain’t goin’ to open the door?” he asked after enduring a second of my staring. Reluctantly I went over to let him in. Our daily bout between “I’m Busy” and “He’s bored” had begun.
“What are you doing?” he asked like he didn’t know. “I was drawing,” I replied bothered by his intrusion. He never notices my frustration. I waited a second or two before asking, “So….what’s up with you?” I knew his answer would be “nothing.” His answer is always nothing.
This is an encounter that reminds me of the two kinds of prisoners that occupy the prisons – The Common Prisoner and the Exceptional Prisoner. The common prisoner is one who knocks at your cell door, unmotivated, in search of stimuli. The exceptional prisoner is one who is active and always preparing himself for his eventual freedom.
In my cell he decided on a comfortable location. Not the chair, but the counter top. He pulled himself up on its surface and rested his weight. Snap! came a sound from beneath him. Curious as I was, he jumped from the counter to see what was the noise. It was my pencil. I “raspberried” and shook my head.
“My fault bruh,” he offered me his catch phrase. He took the pieces of pencil and joined them together. The frivolous act did not mend my broken property. His eye came slowly from the pencil pieces to me. That goofy smile was on his face. Swiftly he put his arms around me squeezing me while he giggled. “My fault bruh,” he told me for the second time within five minutes. “Can I get back to work now?” I asked half serious through my own laughter while unsure if he’d oblige me.
He released me still smiling. I straightened my shirt, went over to the counter top, grabbed up the pencil pieces and took another crack at that grapefruit. He left after a short silence, but it wasn’t long before I heard another knock at another door followed by a “What are you doing?”…
Darrion”D.K.” Benson (Reg. No. M-16943) is also the author of “325 Miles Away” a collection of poetry , Amazon Books.
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