THE PLAY …
The electronic doors
buzzed open and, like an old friend, the stale air welcomed the three
outsiders. The scents of cigarette
smoke, Friday’s fish, and Pine-Sol swirled into a concert of memories and
associations, victories and frustrations, as the three hauled their props and
surprises up five flights of stairs behind an indifferent police officer. They knew that he, like many of the officers,
only tolerated their presence as one of the necessary nuisances in a day’s
work. Curious faces peered through small
glass windows in the steel doors separating the tiers from the stairwell. Beige-uniformed inmates stopped their mopping
as the three gingerly tiptoed through the sticky mixture of Kool-Aid and floor
cleaner.
Then they were
there. Distorted music, shouting,
running water, and banging pots signaled the summit of this little world behind
bars. Familiar faces came into focus and
smiled a welcome to the trio. Some
newcomers surveyed their arrival without expression or comment, reserving their
own opinions until later.
Through the cafeteria they lugged their bags, blackboards, and
charts. Would anyone be waiting for them
in the multi-purpose chapel? Would anyone make it tonight at all? They held their breath as the guard opened
the door. The low hum of the air
conditioner partially drowned the commotion outside, but still clouds of
cigarette smoke hovered over the kitchen area and floated into their
sanctuary. It was empty.
Waiting. Always waiting. And wondering. Who
will be here? Was anyone “shipped”? Tonight was a special night. Months of preparation would culminate in one
glorious dramatic production of the theatrical venture they had been rehearsing
with the inmate-students of the English as a Second Language class. The result would be an almost-professional
video of an exciting robbery followed by an arrest, arraignment, and trial with
a surprise ending. They had collected
costumes and props – borrowed firemen’s hats with tin badges on them for the
“cops,” Latin background music for the burglary in the Spanish-American market,
ties, umbrellas, raincoats, wigs, plastic handcuffs and water pistol, even a
black graduation gown for the “judge” to wear!
Some of the rehearsals had been so boring that the students had not
bothered to come to class, but everyone was in the mood tonight. One by one they came, through the library,
into the chapel-classroom-courtroom, each with a script and a grin. The grins grew bigger as their senses tuned
in to the bachata music playing from a small cassette
player on the bookcase. There were no
refreshments, and no women except the two tutors, but it was like a party.
The inmate-actors picked
their ties and sorted through the props for their costumes. During their incarceration
many had forgotten how to tie a tie, but those who remembered were generous
enough to lend a hand for the task.
Someone filled the toy cash register with play money. Someone else put the empty milk and egg
cartons and cereal boxes on the podium, which now became the supermarket
shelf. The teacher hung a sign on the
blackboard-backdrop advertising “Come in – We’re
Open.” The bandit donned his purple
sunglasses, blue raincoat, and red bandanna, and seized the water pistol. The market “owner” in his white apron pressed
the PLAY button on the cassette recorder and swayed to the music.
One. Two. Three! The video
rolled, the narrator said his piece. A
robber rushed into the store and the play was on its way. The camera captured the robbery, the arrest,
and the initial hearing. Prosecutor and
public defender battled each other in perfect harmony. Retake!
A witness forgot his lines.
Two hours rushed by. The officer, amused and patient, waited. The allotted time for the program slot ran
out. The cameraman
needed to leave anyway. The would finish next time.
But the ever-present ominious
question remained – Would they all be there next time? Don’t anyone leave,
they joked. Bittersweet
laughter. Jailhouse jokes. Humor is funny, but freedom is better. Gloriously, ecstatically better. But just not this week. Please.
In a five-minute flurry two dozen hands packed props, ties, and recording
equipment. Talented actors, cops,
robbers, lawyers, and businessmen, like Cinderella and
her footmen, at the stroke of
The three left the same
way they had come in. Conflicting
emotions rattled through each of their minds.
The scenes had been played well, and half the
production was safely stored on videotape. But still those
doubts nagged. What would await them
next week? Who would still be
there? More importantly, who might be
gone?
They each drove home,
still thinking.
And the next morning the headlines shouted the news,
echoing the verdict reached, undoubtedly days before:
“
They were gone before we
could even call.
by Marilyn Gorgas,
May 1993