Grant (part 1 of 3)

Grant

"You don't win in this place,"

Cleaver, C.I.S.P. Corrections Officer                

The moisture against Grant’s body after the brief hot shower hadn’t had time to bead before he took a towel to it.  He kept his eyes on his feet as he walked to the row of benches beyond the shower room.  Curious to see if Mann folded his clothes or just tossed them he looked to the right of his own clothes.  It turned out Mann folded his orange pants and they were beneath a t-shirt and pair of underwear that was crumpled and unfolded. A little bit of both.  Then he put his own clothes on.  The march to the open area was brief and beige.  The heavy door silently opened to the ‘play area’ that seated chess players, philosophical debaters, and silent watchers but all of them prisoners in the Cretan International Super Prison. 

No one paid Grant any mind when he entered but a tall Syrian moved to allow him space on the concrete bench when he approached.  Simion, a tall dark citizen of the Marshall Islands, sat to the right of Grant.  Jiancarlo, Simion’s friend from the same region, sat across from him.  The two played chess in mostly silence. Simion said, “bitch,” quietly as he took Jiancarlo’s rook with his knight.  Jiancarlo quickly took the knight with one of his own.  Simion still had a strong line of pawns and a mostly empty back row.  Jiancarlo’s line of pawns could hardly be called a line at all.  A staggered group of four pawns were all that remained of his forward formation. 

The battlefield was a ripe mess according to the Syrian, Joseph, “Just before you got here they each took four or five pieces of each other’s. You can see there.”  And he pointed to the black and white pieces already out of commission.  Mann sat down across from Grant and next to Simion without a word.  Joseph stood and left letting more space for Grant.

“Couldn’t ever have known.”  The voice was so close that Grant spun around immediately to discover the source.  Cleaver’s lean white face was so close that Grant’s nose nearly touched Cleaver’s. Grant jerked back from the corrections officer and knocked down one of Simion’s bishops.

“Hey, what do you want?” Grant asked leaning as far back as his twisted position would allow.  Cleaver rose and said, “There are things that happen around here, ambassador, and they don’t have to involve you.  Maybe you thought you’d come in here and run the show.”

“Aww, come on Cleaver,” Joseph said who was still nearby. 

“Quiet! And it’s officer Cleaver to you, you…confused waste of my breath.”  Then addressing Grant again said, “The only reason you’re here and not back up in solitary is because you got people in high places.”  He moved to sit next to Grant.  “So I’m here to tell you in front of all your friends,” they’re not my friends they’re my voters and you’re helping my cause, Grant thought to himself. “You don’t win in this place.  I do!” Cleaver added.    He looked around at the others who had quieted and stopped playing chess.  He tipped Jiancarlo’s king making it fall, “Check mate, you’re dead.” The very pale and very bald guard stood up from the concrete table and left.

Photo by Janette Buffardi in Milwaukee, Wi