12 April 05

Pops and Slingblade
It’s 1pm and I’m sitting with Pops at a picnic table. Pop's is talking about his cellmate, Slingblade (they live next door to me). It's rumoured that Slingblade came back from Vietnam and killed his father in law . He barely talks to anybody but he can often be seen standing alone in the day room, staring blankly or cackling and muttering to himself. When he gets excited his body trembles and he shakes his massive fists. He is heavily medicated and his jumpy behaviour has caused most inmates to stay away from him.
“So how’s Slingblade doing, Pops?”
“He’s getting worse. I’m gonna' have to get out of that cell. As soon as he gets his toilet paper, he trades it for soda, and then he wipes his big butt with pages out of the TV Guide and takes a shower to clean his ass.”
“He wipes his arse with the TV Guide?”
“Yeah. He craps a minimum of three times each day. He already went twice today. He sounds like a pop gun when he’s shittin’ – pwk-pwk-pwk –like his ass is shootin' out a wad.”
“What’s a wad?”
“A little round turd.”
“Like rabbit poops?”
“The same shape but bigger. He’ll sit on the toilet for fifteen minutes and then he starts sneezin’ and coughin’, and the cell stinks.”
“How do you hang with that?”
“I cover my face with a sheet or a pair of ol’ worn-out shorts. I’ve got a jar of perfumed vaseline that I put up my nose.”
“And do these methods work?”
“It don’t stink so bad, but sometimes it comes through the sheets.”
“Why don’t you just leave the cell before he goes?”
“Oh hell! He never tells me that he’s gonna go. Sometimes he’s talkin’ and he just pulls his pants down and – bam! – before I can even move.”
“How long has he been your celly?
“Three years and he gets worse and worse. When we were in CB2 [a different prison] in single cells, five guards came in, opened his cell, and threw a five-gallon pail of water, with a bunch of disinfectant in it, on him. He was layin’ on his bunk and they just threw it on him.”
“Why did they do that?”
“Because he wasn’t cleanin’ his room, makin’ his bed, or takin’ a shower or nothin’.”
“Are the rumours true that he pees in the sink?”
“Yeah. I’ll be sittin’ on the pot and he just can’t wait.”
“Who’s that you’re talking about?” a Chicano inmate called Cortez asks.
“My celly. He’s crazy.”
“Yeah. I saw him in the shower the other day barefooted,”Cortez says.
“I told him that if he keeps peein' in the sink I’ll have him moved out. He has no manners. He’s never heard of Emily Post.”
“I haven't either," I say.
"Who’s Emily Post?" Cortez asks.
“Where’ve you two been? She wrote the best book on etiquette ever written. Ol’ Slingblade doesn’t read a goddam thing. He doesn’t write or anythin’. He crawls up on his bunk, turns the TV on, falls asleep, snores loudly and leaves his goddam TV on all night.”
“Does he go to the store?” Cortez asks.
“Yeah, he got eleven-hundred dollars recently, and he eats all the goddam time. It’s half spent already. At CB2 someone dropped a hamburger patty and asked for a new one and ol’ Slingblade just picked it up and ate it – like a Dewrock Jersey hog.”
“Did he clean it off?”
“Nah. It was layin’ in the dirt on the filthy floor. He didn’t give a damn.”
“I’ve seen him eatin’ out of the trash bag," Cortez says.
“Oh, yeah. I saw an officer once stop him from eatin’ a bun and a hamburger out of the trash.”
“Doesn’t he get enough food?” I ask.
“Hell no! Never. He’s all gut. He’s not built. He’s got a flat chest. He just sucks in air and gas. He doesn’t chew anythin’ Have you noticed him quiverin'?”
“Yeah,” I reply, fixating on Pops' unshaven turkey neck that wobbles as he speaks.
“He takes psych meds," Pops says. "If I clap my hands, it sets him off. He’ll be going duh-duh-duh-duh. In all my life I’ve never come across such a person before.”
“Is the rumour that he strangled his father in law true?”
“I heard he walked in and found his wife huggin’ another fella and he just squeezed her to death.”
“Does he have kids?”
“One daughter.”
“Does she visit him?”
“He’ll no!”
“I don’t know if he was ever slimmer but I can’t imagine a woman under that guy,” Cotez says.
“I see him laughin’ a lot,” I say.
“Yeah. All the time – whether he’s layin’ in bad or on the pot, it's like he’s watchin’ Bob Hope with the TV off.”
“Does he choke his chicken in front of you?” Cortez asks.
“He lopes his mule layin’ on his side facin' the wall. I can tell cause he’ll be squeezin’ his butt cheeks, tryin’ to get his rocks off. Sometimes I clap while he’s doin’ it and it’ll startle him.”
“Does he make a mess?” Cortez asks.
“I don’t know. If I was gonna do it, I’d take a wash cloth or old towel, but I don’t have to do that. I’ve had a very good life with female friends and sweethearts. Most guys are stupid, they think that women are fuck machines.”
“And how do you view women?” I ask.
“I treat 'em like ladies, and if they want you, they’ll make the moves. That’s what I always found.”
“That’s good advice,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Do you think that there’s any difference between European and American women?”
“European’s have hairy underarms,” Cortez says.
“I’d say that European’s have better manners, they’re real polite.”
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