Grant part 1 of 3

  Grant           

"This is my job and I'm going to do it,"

Cretian Prison Guard

          Ex-ambassador Seamus Grant had entered general population of the Cretan International super prison with a pounding headache and weak knees. The brightly lit open area that served as the classroom, the cafeteria, and hang-out for the diverse group of prisoners had six round cement tables staggered about it. The base of each table met the floor and plunged uninterrupted into it as if it were a large concrete mushroom that grew from the concrete floors. Each table could seat six if two squeezed on each of the three cement benches that orbited each table. When Grant and the guards first entered there were different amounts of inmates at this table or that and only one harbor all six.

The ones at the table of six sat around a board of chess.  Other inmates at other tables were looking up at a small TV high in the corner of the room.  Chess and ‘The Price is Right,’ Grant mused, this isn't so bad. Across from the TV was the upper tier of the cellblock where the doors were ajar. Some were swung wide open while others just barely. Grant looked down at the lower tier which was where the guard holding his right arm guided him to. These cells, the bottom tier, were all closed and locked except for the one on the end. Some had faces in the small thick window looking out at him while others held inmates within sleeping, pacing, and one was doing push-ups next to his bunk. As Grant passed the game of chess the players and spectators turned to look. He wondered if they all spoke English or were from places he had heard of before. The guards guided him to the last cell. There was a ticking noise coming from inside the cell that sounded through the opening and grew louder as one guard pulled the heavy baby-blue door open. "These are-" the guard stopped and corrected himself, "-or this is your new cell partner. Seamus Grant this is Mark Mann." Mann was a short with a medium build who was either Mediterranean four Newtopian.  He had been clicking a pen methodically and stopped when they entered. They stared at each other and then the guard who spoke continued, "so go ahead and-"

"Come on," the other one prodded. "It's really not that important they're not babies."

"This is my job and I'm going to do it." He never turned to the other guard but instead turned from Mann to Grant. "Do you want to shake Mann's hand?"

“I don’t even know the guy,” Grant heard himself say.

The guard shook his head and turned to Mann, “Do you want to welcome your new cell mate?”

“Screw you,” Mann replied high and hoarse. 

The guard shook his head, “Ok,” and then changed his tone turning to his partner.  “They’re going to be more socially stunted than a eleven year-old.  Did you know that Earl?” he was now very upset.  “In thirty days this one,” he pointed at Grant, “this one will have a lower IQ by thirty points.  Have you stopped to think why they tell us to do this?  There is a lot of focus on us right now.  Big people, important people are looking at us now every day and seeing if we do our job right.”

“No,” the other retorted, “see you’re just afraid of losing your job.”

“Yes, yes I am but the thing is-,” and they closed the door behind them leaving Grant facing Mann who stood up from his bunk.  Mann had a deep tan, white hair, and freckles.  He wore blue pants and a bright white v-neck sweater.  When Grant was trying to decide if Mann was a young man who looked old or an old man who was lean and muscular Mann abruptly said, “I get bottom bunk, my stuff is my stuff.  I pray once a day.  Don’t clog the toilet.” He’s done this introduction before, Grant thought bleakly. Maybe this will be like a chess game.Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

“Yea sure,” Grant agreed.