* * *
Hector awoke groggy-headed and thick-tongued on a wafer-thin mattress that reeked of stale urine and spent cigarettes. This isn’t my bed was the only thought he could summon while coughing phlegmatically and propping himself up on a wobbly elbow. Under him, springs groaned in protest.
A wave of vertigo pulsed through his oversized melon, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick all over himself. By the time he glanced up and noticed the beige vertical bars three feet in front of him, he was vomiting. But nothing spewed forth from his parched mouth other than a few gasps, hiccups, and a squeaky, choking noise he had never heard himself make before.
That’s not true.
He had made that same noise a few days (or was it weeks?) ago while slumped over the front seats of his Jeep in a whiskey-induced stupor.
They were the dry heaves, and they had come back to bite him in the ass. The deep-down pain in his esophagus during each hollow eructation served to reignite an idea that he had been toying around with of late, and that was to find a gun and end his whole mess of a life with a slight curl of a finger.
Drinker’s remorse and the recurrent hangover. Why did I do it this time? he wondered, waiting for the worst of the spasms wrenching his throat to abate. Was it because of Michelle, or was it because of Ma? Or was it because of somebody else?
Grabbing for the bars, he slowly pulled himself to his feet—a herculean task, to say the least, for anybody in his condition, but even more so for somebody of his considerable girth. Once he was all the way up, the ground shifted beneath him. It slid only a couple of inches, but the sudden movement caused him to let out a short, dry scream. The bars remained in place, but the ground had moved. He was sure of it.
But he wasn’t sure of it; he wasn’t sure of anything these days.
While staring through the bars, it slowly dawned on him where he was. He should have known the second his nose registered the mattress imbued with the piss of countless vagrants. The floor-to-ceiling vertical bars that served to separate him from everybody else was also a dead giveaway. He had been here before.
With the realization sinking into the furrows of his brain, Hector half-sat/half-collapsed onto the mattress. Something metallic fell from the cot’s frame and clanked on the concrete floor. Rolling over onto his side, he closed his eyes and ignored what that sound signified. There would be other times, other places, to worry about his weight. What was important now was figuring out what he had done to warrant being locked in a holding cell.
I wish I could remember what I did to deserve this. What could I have possibly done? Kill somebody? Rob the Piggly Goddamn Wiggly? Shoot a firecracker off at a little old lady? What? he contemplated between bouts of agonizing brain throbs that erupted from out of nowhere. It was as if some unruly toddler had free reign over a remote control headache button and was pressing it repeatedly, toying with him senselessly and recklessly, nudging him toward the brink of insanity. But he wasn’t about to let that child win. He’d fight that relentless pounding with all he had. He’d kill that motherfucking kid. He’d rip his head off in order to regain a little peace and clarity.
While Hector struggled with his internal agony, a clack of boot heals echoed down the short hallway and into the cell. The wearer of those boots walked steadily and purposefully, not being the type to rush things, until he stopped where he wanted to stop—in this case, in front of Hector’s cell, where he stared at the blob on the cot pretending to be asleep. He knew that he wasn’t. He also knew that the kid knew that he knew he was feigning sleep. He had met this kid before. He knew the mother; he knew the kid.
Hector kept his eyes tightly shut as the clapping sound of boot-on-concrete waxed in volume before abruptly stopping outside his cell. When the man pivoted, he heard the grit beneath his boots. I wonder if he felt the world slide, too, Hector thought daftly from his dark universe of sound. Then he smelled the man’s cheap aftershave—a stench that reminded him of dog feces mixed with pine tar—and instantly knew who he would find standing there smiling when he opened his eyes.
I won’t open them. Even when he starts threatening me, I’ll keep them closed.
"Ahhhhh, to be young again," the man said in a deep Southern drawl. "Those long, carefree days of innocence and youth."
If I keep my eyes closed, he’ll think I’m sleeping. But I gotta keep still. I can’t let him see me move.
"Just like baby Jesus in the manger," the man said. "Asleep in the hay alongside the lambs of Jerusalem."
