Vernon God Little (34 page)

‘That's right.'

‘Does it have black writin on it, or red writin?'

‘It's the red one, all right.'

‘God, Jesus in Heaven – I'll give you two hundred for that letter,' he says.

‘Lemme see that,' Jonesy snatches the letter through my grille. He studies it a second, then says, ‘It's got your name on it, that ain't no good to me.'

‘Officer Jones,' I say, like a schoolteacher or something, ‘my execution-kit has a last will and testament in it – I can
leave
it to you, see?'

‘Little, wait!' yells another con. ‘I'll give you three hundred for that letter.'

‘Fuck that,' hollers another, ‘I'll make it
five
!'

‘Pipe the fuck down,' shouts Jonesy. ‘Didn't y'all hear he gave it to
me
?' He checks his watch, then points through the grille at my slippers. ‘Get ready.'

When the clinking of his keychain is out of earshot, a giggle flutters along the Row. ‘Hrr-hrr-hr, fuckin Jonesy,' go the cons.

‘Little,' says the con next door. ‘You finally learnin how to git along.'

Officer Jones personally marches me along the Row, and down the stairs to find Lasalle. We have to sidestep a porter pushing a trolley loaded with TVs and radios on their way back to the cells. That means the vote is over. Behind the appliances struts the dark-suited man with the execution papers. It's his job to deliver the papers to the head warden of a Row, so that he can deliver them to the condemned man. As the suited man passes, I see Jonesy flash him an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. The man just as imperceptibly shakes his head, and walks right on by.

‘None of my boys dyin today,' says Jones. My gut relaxes. I live again, for now. When we reach the floor below, a different floor this time, Jones sticks his head into a regular-looking room, but nobody's there. He calls to a guard up the Row.

‘Lasalle around?'

‘In the cans,' says the guard, ‘takin a dump.'

Jonesy takes me to the shower block on the floor below, and marches me right inside.

‘Ain't we gonna wait for him to come out?' I ask.

‘No time – it's execution day, I have to get downstairs. You got five minutes.' He casts a shifty eye around, then he leaves me with this echoey drip of brown-sounding water, and goes to stand outside the door.

I crouch on the wet concrete floor, and scan under the cubicles for evidence of life. Two cubicle doors are shut, not that you can lock them or anything. Under one door hangs a pair of jail slippers, and regular jail pants. Under the other is a pair of polished black shoes, and blue suit pants. I knock on that cubicle.

‘Lasalle – it's Vern.'

‘Aw Jesus. What you think I can do for you from a prison fuckin toilet?'

‘Uh – help me face my God.' I hoosh it ironically. I guess it's ironic, hooshing when you're in the prison shithouse on some poor bastard's execution day.

‘
Shit
,' he gripes.

Everybody's tense today, see. Tension even buzzes through this can door, like we just met in the freezer section of
Death-Mart
or something. Waves rise to engulf me.

‘Really wanna meet you God?' says Lasalle. ‘Then git on you damn fuckin knees.'

‘Uh – it's kinda wet out here, actually, Lasalle . . .'

‘Then make a fuckin wish to Santa. Ask for what you most want in this damn world.'

I think for a second, mostly wondering if I should just leave.
Then, after a moment, I hear Lasalle's clothes rustle inside the cubicle. The toilet flushes. He opens the door. His ole turkey neck appears, poking out of a collar and tie. His bottom lip juts dumb.

‘Well?' he says, looking around. ‘You a free man?' I look around, like a dumbo, while he straightens his tie, and raises a polite hand to the door. ‘Officer Jones,' he calls, ‘any news on the boy's pardon?' Jonesy just laughs, a real dirty laugh. Lasalle glares at me. ‘So much for fuckin Santa.'

‘Some preacher you are,' I say. I turn for the door but he grips my arm and spins me around. One tubular vein stands out from his neck, throbbing like it lives on a reproductive organ.

‘Blind, dumb
shit
,' he spits, his breath like hot sandpaper in my ear. ‘Where's this
God
you talk about? You think a caring intelligence would wipe out babies from hunger, watch decent folk scream and burn and bleed every second of the day and night? That ain't no God. Just fuckin
people
. You stuck with the rest of us in this snake-pit of human
wants
, wants frustrated and calcified into
needs
, achin and raw.'

