Blackorwhite
By: Jay Allisan
He’s on the shitter the first time I see him: pants around his ankles, shirttail hanging between his legs, eyes shut and mouth corkscrewed with effort. The guard admits me to the cell and locks it again once I’m inside. Before I can say a word, the prisoner hollers, “Hang on, fellas, here it comes!” and what follows is a rambunctious round of flatulence and defecation that makes me grimace. When it’s over he cracks open one eye.
“They never let me have cheese,” he says, “on account of what it does to my guts.”
Another blast echoes inside the toilet. His face is red and strained but he’s grinning now. I count five teeth, two of which are rotten.
“You must be Mr. Morley,” I say.
“Ain’t nobody calls me that. Call me Fuzzy. You must be the doc.”
His left hand is shackled to the bar beside him. He sticks out the other. In light of where he’s sitting, I decline the gesture. He just shrugs and scratches his behind.
“Sorry to get you down here in the middle of the night,” Fuzzy says. “I told ‘em it’s only the cheese. Doc Yardley knows all about it.”
Fuzzy’s head is as glassy as a contact lens. Shapeless tattoos adorn his arms. His chest is sunken but his belly is round. He’s 71, though that seems like an underestimation. He shifts to the left as he passes gas, his toes curling.
“Yes, I’ve had a quick look at your file,” I answer. “How long ago was your meal?”
“Couple hours. Still got a ways to go. I only been sittin’ here for half that, give ‘er take. Yep, still got a long ways to go. Doc Yardley knows all about it.”
It’s nearing midnight. I left my wife and infant daughter at home. The forecast calls for heavy rain, and our new property lies at the end of a dirt road. At this point, there’s not much I can do. To be called out at all for lactose intolerance is profoundly irritating.
Best just to get this over with.
I lay my bag on the cot and find some quick-dissolve loperamide. I pop two pills from the foil and give them to Fuzzy.
“I expect it’s too late for these. You’ll just have to ride it out. Be sure to keep hydrated.”
Fuzzy gives me his gummy grin.
“I appreciate that, doc. It’s not so bad. Worth it, if you ask me.”
He farts loudly. I return the medicine to my bag. Fuzzy says, “Boy, I love cheese. You like cheese, doc?”
I close my bag and indicate for the guard to open the door. “Sure.”
“Didn’t always do me like this, you know. I ‘member goin’ into a house once and there bein’ a big block ‘a cheese just sittin’ there in the fridge, and without even meanin’ to I just took a bite of it. Mo found me there munchin’ away, and he said that the police had ways ‘a findin’ you based on your teeth prints. He said I hadda take it with me or else I would get caught, so I took it and I ate the whole thing. It was better’n winnin’ the lottery.
“Course, that’s why I never went to the dentist,” Fuzzy says. “Didn’t want them to get no teeth prints. Mo said if I’d just not eat stuff when we was doin’ a job then it wouldn’t be a problem, but I couldn’t help it. All them ‘lectronics meant nothin’ to me. I just wanted to see what’s in the fridge.
“He looked out for me, you know. I don’t care what no one says, he were the best big brother a kid could ask for. Always let me tag along. He was the one who took me for ice cream on my birthday, and he was the one who gave me my bicycle. He said it were from him and Momma, but I knew it were really from him. He just didn’t want Momma to feel bad. She’d cry sometimes, ‘cuz she’d get sad she couldn’t give us bicycles or new shoes, but Mo, he’d cheer her right up. He could do voices, you know, like characters. Momma always liked him to do Donald Duck. My favorite was Woody the Woodpecker. That laugh, boy, it cracked me up. That was Mo. Always good for a laugh. Hey doc, you mind gettin’ me a drink? I got a cup there on the sink, but I don’t wanna get up.”
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