My name is Jerry Allen

Before I open my eyes, I sense a dimmed grey sky. The air around me is damp and smells of sweat and toilet disinfectant. A blistering headache outweighs any urge to find out why. I am on a hard surface. I must have fallen asleep in the garage. The last thing I remember seeing is the back of my car.

I can hear a whistling wind. There is a rhythmic thudding near me. My neighbors are at it again. I remember I’ve got work to do, software to design. I’ll need coffee first.

I feel terrible. I am exhausted but that's nothing new. I’ve never been a big sleeper. Once woken, I will not go back to sleep. No matter how hard I try. This is my predicament.

When I force my eyelids back into my skull, I discover I am not on the floor. Had I rolled over I would have fallen from the top of a three-story bunk bed. A face with black eyes peers back at me. I try to sit up. It's as though someone has taken a hammer to my head. I retch air for a minute before closing my eyes and composing myself.

I never get drunk, rarely leave the house. I’m confused as to what could have happened.

Cradling my head, I look back at Black eyes.

“Where are we?”

Black eyes shrugs and points to a sign on the door.

Centro Federal de Readaptación Social Número 1 “Altiplano”

“Es una prisión de máxima seguridad,” says Black eyes slowly. Then he smirks. Smugly? I don’t have time for this.

“No hablo español,” I mumble, shame-faced.

“Obvio,” Black eyes notes.

I try to recall what mistake might have led me, me, to end up in a maximum-security prison. I'm so boring I'm usually invisible. Top class nerd everyone underestimates. No one even really knows me in my neighbourhood, or that I'm a computer genius. I contemplate what everyone else in this room, what Black eyes, might have done to end up in a maximum-security prison.

The last thing I remember was leaving my dad’s. He’s been in palliative care for years, I try to go about twice a week for a chat over a decaf coffee. He’s never looked better.

We both of us lead solitary isolated lives. The lockdown didn't change much.

I drove away, I remember getting out because the car boot kept opening. I got a call as I was going to open it. That’s all I remember.

The memory of my dad, of the car, feel more real than this cell, its cracked walls and air of legend.

I don’t know what I did.

It’s six am, but no one’s moving. When a guard finally goes past, I ask to make a call but he rolls his eyes. Eventually, we’re unlocked for breakfast. I ask, again, to make a call. I need to call my sister, find out what happened.

At eight o’clock, which feels like days later, I’m led to a phone booth. I choose the collect call.

“Hey Louise?” I say as soon as she picks up, thanking God that she picked up.

Louise is half asleep, probably answered the call by accident.

“Jerry? Is that you?” she says.

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” I try to think of words.

“Where are you? You’ve been gone for days,”

“That’s the thing, I’m in prison. In Mexico,”

″What? How?”

“I don’t know, I was hoping you’d find out,”

I hear her sit up, the whirr of her sleeping mind. I’ve forgotten my hangover by this point, the curdles in my stomach aren’t even that preoccupying. Louise says she’ll call back for me, and try to find out what happened. Tells me to hold on tight. It’s not like I can do anything else. I’m hoping someone will call me into an office and explain that there’s been some mistake, but everyone has surly faces and the inmates eye me warily. I want to tell them there’s nothing to be suspicious of, but I don’t even speak Spanish. Surely there has to be a court case, surely they can’t just dump me in here and leave me to die? Someone has to be able to tell me how long my sentence is. I’m probably just here waiting for a judge’s verdict, right?

Louise doesn’t call back, but I am called into an office. The warden’s office. It’s vast and smooth wooded, his desk glints in the late morning sunlight. I swallow, hard, but he has a kind, clean-shaven face.

“There’s been some mistake,” I say.

“Yes, you’ve said that before,” he nods thoughtfully.

“What? What am I being accused of? I can’t remember anything,” I plead.

His face grows weary.

“Not this again. Mr. Albert Brown, after being condemned for murder, fraud, tax evasion and impersonation, you have escaped from every prison under the sun before being brought here,”

“Murder? Impersonation? My name’s not Albert,”

“Yes. Most recently you have impersonated one Jerry Allen, in Santa Barbara,”

“No,” I say, “that’s me, I’m Jerry Allen, that’s my name, just call my sister she’ll confirm it,”

“Really,” he nods again.

“No, no, I promise you there’s been some mistake,”

“Jerry Allen himself declared your fraud to the police,”

“That’s impossible!”

“Of course. Well, if your sister can recognize you, you had better ask to re-open the court case. But I don’t wish you luck.”

“I didn’t– I haven’t done anything! I’ve done nothing wrong,” I splutter.

He nods again, wearily, and I am ushered out by guards. I’m in shock. I remember that I have to call my sister, my dad. They’re the only people who would recognize me in the state of California. My boss back in Nebraska might, too. If this guy could find out about me, he can find out about them.

I ask for another collect call, but don’t know my boss’s number and my sister won’t pick up. I try my dad’s. Nothing. I try three more times, but there’s a queue forming and I’m looking more and more pathetic.

This can’t be my life, my real life, I think. And yet. Here I am. My name is Jerry Allen, and soon not a soul on Earth will know it.