Peas, Chicken, & Cherry Pie

“Thhhrt, thhhrt,” the plastic fork dragged across the plate following the rolling-away peas. Jason sighed, suddenly nostalgic for the clinking of real cutlery in his childhood home. ’Not that he wanted to think of home. Nothing could ever bring him back there. He’d been trying to escape since he was six. Since, well… you know.

Jason focused on shoveling his peas. One rolled off the lip of the cafeteria tray. Escaping, Jason thought with a wry chuckle. The damn produce had a better shot at freedom than he did. With a quick, vengeful stab, Jason neatly skewered the runaway. The emotion was short-lived. Jason switched back to autopilot and obediently lifted the fork to his mouth.

He thought of Jerome, his cellmate. Shit, that guy always smelled good. That kind of thinking could get him in trouble in a place like this. Again, the absurdity of the situation raced through Jason’s mind. In a few hours, he wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. He wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. He shuddered and returned his thoughts to Jerome.

Sometimes at night the large man’s arm would slip off his top bunk, fingers dangling inches from Jason. Jason remembered the first night he “accidentally” brushed against Jerome’s hand, and Jerome didn’t pull back. Their contact became more frequent after that. “Accidental” hand bushes, standing just a little too close, finding any excuse to touch – arm wrestling, feigning coughing fits that needed thumps on the back, even checking each other for head lice. Yuh nasty ass mofuckers. We don’t want no goddamn, bloodsuckin’, lil’ fuckers in here, naw do we? Jason thought of Jerome’s response to former cellmates who had walked in on Jerome knuckles deep in Jason’s hair.

He bit deeply into the chicken drumstick to suppress his grin. After that response, the two were never questioned again.

His heart panged, an empty feeling that raced to the soles of his feet and back up his spine. What would Jerome do now that he was gone? Jason coughed, choking momentarily on the chicken still in his mouth. His hands shot forward, and he forced half his cupful of water down his throat. Sputtering and gasping, he struck his thigh with his fist. That was his moment. If his hands hadn’t leapt for the water, he could have ended things on his own terms. 51 years of instincts don’t just disappear however. He was always too slow to catch on, Jason heard his dad’s voice say. It blended with his cellmates’ voices and the judges’ voices. There were too many judges. Too many useless public defenders, too many juries…

The C.O. on guard looked up at Jason’s punch. Jason took a breath, deliberately laid his hands flat, then continued eating. Peas, chicken, cherry pie – Jason has only tried the chicken and peas so far. The food tasted like nothing. He thought of the guys back in his cellblock. In the evenings, they reminisced about their favorite meals on the outside: Big Macs, jambalaya, chocolate ice cream, their girlfriend’s lasagna. Jerome always said roast beef on rye, corn pudding, and cherry pie. His eyes would get a faraway look and for just a moment, Jason noticed the tension in his shoulders would relax slightly. Jason had never eaten cherry pie, but if it could relax Jerome, it had to be something special.

The men in the block should be eating this, thought Jason, forcing down another flavorless bite of chicken. They might be able to get some flavor out of it. He absentmindedly shuffled peas around the tray.

Fight or flight, a volunteer prisoner instructor told him 20 years ago. The guy had come to the prison, young, brainy but woefully missing street smarts. He was one of those do-gooders who only lasted a year or two, but everyone knew he’d be talking about “the time he worked in a prison” for decades. Still, Jason remembered the fight-or-flight lesson. He wondered if that’s where he was now. ’If all of the blood in his body had rushed to his amygdala and that’s why he couldn’t taste. It would certainly explain the empty feeling running down his core.

Fight or flight. Of course, neither was an option here. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t flee. He wondered what blood did in a life-or-death situation when fighting and fleeing weren’t options. This isn’t life-or-death; this is death-or-death, his mind reminded him. He settled into a fog.

Still, a flicker of hope said, breaking through, Jerome would know what to do. Jerome always knew. He was smart. Smarter than people gave him credit for. He knew things, like the word “amygdala” before pasty, smartass volunteers came in to “give the prisoners an education.” Like we’d ever need an education, Jason thought angrily. Here he was 51-years-old, and he never needed to know what an amygdala was. Until right now, the little voice said. The thought amused him. Jerome would find it funny. He needed to remember to tell Jerome --

He wouldn’t see Jerome.

Jason looked back at his plate, largely untouched.