One man awakened to the sound of shuffling
cards. A new man had moved
into the old man's cell overnight. The
four played spades at the table.
Each smoked. The television blared in the
corner. A car squealed away.
The water in one cell dripped, dripped.
The hands of the men curled gently over
the tips of the cards as they might
yet touch the shoulder of a woman. The
fingertips of the men, stained yellow
from rolled cigarettes, scooped up each
dealt card and slid them into suits.
"I ain't got shit."
"Come to papa."
Good hands.
Cuffed around muffled voices inside calling to those outside.
Quit trying.
"Aces. C'mon homey."
The hands of the young man were smooth as
chamois, no gullies cut deep from
years of hanging to the edge. Fingers still
learning to roll, never learned to type.
Teenage hands drawing super-heroes on a
piss-yellow steel table.
They sit in the stands at the softball field
at the Yankton Federal Prison; around
the table in the Woodbury County Jail;
in the Madison County Jail; on the cement
patio of the second floor county jail in
Orange City, behind the library, watching
the spring Tulip Festival through razor
wire.
The hands of the old man drank coffee with
both hands around the dirty white
cup marked in pen, like a mother's teat.
Nothing ever certain.
The hands of the men: long, white, soft
and slender, stubby and streaked, black,
brown, nails torn, bleeding, manicured,
and ready.
The men sat on steel chairs bolted to the
floor. Between games the young man
walked to the frosted cell window, wrapped
his hands around the steel bars
trying to force them apart, fit his head
while he thought no one watched, had to try.
Crude tatoos covering one's knuckles and
fingers. "Did you see this one, dude?"
he asked the new guy.
Their wrists were familiar with the chilly caress of steel.
A guard stomped down the hall with keys jingling.
"I got court today?" said one. "That's a whole
day sitting in a holding cell. I'm gonna
miss my visit. We s'posed to order store
today."
"No court. Visit," said the guard.
Hands that know just where to be so a guard can snap on.
Out in the parking lot, the hands of the
women, rummaged for change, dug past
food stamps, baby food and Old Golds.
The hands of the children raced to push
the bell for the visiting room.
The routine now part of their childhhood;
like cookies with lunch break and
school plays in the fall.
Hands mirrored hands on the plastic window
in the visiting cubicle. The large hand
caressed the small hand and the tiny balled
fist.
Bye. Bye.
Hands gripped stubby pencils. Daddy loves you.
Hands waved goodbye across a courtroom.
Who's driving you home? I'll call. I'm sorry.
Hands flushed and spotty with a rew rash, examined at midnight under a dim light.
Just one more smoke left. Last one awake,
waved to the guard making his
first check of the shift.
"How's it going man?"
"Top'a the morning to you, dude. It's a beautiful night in the big city."
"I would not know. I would not know.
"Hey. You got a light? Thanks. You have a good one."
"All right."
Hand flicked butt into the steel toilet,
held a photo, put it down gently on
the puke green table.
Inside a Bible a string of knotted cloth.
Sweaty, shaking hands tied the cord around
his neck, then to the bars, climb
to the top bunk.
Hands made the sign of the cross, push off. Snap!
Hands dangled loosely.
Good hands.
Click to order
Contact Mike Palecek at mpalecek@rconnect.com