Dysphoria: an Appalachian gothic by Sheldon Lee Compton

Author:Sheldon Lee Compton [Compton, Sheldon Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cowboy Jamboree Press
Published: 2019-04-29T20:00:00+00:00

He stood for a few seconds with the phone in his hand. The woman without emotion was licking her thumb and separating papers. She wore a dark blue uniform, neatly pressed, and her hair was pulled back in a bun so tight her eyes were left as two small slits. She didn't seem interested in rushing him, so he tried to take a minute and decide who to call. It might be a long time before he had the chance again. He knew his grandfather and the sheriff were close.

The phone rang five times before someone picked up. It was his grandmother.

"Mamaw, this is Paul."

"Paul, honey, where are you?"

"Listen, I'm in jail down here. Can you--"

"Lord, honey, don't tell your papaw."

Paul heard a loud click and then nothing. For about a full minute, he stood with the phone to his ear. When he finally took the phone away from his ear he instantly regretted it.

"Okay. Back in.” The high strung desk clerk's voice was dry and deadpan.

"She hung up on me," Paul said in his most truthful but least whining voice.

A deputy jailer had him by the arm, pinching the muscle, moving him away from the desk and the clerk who hadn't looked away from her stack of papers.

He spent the next three hours in a corner of the holding cell watching a skinny man with dark hair holding his knees and rocking back and forth. He was facing the wall and whispering while he rocked. Two mats down from him, Blackfoot was talking about a dream he had. In the dream he had AIDS, he said. The cell door opened about four hours later.

"I need to make another phone call," Paul said quickly. The guard had two plates in his hand and was pulling a metal table with four others closer to him with the heel of one boot. Paul realized he sounded like a typical inmate, complaining and making demands, but he had no choice.

"I been in here, in this holding cell, for two-hundred and seventy-three days.” It was Blackfoot leaning in close to his ear. "I never made one phone call. They put me in here to get me out of the general population. Can I have your coffee?"

The guard finished handing out the plates of food and then wandered over to Paul. "Won't need one. Somebody's out here gonna post your bond, I think."

In the holding cell there was a single window, and although it was large, it was rendered fairly useless to the inmates by a set of blinds that were apparently forever closed. No one had bothered to open them once in the several hours Paul had been pacing around the cell.

Now he rapped on the window, lightly at first, and then gaining steam with impatience. In the upper left corner, two of the blinds moved apart. Paul could see a small feminine finger and hooked thumb keeping them apart.

"Hey!"

The blinds opened for the first time since he had gotten there. Synthetic light poured through in bars of blue and pale yellow.

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