JUICE IN A CLUSTER OF GRAPES
Daniel Eness
Published by Eortholic Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Daniel Eness
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Table of Contents
Juice in a Cluster of Grapes
As when juice is still found in a cluster of grapes and men say, 'Don't destroy it, there is yet some good in it,' so will I do in behalf of my servants.
I'm the only Chink I've ever known who speaks Spanish with a Texas accent. My mother is Japanese and my father is Puerto Rican, but I look Chinese. They met when my father was in the Marines, but I was born in Texas. I have never been outside the state. Now, I never will be. That's okay. My folks are going to outlive me.
I wish that wasn't so. I do hope they stay.
The windows in my cell and the windows in the hall leading to the exercise yard are large and thick and we get a lot of sun up here. Nearly every day is a sunny one, and the air, when I get it, is fresh and bright, like a desert. The seventh floor is the highest one in the building, and I can see to Kansas if I squint.
If I press my face too hard against the glass, it hurts because of a very old Bruise I have on my cheekbone. In my younger days, I was a professional boxer.
Don't worry, you never heard of me. I had twenty-two legitimate fights and seven knockouts. I lost nine fights but I was only knocked out three times, and two of those were just TKOs. The one time where I was knocked flat and got the full count was the time I got the Bruise.
Even so, on days like this, when the vapor in the sky turns pink at dawn, sometimes I can't help but press my face against the glass.
An hour must have passed without my notice, because I just heard a clanking sound. I turn around to see my Friday Friend.
"Good morning Hector," says Everett. He flips the latch and slides my breakfast tray through the slot.
"Sir, good morning, sir," I say back.
I slide my fingers down against my lips, down my chin, and then snap them a little nervously in the air. I didn't realize I had gotten so hungry.
Brown eggs and toast.
Along with the tray is a small board with a slip and a small soft pencil, like a crayon, attached to it. The form has several blanks on it, and at the top it says, "STCD Final Meal Request."
Everett 's shirt is too large for his thin neck, and his little head is pointed. He's strawberry blond and balding.
"Come up with a new song for me?" says Everett. He has his hand on the bars. He's the only guard who does that.
I'm blushing probably, so I lower my head, but smile. "No sir. I'm still working on it." I'm not telling the truth. I have finished a new song, but I am nervous about singing it to anyone just yet. The mood just isn't right. I'll sing it when I see him another day. Besides, I can tell he's in a hurry: his eyes have an urgent gleam.
He smiles and says, "Well, I'm looking forward to hearing it sometime. You have a great day Hector. I'll see you at lunch. I'll pick up that paperwork from you then."
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A T-bone steak, french fries, cornbread, Dr. Pepper
Herbie James ate the most common dinner for his last one. The only reason I remember that, my goodness it was a dozen years ago, is because his was the first last meal I ever heard of. I was new, and that was back in the old Ellis unit. Herbie was straight across from my cell. I saw him only briefly. He had restricted privileges, and graduated about three months after I got there.
He was white, a goliath with runny eyes, and a fighter, too: a dirty one – roadhouse, instinctive, brutal. A magician: he could make your brains disappear with one wave of his fist. Fought, fought, fought, till the end. Didn't gain him anything.
This morning after breakfast I learned how to make corn spoon bread from the lady on the radio. I guess that's what got me thinking of Herbie. The lady sounded like a white version of my Aunt Guisada.
Auntie G. always had goats. I know, I know, but all I'll say is that those of us who have had a goat don't fathom what's so terribly funny about them.
Horns, warm bellies, warm milk. Auntie G.'s goats kept her company, kept her defended, and helped her put food on the table. Great food. Enano was her favorite, a little black peppery, lop-eared beast – sweet, sometimes slept with her if it got really chilly.
The radio lady said "scant" where my Aunt would have said "leedle", but they both say "butter" just the same: "budder." And cornbread like "cone braid."
Herbie ate everything but the cornbread. I guess he had to leave something behind.
Superstitious folks spread rumors that Herbie left his soul in the cornbread before they took him away, and that the cornbread was put into a locked box, and buried in the prison cemetery.