The outburst takes me aback. ‘Everybody needs something,' I mutter.

‘Then don't come cryin to me becausen you got in the way of another man's needs.'

‘But, Lasalle . . .'

‘Why you think the world chewin its own legs off? Becausen the goodies are right there, but we can't fuckin get 'em. Why can't we get 'em? Becausen the market for promises need us not to. That ain't the work of no God. That's human work, animals who dreamed up an outside God to take the heat.' Lasalle pokes a trembling lip at my face. ‘Wise the fuck up. Intermingling needs make this world go round. Serve that intermingling, and you needs can get fulfilled. Ever hear say, “Give the people what they want?”'

‘Sure, but – where's that leave God?'

‘Boy you really missed the boat. I'll make it simple, so's even fuckin
you
can understand. Papa God growed us up till we could wear long pants; then he licensed his name to dollar bills, left some car keys on the table, and got the fuck outta town.' Water rushes to his eye-holes. ‘Don't be lookin up at no sky for help. Look down here, at us twisted dreamers.' He takes hold of my shoulders, spins me around, and punches me towards the mirror on the wall. ‘You're the God. Take responsibility. Exercise your power.'

Four men appear at the door: two guards, a chaplain, and the guy in the dark suit. ‘Time for the final event,' says the suit.

My eyes snap to the cubicle where the other prisoner takes a quiet dump, but the men walk right past it and grab hold of Lasalle. His lip juts dumb again, his shoulders droop. Through the corner of my eye I see Jonesy calling me out.

‘Lasalle? You a
con
?' I ask.

‘Not for long,' he says softly. ‘Looks like not for long.'

‘C'mon, Little,' calls Jones from the door. ‘Lasalle won the first vote.'

‘But Lasalle, was that like – the secret of life?'

He tuts and shakes his head as the group march him to the door.

‘I mean – what's the practical . . .?'

He holds a hand up to the guards. They stop. ‘You mean, how do you
do it
? Big yourself up – watch any animal for clues. As for us
humans
– check this . . .' He pulls a lighter from his pocket, and motions us to hush. He clicks the lighter once, softly, then cranes an ear toward the toilet cubicles, where the other con still sits out of sight. After a moment, you hear rustling in the cubicle. Then a lighter clicks inside. We watch a puff of smoke rise up, as the con drags on a cigarette he didn't even know he wanted. The power of suggestion. Lasalle turns to me with a smile, and clicks his lighter in the air. ‘Learn their needs, and they'll dance to any fuckin tune you play.'

Jonesy grabs my arm as the group turns to the corridor. I wrassle free, and pounce a couple of steps after Lasalle, but Jonesy
threads his arms through mine, headlocking me from behind. It's what he needs. I don't struggle.

‘
Thanks, Lasalle
,' I holler.

‘No sweat,
Vernon God
,' comes the voice.

‘Boy,' says Jonesy, when he gets me to the stairs, ‘you really bought his bullshit.'

‘Somebody told me he was a preacher.'

‘Yeah,
right
. Clarence Lasalle, the fuckin axe-murderer.'

I lie awake on my bunk tonight as Lasalle's execution buzzes from the TVs along the row. I expect to hear Taylor's voice, but one of my fellow inmates says she left the show to try and be a roving reporter. She has all the contacts now, I guess. Just needs that one big story. Anyway, we only catch the last hour of the show. Lasalle doesn't make any final statement, which seems kind of cool. He chooses ‘I Got You under my Skin' for his final tune. What a guy.

This view of my ceiling grows familiar over the rest of the week, I even work on my art project, underneath a towel, lying here on my back. The entertainment appliances disappear again, right after Lasalle's event, and I get to thinking about his last talkings. It all sounded too simple, like a TV-movie or something, like just any ole thing they'd run violin music to. It gets me thinking though, about my wasted ole damn life. They don't even have job descriptions for the kind of talents I have. I guess the tragedy is that I should've been up there as the prosecutor, or even Brian Dennehy – I'm the one that can sense stuff about people, and situations and all. Sure, I'm not a great student or anything, or athlete or anything, but I have these talents, I'm sure I have. I guess the way their powerdimes mount up against mine, the final tally of dimes in the power system means they go through, and I don't. One learning, though: my big flaw is fear. In a world where you're
supposed
to be a psycho, I just didn't yell loud enough to get ahead. I was too darn embarrassed to play God.

