prisons

The woman sat down and grabbed the phone on the wall. The phone that was sticky for reasons she did not want to explore. The phone that allowed her to talk to the man behind the thick Plexiglas in front of her. Her father.

He appeared in fine spirits.

“Dad. Are you going to explain…?” She was going to articulate the list of his recent infractions but realized he knew better than anyone what’d done, so instead she settled on waving her hands in the air for a few seconds. Her mouth hung open as if to demand answers.

“That was my first car chase. I lived eighty years without getting mixed up in one. It was exhilarating.”

This did little to comfort his daughter.

Before she could ask another question he posed one for her; “Any chance you can Google how to make alcohol in a toilet?”

“No. I’m not going to Google how to make alcohol in a toilet. Nor will I Google how to make a shank” she stated rather icily.

“Don’t worry, I already asked my cellmate that one. I think I’m going to assault a guard later today.”

“Wonderful” his daughter replied. “And I was concerned you’d be bored in prison.” She was trying to be delicate but given that he seemed delighted with everything was taking place since he stole a car and led both local and state police on a three hour chase, a chase that was broadcast live on every TV station in the area, she thought it might be time to be more direct. “Perhaps giving a quote from Carl Jung as your plea wasn’t such a great move” she suggested.

“On the contrary, I think that ‘The fact that a man who goes his own way ends in ruin means nothing . . . He must obey his own law, as if it were a daemon whispering to him of new and wonderful paths’ was a perfect way to summarize my feelings toward guilt and innocence at that moment in time.”

It was now that moment in time to bring up the elephant in the room. “Dad” she began, “Is this about mom?” His wife of fifty years had recently passed away.

“I’m sure it is” he said dismissively, “But I think I’m going to adapt to the routine in here. Three squares a day and plenty of time to read.”

“You didn’t need to get arrested dad! You could have come live with me” she countered.

“Oh Honey, that’s so nice. But you look just like your mother…” he said and left it at that.

“You know dad, before she died she told me a story. I think she hoped I’d tell it to you one day.”

Her dad settled back in his chair.

“You see, one day she had an itch on her ankle. She went to scratch it but it turned out it was on the top of her foot. She forced her fingers into her shoe trying to scratch it. But she just couldn’t reach it so she took off her shoe and then she thought it was on her big toe. She scratched and scratched but it wouldn’t stop itching. It was then, and only then, that she realized that the itch had been on her hand the whole time.”

“You think I’m going to get raped in here?” he asked. His inflection didn’t seem to carry the requisite amount of dread that she assumed a question like that would have produced.

“Do you want to get raped?!”

“Of course not!” he said.

She remained unconvinced.

“But that’s not what the story was about” she said, trying to bring his attention back to her original point.

“Which story?” he inquired.

“The one about the itch. The one I literally just finished. Like five seconds ago” she replied.

“Yeah, your mom definitely had her struggles with eczema.” He paused and his face briefly clouded over. “I’m going to miss the ol’ bird.”

“I know you will dad. Tell you what, I’ll Google the toilet alcohol thing when I get home and have your answer ready for my next visit.”

“I appreciate it. And a cake with a file in it. Chocolate.” He laughed, said “I love you” (and meant it), then stood up and made his way back down the hall to his cell without so much as a backwards glance.

His daughter made her way back to her car, wondering the whole time what the story she’d told him could possibly have to do with him getting raped. And what the fuck was on the phone?