Hard Time by Anthony Papa Anne Mini Shaun Attwood Read Free Book Online Page A

steady my hands to sign the court papers. Back in my seat, I brooded on the impossibility of bonding out and having to tell my parents. I wondered how much longer I could stay awake before I broke down.
    ‘Everyone who has seen the judge,’ the bailiff yelled, ‘go through that door and get back into the jail right now!’
    Apprehensively, I returned to The Horseshoe: an apprehension that turned into dread when I saw the number of men sardined in the next cell. I wedged myself in past the tiny Mexican from earlier, who was still hyperventilating. I spotted another familiar face and sighed. It was the Cuban. He was standing next to the Mexican, staring blankly, like a wind-up toy waiting for someone to turn the key in his back.
    I worked my way to the toilet and unbuttoned my pants. Urinating, I winced at the smell. I cupped water from the sink in my hand and leant forward. My eyes slammed shut as I splashed my face. The water cooled my skin and washed away some of the grime and tiredness. Removing my T-shirt released the odour of stale sweat and yesterday’s deodorant. I wetted the T-shirt and wiped my face and armpits. I put the T-shirt back on. It clung to my body, cooling it down. My mouth tasted foul. Gargling water failed to stop the burning in my throat. I picked the coating of white scum off my lips in tiny clumps and strings. Sitting down against a wall, I could feel the filth in the air reattaching itself to my skin. A headache set in. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and my worries took on surreal dimensions. Every time I felt too itchy, I revisited the sink and repeated my bathing ritual.
    Except for the Mexican and Cuban, everyone looked exhausted. The Cuban had been staring at the wall for a while, his eyeballs bulging slightly more than the Mexican’s. Every ten minutes or so, he reanimated and yelled at someone. Inevitably, my turn came.
    ‘Why you look at me?’ He stared at me hard.
    I was tense enough, yet he managed to elevate my tension. ‘I wasn’t looking at you. My friend, are you OK?’ Try to calm him down, I thought. Do a good deed.
    ‘You fuckin’ no-no look at me!’ he yelled louder, his head convulsing as if demons were trying to burst through his crown chakra.
    Maintaining eye contact, I rose. I felt my stress surge into anger at him. I knew this was wrong. But some force was pushing me to fight him. Expecting to be the one he’d finally attack, I steeled myself. Raising my arms, I shifted my left side towards him.
    ‘Take no notice,’ an old Mexican American said. ‘He’s crazy.’
    Shouldn’t be fighting a crazy, I thought. No backing down either. With everyone watching to see how I’d react, I didn’t want to show any weakness.
    ‘Why you look at me? Why you fuckin’ look at me?’
    Figuring he was testing me, I responded the way I’d heard many of the others respond: ‘Shut the fuck up!’ I was immediately taken aback by the severity in my voice.
    The Cuban shuffled away, pivoted like a robot and headed for the tiny Mexican. He stopped next to the Mexican and stared out of the window. The expectation of a confrontation was palpable. Even men who’d been nodding off fixated on the twosome. But the Cuban settled back into a trance. Just when the spectators were losing interest, the Cuban started muttering and trembling.
    ‘Who look at me no-no look at me!’ he yelled at the Plexiglas, as if imaginary people in the corridor were eyeballing him.
    Hearing this, the Mexican jumped like a startled animal and then thundered on the Plexiglas with both fists.
    The Cuban whirled towards the Mexican. ‘Why you fuckin’ look at me?’
    Still pounding on the Plexiglas, the Mexican yelled for someone to save him from ‘ el diablo ’.
    ‘You fuckin’ look at me! No-no look at me!’ the Cuban yelled, wagging his finger in the Mexican’s face.
    They fed off each other’s hysteria until a hillbilly guard the size of a buffalo swung the door open and said in a bumpkin