Runcible Spoon

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Who Vic Was


Nights I slept in a cell, days collected trash along the country roads. My one buddy was Vic Allred who, while drunk, beat his friend to death with a pool cue. He never told me why. Vic was a model prisoner. I'd sold pot to Deputy Leonard and was no danger to anyone. Vic liked to talk about the books he read and swore he'd never take-up religion. We agreed I had no business there. He promised to protect me this go round but said he would fuck me himself if I ever came back. Not much happened during my eight months. I learned to sleep beneath yellow lights, to not decipher whispers. I helped guys write letters home and read The Plague, George Jackson, Dostoevsky, “The Lady with a Little Dog” and whatever was  available in the little library. I believed in dialectics, tried to not think about my release date. I don't remember much more. My girlfriend changed while I was away. College the next year was sweet. I decided to major in the History of Ideas. After five years my record was expunged. Vic escaped and held-up    a   drug   store   with  a  stolen  gun.