Two Creatives

Sometime last year I sat down for breakfast at an empty table. Although I usually sit with friends or with my cellmate. I tend to be impatient when it comes to meals. I often end up near the front of the chow-line, having sped ahead of everyone, and will sit at the first empty table I find. Usually my friends catch up to me. Sometimes they don't.

When they don't it's anyone's bet as to who will end up sitting next to me. There are over a dozen pods in my facility and each pod houses just over a hundred inmates (which is actually pretty small for a prison). I've sat next to and across from all kinds of people; murderers, thieves, druggies, the rich, the poor, and of course, the occasional sex offender. Many inmates become extremely anxious sitting next to people they don't know. I used to feel the same anxiety, but nervousness just seems to draw attention, and it's actually something of a waste of an emotional state. I haven't found a real benefit to it yet.

What the inmates worry about is being perceived as hanging with the wrong crowd, though said crowd's composition will vary depending on which inmate you ask. Personally, I stopped giving a shit. The only people I tend to avoid are the white-power types. I suppose I'm trying to live up to the personal expectation that I live in a post-racial society. I feel a bit at odds with myself because I'm trying to expand my compassion to include those who are easily vilified, including skinheads. I play most situations by ear. The result is that I have friends all over and zero problems.

On this particular morning an incredibly ugly man sat down at an empty seat across from me. I'm trying not to understate; he was really, truly, the ugliest, most hideous, most trollish creature I had ever laid eyes on. I had to consciously avert my eyes to keep from staring; he was that unfortunate. I had never seen him before. He elicited a strong aversion in me. I couldn't even bring myself to say hello at first.

And then he started eating. I had no idea teeth could grow so crookedly. Climbing at awkward angles, as if to escape his ragged, voracious maw, they revealed shades of black and brown seldom seen with the lights on. Truly despicable. I almost lost my appetite. Almost.

But I also became somewhat disgusted with myself. I knew in the instant it took to gather all of this information that the man before me had been thoroughly dehumanized all of his life. He was born for prison. No one talks to such a being unless forced to. This man had never known true friendship, love, kindness, favors, or sacrifice. They are just empty words to him. It never mattered what his crime was, he was doomed the instant his father's crooked sperm mingled with his mother's haggard ovum.

So I forced myself to say hello. I thought that if his mind might have somehow survived his life intact, I might have been able to redeem humanity somewhat by offering him a small kindness, even friendship. But his mind was gone. He was as ugly and useless on the inside as he was on the outside, which isn't to say he was completely useless, just mostly so. The rest of us have some pretense of a claim to humanity; this man's existence dispelled all such lies. His very presence taught a lesson that went miles over his own gnarled head and stunted spine.

What can be done for such cases? Society didn't even have the decency to chew before swallowing him.

It was too much for me. I would have had to spend years bringing that man to some semblance of dignity. But supposed he already felt dignified. What then? Would I have been the creature then?

We did trade small talk at least. He was a very depressed, bitter man, and he hid his sadness behind a thick veil of anger. I never saw him again. That's not very plausible in an environment like mine. Could this have been one of those situations where the protagonist was actually sitting at the table by himself all along?

Probably not. But I don't care much about objectivity anymore. I sort of tried.