Jail Speak by Ben Langston

Author:Ben Langston [Langston, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ohio University Press
Published: 2020-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

Natural Manliness

HERE’S how to turn a man into a mustache: send him to jail. Pay people to identify him not as a father. Not as a son. Not as a contributor to the greater herd. But as “That guy in cell 113. The one with the stupid mustache. He’s yours. He stinks.”

Drill the paid people on this. This is for protection. Dehumanize that human. Avoid that hurt.

And I stripped the Pencil-Thin Mustache. Him in the cell. Me in the hallway. My commands delivered through the food slot like that morning’s biscuits.

He flicked his tongue suggestively.

I suggested he take it seriously before I took it seriously. I said this so the lieutenant in charge would hear.

Pencil-Thin took it seriously.

And I cuffed the mustache through the slot. Then unlocked the mustache’s door. Then told the mustache to stand at the wall.

The mustache obeyed.

And I stepped into the cell to search for contraband: from porn to weapons to an extra pair of underwear, I would have it all.

Then I would repeat the process twenty times for twenty non-fathers and non-sons.

I cuffed Caveman Bush. I put cuffs on Amish Neckbeard. I cuffed Red Mustache—his right arm in a full cast, so I ratcheted the other cuff to the bars at the end of the range.

He said, “This is stupid.”

I said, Yes, this is kind of stupid.

Then stepped into his cell.

I cuffed Sparse Fuzz. I cuffed Whiskery ’Stache. I had bad news for those two. If they couldn’t grow a decent scruff by twenty, they couldn’t grow a decent scruff. Not even when scruff is trendy. Not even by shaving and shaving to thicken the hair—because that’s a myth. It won’t thicken. I’ve tried.

I cuffed Pointy Beard and Trimmed Mustache. I cuffed his celly, Gray Beard. His beard just as pointy. His mustache just as trimmed. Even his neck was clean. His beard brushed my wrist when he bent sideways to pull up his jumpsuit with his teeth. I yanked my hand back.

He flinched and said, “Sorry, youngin.”

I said, It’s okay, oldin.

I stepped in the cell and searched for their contraband razor. Well-trimmed facial hair had no place in the bucket on a Tuesday. They could only shave Wednesdays. It was the jail of the jail in there, a well-lit and climate-controlled storage locker where inmates measured time by beard length.

And I flipped and squeezed the mattresses, shook the sheets, inspected the light fixtures. In the sink: curly hairs. Were they chinnies? assies? I couldn’t find the razor. They likely flushed it.

I cuffed Never-Ending Neckline next door. Before his bucket visit, he was chiseled and angled with razor-sculpted manliness. Chin art. But after sixty bucketed days for mouthing off to a guard with a shaggy goatee, his cheeks were fuzz. His sheets, the same: dusted with short-and-curlies. I shook them out and listened for contraband hitting the floor.

I cuffed the Fu Man Chu. I put cuffs on Muttonchops. I cuffed Lincoln Beard. I put cuffs on Natural Soul Patch. I cuffed Full Beard but Bald and got my cuffs caught in his wrist fur.

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