Fiddler on the Bars

Some days I forget my name completely. Occasionally, I hear it like a deathbed whisper, carried down the halls, shuffled along with the heavy thunk of black boots. People still ask me my name, and I say, “I think it's Charlie.” No one cares beyond that. Here, my name means nothing.

I want to tell you what I think about names, your name...but I haven't the time, the next is coming.

He'll only come over when I dip my hands into the scalding water, never quite acknowledging me, but listening ever so closely, his hand rubbing the front of his pants. He won't know it burns me, pains me. They don't care; they don't notice.

“1357...C...47...3.” I whisper this to him, our eyes on the man in blue. He slides a small plate into my water and exhales slowly. He can't keep his other hand away from the front of his coarse denim pants. The man in blue turns toward us, his eyes sharp. Our casual encounter is suspected. Mr. Crotch Fondle lingers too long before walking stiffly away.

I duck my head, letting the steam melt me into obscurity. This is my life. I think I'm Charlie.

Villi collects the wood-shavings. I've never asked where they go. Inside you rarely ask questions. The people on the outside don't understand. You don't understand. Many men have died asking questions, usually the right questions at the wrong time. They often die from wounds they can't recover from, wounds inflicted by my handiwork. That's why Villi collects wood-shavings, because I whittle weapons.

The men in blue suits, only a shade lighter than ours, know I make kidney-pokers, but we've an understanding between us: only bad men get speared with my spears. I've very strict rules about where my tiny works of art lay to rest.

When I started making my wood-whistles—named for the sound a throat makes when inserted—business was good. I could be selective in who I sold to and what I took for exchange. But recently those nighttime deadly lullabies haven't been heard. Don't ask me why. I really don't know for sure, and I know not to ask. Who can predict the ebb and flow of stabbin'?

But I'm resourceful. I'm a regular hard-knocks Renaissance Man. And I got needs. Even on the inside it seems like it's human nature to live beyond your means. What I collect don't come cheap. But enough of that; here comes a customer.

When I'm in my room, they wait until I bend down to tie my shoes. Villi goes over and sits backward on the pot. He doesn't want to hear.

“8475...B...54...8.” It's as easy as that. I'll get my payment after he gets his. For wooden pokers I charge up front; for the other service, I like to let the market of gratification determine my fee. I've only been stiffed once, and now he always will be.

I'm not too proud of my new line of business, but I'm good at it. I got a naked eye for these things. It also helps that I get to wander the halls on occasion, late at night, and observe the forced-labor monks being themselves. It's almost poetic. It's like the darkness and solitude reveals the soul.

And it's because of the blackness of Sgt. Anderson's soul that I get the privilege of hunting unescorted at night. His needs are vile; but I provide him what he needs, and he leaves me to mine. It doesn't really bother me; I know I'm a criminal...I only think I'm Charlie.

You must really be wondering what I do. So, I'm about to pull back the curtain. I'll show you my world.

I have never followed one of my clients. I've never had an interest in what they do with my information, as long as they pay me for it. But I'm going to do this for your benefit.

When I bend down to tie my shoe, or when I dip my hands into the water, I say four sets of numbers and letters. The first set is a prisoner's identification number, his bar code, if you will. The next is a floor number; then, a location; last, a time.

Tonight is one of those times I get to roam. I'm headed to level B—the second floor of our mansion; area 54—the first-aid room. I'll be there right at eight o'clock.

Two large shadows dance behind a thin white curtain in the dim light of a candle. There is no sound. Level B was placed on quarantine for the night. Earlier in the day an inmate stood on a hospital cot and showered the man next to him and the nurse who came running over screaming, begging him to stop, and the guard who whacked him with a club. He owed me a favor.

There will be no patrol in area 54 tonight. The bow-tied present in Sgt. Anderson's office will persuade him to keep the dogs in their cages.

The moon is full; the stars shine crisp in the cool night. I can't see it from here, but I know it's so, and so do those two dancers behind that swaying sheet. Magic crackles through the near empty room. I don't want to stay any longer. I've shown you enough. I said I wasn't proud, and I'm not, but damn I do my job well.

Yeah, I'm a prison matchmaker, and I think I'm Charlie.

Word Count: 913.