Watch any animal, said Lasalle. Give them what they want, and watch any animal. I can understand the giving thing, but I spend nights all the way to the Ides of March, I survive two, then three more execution votes, trying to place the animal clues. I end up watching these useless brown moths that thwack around the light in my cell, felty splinters torn from nighttime, lost and confused. I guess they're animals. I hear moths are actually programmed to fly a straight line, steered by the moon. But these supermarket kind of lights mess up their navigation. Now look at them. I watch one snag behind the light cage, spanking dust off its wings in puffs. Then, ‘Thp,' it spins to the floor, broken. The light just buzzes on. So much for the moon. I can relate to moths, boy.

Fantasy animals start to infect my dreams, linen spaniels that romp with Jesus, but in daylight I struggle to make sense of Lasalle's concept. I guess the only permanent animal I know is Kurt the dog, and I ain't sure he counts when it comes to the Secret of Everything. Ole Kurt, who drives himself crazy with the smell of next door's barbecue, who props up his self-esteem by being president of the barking circuit. You know he wouldn't be president of anything, if the circuit knew how damn measly he was. He would've been laughed out of town, if they knew. But they don't.

I sit up on the bunk. Kurt gets by with the bark of a much bigger dog.

‘W
ell but, Vernon
, are you using the bathroom every day?' ‘Heck, Ma.'

‘It's just that this week you're up against that sweet cripple who supposedly killed his parents. And he cries all the time.
All
the time.'

‘You sayin I look guilty?'

‘Well on camera you always just lie staring at the ceiling, Vernon, you can be so
impassive
.'

‘But I didn't
do
nothin.'

‘Don't let's start that again. I just don't want the day to arrive and you not be – you know,
ready
– it's March twenty-eight tomorrow, I mean, that'll be another vote under the bridge . . .'

Death Row always hushes when my ole lady calls. I guess it's like that in TV-land too, you know how entertaining she can be.

‘Did you get the thing I sent for Pam?' I ask.

‘Well yes, and thank you very much, from both of us. You know, we were even saying . . .'

‘Mom – I think you should use it at the, you know – the time . . .'

‘Well that's what we were saying . . .' I wait while she gives a bitty sob, and blows her nose. My eyes mist up too. She leaves the receiver for a second to compose herself, and returns with a sigh. ‘Then we can just remember you the way you were – just imagine you're out on your bike . . .'

‘Sure,' I say. ‘That's why I sent the token – you can use it at any branch y'know.'

‘Well we're very grateful, specially if you saw the price of a
Chik'n'Mix
lately. Pam and I will use the token, and Vaine can pay for her own . . .'

‘And Ma – tell Nana she don't have to come up here either.'

There's a pause on the line. ‘Well – Vernon, I haven't told your nana about, you know – the trouble. She's old, and she only watches Shopping anyway, she won't have seen the news – I think it should just be our little secret, okay?'

‘And when I don't show up for lawnmowing this spring?'

‘Oh hell – Vernon, the gals just arrived and I haven't finished Vaine's skirt.'

‘Vaine's wearing a
skirt
?'

‘Listen baby, we're canvassing votes for you, so don't worry – some people end up waiting years on drrth rhrw . . .'

After the call, I lay back on the bunk and plough things over in my mind. Needs, boy, human needs. Mom once said Palmyra was into food because it was the only thing she could control in her life. It wouldn't run from the plate, or stand up to her. I think about it, and see Leona sucking attention like sunrays; ole Mr Deutschman savoring his mangle-headed tangs. Sympathy dripping giddy into the aching sponge of Mom's life. Melted cheese and Vaine Gurie. Give 'em all what they want, I say.

I know the
Barn
token is a good want to give Palmyra, but I should think of something especially for Mom, even though another death in the family will probably fix her true need, like for sympathy. Shame it has to be me, though. And, know what? Who else I'd like to fulfil before I go is ole Mrs Lechuga. She's had a hard time of things, and I regret the stuff I said about Max. I guess I'm just pumping cream pie about it all, this giving of wants and whatever, but – what the heck. You only die once. Strangely, I even feel I should grant something for the ole jackrabbit media. You can only guess what they really want.