Then:
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Hector startled at the clamor, opening his eyes in time to see Sheriff Price holster his nightstick.
On his face, Caldwell Price wore a cocky grin that, not-surprisingly, matched perfectly his tan, creased pants and military-style shirt. Physically, he was the epitome of authority: tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, brown-eyed, mustachioed. He was also Butler County’s head honcho. The Man in Charge. The Big Cheese. Captain Asshole.
Hector hated the man with a passion usually reserved for religious zealots. Perhaps his hatred for Caldwell Price was his religion.
"Good morning, sunshine!" Price beamed. "Or should I say, afternoon. Glad to see you’ve finally decided to join the land of the living."
Hector rolled off the cot and landed on the stained floor with a loud smack. He tried to stand, but his legs didn’t want any part of it. So he sat with his back against the cot and stared up at the man who clearly had it out for him.
"Don’t worry about that," Price said, pointing at the soiled mattress. "We have turndown service here. Tell me: How was your night? Are you enjoying your stay?"
Hector grunted and looked away.
"You better look at me when I’m talking to you, son," Price warned.
"You’re not my dad," Hector spat back.
"Boy, you’ve got one hell of an attitude problem. You know that?"
Squirming to his feet, Hector lurched for the bars and grabbed them before his legs could change their minds.
"Maybe I wouldn’t have an attitude problem if you’d lay off of me and do your fuckin’ job."
Price guffawed, shaking his head and holding his Stetson so it wouldn’t fall off. "Boy, making sure you don’t screw up is my job. You may not like it, but I really don’t give a rat’s ass one way or t’other."
"Oh, yeah," Hector countered, swaying drunkenly. "Until you came along, things were going great for me. You fucked that all up."
"Woooo-weee! Such foul language from our Christ and Lord, Hector Graham. I tell ya, you’re the last perfect person left on this God-forsaken planet. You know that? You’re humanity’s savior. And to think, living right here in Butler County. Ain’t we the lucky ones! You heal the lepers, you feed the poor. Hell—pardon my French, O Lord—you even go out of your way every other weekend to hang yourself on a cross made of whiskey bottles and beer cans so we lowly sinners can live on forever in a heaven you created especially for us."
Hector scowled.
"Make all the faces you want; I really don’t care. Hey, I bet you can’t tell me why you’re in here this time."
Hector glared at the bastard, shot him the meanest, most bad-assed look he knew how to make. He glanced down at the sheriff’s gun and immediately felt the urge to grab it. He’d shoot the asshole right between the eyes, and the look on the sheriff’s face when he pulled the trigger would be—ahem—Priceless.
As if reading his thoughts, Price stepped away from the bars. He shot back a glare of his own. His said: Don’t even try it, fatty.
"Well?" Hector said.
"Well, what?" Price replied.
"Well, are you gonna tell my why I’m here?"
Price rested his hand on the butt of his revolver and stepped forward. "I thought you’d get around to asking that. Turns out you caused quite the ruckus over Greenville way." He ticked the offenses off with his fingers. "Let’s see, you punched a doctor—knocked him out, actually; you should be prou
d of that. You caused hundreds of dollars’ worth of damage to an exam room, which your mother will probably end up paying for, since you don’t have jack squat for money. And you did something to your mother that made her pass out and shit her pants—not necessarily in that order. My guess is she took one look at you acting like an animal and decided being unconscious was her best option—the old possum defense. Jesus, son, what the hell’s your problem? Putting your mother through that. And punching a doctor? You are one sick dog."
Hector remained silent throughout Price’s recap. The way the sheriff stood in front of him yet on the other side of the bars, confident and arrogant, made Hector wish he had the ability to vomit all over the man’s oily leather boots. It would be a petty revenge for a petty officer. Instead, when Price finished talking, Hector gathered himself and said pathetically, "I swear to God, I don’t remember doing any of that."
"Too bad, Hec. It don’t matter if you remember or not, because, trust me, you did. And in case you’re still confused, I’ll bring you up to speed on how you arrived in that holding cell you’re calling home right now."
