Memory
Madder Than Mo
It’s a new day, and I think I can feel the memories saving themselves as each moment goes by. I think months later, I will still remember the scratch-graffiti on the ceiling that says only “My Love Will Conquer Jack Shit.” I think I can relate. I stare at the ceiling for a little longer looking for more of either S.O.’s or T.W.’s wisdom, when it is clear I will find exactly none, I consider the prospect of actually dragging myself out of bed. Maybe it would wake Maureen up. The one good thing about whatever I did is that it scares at least one person into being my friend. Not the best way, I know, but I’ll take what I get here.
I take the plunge, literally. I have the top bunk in the cell. It’s not that high, but I’m a small person. 4’11” and proud. Please no “small but mighty” jokes. Anyways, I hit the ground silently, I’ve been getting better. My feet take me to the bars. I try not to think of myself as “behind bars.” I tell myself I am in front of those iron bars, and Mr. McCullers is the prisoner to be pitied. As stealthy as I am, Maureen has some damn good hearing, and she rolls over.
“Madder, whydya wake up so early?” she mumbles.
“To harass McCullers, but he appears to be asleep on duty.”
“One day I will murder that fat lard” she states matter-of-factly, but I know why she says it. She never wants to be alone with me. I am a horrible person capable of things unknown to even me. I scare prisoners. I scare Maureen Kellerman. I know that doesn’t mean a thing to you, so let me put it in context. Last year there was a breakthrough article in the Oakley Journalese that was quickly transmitted by wire to every national paper, and within an hour of it’s publishing had reached international proportions. It was about the capture of Maureen Kellerman. After 3 years of murders, and a death total of 82, the Swingline State Slayer had been brought down. My dear friend Maureen had stricken a citizen of each individual state dead with merely one staple in 82 cases. She had gone through each state in order, and planned to for the rest of her life. She was captured in North Carolina in the process of murdering Roger Cornwell. So you see, scaring Maureen is pretty big. I wish I knew why I deserved her bête noire.
“I hope he knows he has it coming.” I enjoy my conversations with Mo, she speaks intellectually with me. Neither of us are just prison-scum. I’ve awed Catholic Schools all over Massachusetts for the past 13 years, and Maureen was the best editor/writer at the New York Times for most of her career.
“He won’t, he doesn’t know about the smuggler I’ve hired.”
“Are you already planning to kill the security, then?”
“Not a chance, Madder. I love you, but McCullers stays.” I consider asking her again what I did, and decide to go for it.
“Why must he?” I ask. She stumbles over her words and becomes silent. Same as always. Such help from the valedictorian.
I take the plunge, literally. I have the top bunk in the cell. It’s not that high, but I’m a small person. 4’11” and proud. Please no “small but mighty” jokes. Anyways, I hit the ground silently, I’ve been getting better. My feet take me to the bars. I try not to think of myself as “behind bars.” I tell myself I am in front of those iron bars, and Mr. McCullers is the prisoner to be pitied. As stealthy as I am, Maureen has some damn good hearing, and she rolls over.
“Madder, whydya wake up so early?” she mumbles.
“To harass McCullers, but he appears to be asleep on duty.”
“One day I will murder that fat lard” she states matter-of-factly, but I know why she says it. She never wants to be alone with me. I am a horrible person capable of things unknown to even me. I scare prisoners. I scare Maureen Kellerman. I know that doesn’t mean a thing to you, so let me put it in context. Last year there was a breakthrough article in the Oakley Journalese that was quickly transmitted by wire to every national paper, and within an hour of it’s publishing had reached international proportions. It was about the capture of Maureen Kellerman. After 3 years of murders, and a death total of 82, the Swingline State Slayer had been brought down. My dear friend Maureen had stricken a citizen of each individual state dead with merely one staple in 82 cases. She had gone through each state in order, and planned to for the rest of her life. She was captured in North Carolina in the process of murdering Roger Cornwell. So you see, scaring Maureen is pretty big. I wish I knew why I deserved her bête noire.
“I hope he knows he has it coming.” I enjoy my conversations with Mo, she speaks intellectually with me. Neither of us are just prison-scum. I’ve awed Catholic Schools all over Massachusetts for the past 13 years, and Maureen was the best editor/writer at the New York Times for most of her career.
“He won’t, he doesn’t know about the smuggler I’ve hired.”
“Are you already planning to kill the security, then?”
“Not a chance, Madder. I love you, but McCullers stays.” I consider asking her again what I did, and decide to go for it.
“Why must he?” I ask. She stumbles over her words and becomes silent. Same as always. Such help from the valedictorian.
♠ ♠ ♠
I hope you guys like Maureen, still deciding how big a role she should play, I'm thinking by default it's gotta be big. Again, hope you like the story, I'm still not sure. So very grateful, though, to the 4 people who have read the first chapter. Dunno who you are, but I love you guys!