Hector sat down on the cot, too nauseous, thirsty, and weary to reply verbally or even think sarcastic quips in Price’s direction.
"Okay—keeping quiet, I see. Maybe you are wising up. That’s good, Hector. Very good," Price said contemptibly. "You’re a very lucky kid. Your doctor thought you had rabies—we talked to him in the hospital after he woke up—but I didn’t buy that for a second. He told us how you were being rude and saying strange things to yourself while he was trying to treat some sort of animal bite on your back. I just said to myself, ‘That’s Hector being Hector. No big surprise there.’ I trusted his opinion about the bite, but I thought you were more or less just being your regular low-down self. I took a look at it—the bite, that is—after the doctors at the hospital doped you up. Nasty little critter. The doctor—the one you knocked out—thinks a raccoon did it, and I’d be inclined to agree. We had you tested for rabies. Oh, don’t look at me like that; there’s nothing to worry about—you don’t have rabies. But you will have to go through a vaccination process. If the doctor told me the truth—and I have no reason to believe that he didn’t—then that was exactly what he was trying to do before you went loco en la cabeza. He was giving you the vaccination, right?"
Hector nodded.
"Then why did you punch him, you idiot?! He was trying to help you! You’re so ungrateful. You know that? This doctor goes out of his way to help you, and what do you do to thank him? You punch his lights out. If I were him, I’d’ve thrown you to the wolves the second you cussed me out. I’d have kicked you out of the exam room and let you beat your rabies sickness on your own. I’m thinking about recommending this Doctor Imran for the Nobel Peace Prize. How about that? Talk about your Christian charity, and this guy ain’t even a Christian!"
"So I ain’t got rabies?" Hector garbled through chapped lips.
"NO!" Price shouted. Then, lowering his voice: "No, you don’t have rabies. But it’s nice to see you caring so much about your fellow man. The doctor is fine, thanks for asking. Missing a few teeth but doing fine."
"I didn’t ask," Hector replied, furrowing his brow.
Sheriff Price clucked his tongue. "You’re a moron. You really are. A heartless moron. Not once did you ask how your mother or the doctor were faring. You’re ruining lives—you know that, don’t you?—and you don’t even care. People are worse off for knowing you—I’m worse off for knowing you, and your mother is way worse off than me. You’re a drain on this town, and when you finally move away from here—and I pray every night that you will—you’ll be a drain on some other town, hopefully in some other county. I’ve tried so hard with you, but you never learn."
"I’m sorry," Hector said, guessing it to be the appropriate time to say something conciliatory.
"Save your sorries for Jesus, son, because He might still fall for them. Me, on the other hand, I’m not that gullible. It’s a matter of too little, too late. I see it in your eyes. You’re not capable of feeling sorry for anybody but yourself. But I didn’t come here to lecture you. Lord knows, I’ve tried and I’ve tried on that end and it got me absolutely nowhere. Plus, there are other things going on that need my attending to. Bigger fish to fry, so to speak. The world doesn’t revolve around you, in case you didn’t know. But before I leave, I will tell you this: the doctor isn’t pressing charges. Can you believe that? I can’t, because I’d sue your fat ass on general principle, poor or not. And, get this: your momma is waiting for you in the lobby. She came to pick you up. Ain’t that sweet?"
"So, I can go?" Hector asked, getting up and walking to the bars.
"Yeah, you can go," Price responded, twisting a key into the lock. Then, staring fixedly into Hector’s eyes, the sheriff said, "But word to the wise, Hector. You’re seventeen now. That means we can try you as an adult. Remember that. And I better not see you behind these bars again. Because if I do, I’ll make sure you do some time. We’ve got a file on you this thick," Price mimed the thickness with his thumb and forefinger, "and I won’t cover for your ass next time. Your momma and me are on the outs anyway, so why should I care what happens to you? Best thing you can do now is quietly ride out these last three weeks of summer, then when school starts, go to class every day and graduate. After that, move somewhere far, far away. You’ve got one year left, right?
"No. Two."
"Shit.