Page 7 of Caged In

“Thanks.” Izz accepts the tray—with its different-sized sections to hold things separate, like the foods’ have vendettas and need to be segregated.

Reni nods at the gratitude, sliding his tray along to pick out foods. Izz mimics the tray slide motion, shuffling along after Reni.

The food does not resemble the nasty slop he’d pictured on multiple occasions during his hours at trial. Instead, he faces a selection of different soup choices. A rich orange pumpkin soup. A soft, clear, chicken noodle soup. A deep green coloured soup with floating green chunks, resembling broccoli—if the broccoli was frozen and mashed into a soup consistency. And there’s acheesy pasta dish, next to hunks of bread and different spreads. With small bottles of juice and water huddled together at the end of the row.

“What can I get ya, newbie?”

Izz glances at the towering inmate who addressed him. A beefy dude with hair buzzed into a short, to the scalp, style. Tattoos leaking from his head, over his jaw, down his neck, spilling out his sleeves to run down his arm. His face is clear of tattoos—other than a star above his eyebrow.

Izz peeks at the short blond inmate serving Reni, and notices he has the same star above the eyebrow.

A gang mark?

He clears his throat, turning his full attention to the server. “The pasta, water, and bread with butter, please.” Choosing the pasta as a safe option.

He likes home-made pumpkin soup, that store bought crap tastes nothing like pumpkin. He isn’t foolish enough to believe the prison buys fresh pumpkins to make their soup from scratch. It would be some sort of watered-down pumpkin-flavoured powder.

Gross.

The inmate serving Izz laughs. “Damn, so polite.” He moves along to slap out the foods onto Izz’s tray. “Wish the rest of these pricks had some damn manners.”

Izz slides his tray along, following the server down to collect the food he had asked for. Politely smiling to his server, not sure how to answer the statement, or even if he should.

Don’t piss off the hand that feeds you.

“Extra pasta, ‘cause I like ya, kid,” the server winks at Izz. And proceeds to bellow‘next’—so loud Izz’s ears cringe back into his skull—as the server makes his way back to the start of the food bar to serve the next inmate.

The four inmates serving meals are continuously shifting places to run up and down the serving bar, moving four inmates at a time through the process. Working like clockwork to get the meals distributed fast, the coordination is something that could only be acquired over years of practice. These are pros—

How long have they been here? to work together so efficiently. Moving as one, without the need to speak their actions, anticipating the others’ movements before they’re made.

Izz departs the area to follow Reni, who’s waiting for him to finish collecting his meal. He trails behind his cellmate as they head over to a table near the back of the room, three rows down from the corridor entrance leading back to their cells.

4

Reni dumps his tray on the table which already has four inmates seated around it. They all look up at Reni’s arrival, sending him friendly greetings—

The warm welcome drains away to a dull tolerance as everybody’s eyes shift over to Izz—a synchronized movement, as if they rehearsed it—hitting him with the same intensity to shrink an elephant—

Did he forget to put his pants on? A swift glance down says no. So not a real-life naked walk through, like his stress dreams as a child—showing up at school naked. Wouldn’t that be a shockingly memorable first impression. He’s not sure he wants his first impression to be the pantless newbie.

Reni plants his ass on the bench, tucking his long legs under the table, gesturing for Izz to take a seat in front of him. Pulling Izz out of his irrational inward freak-out.

He complies, plopping down onto the hard metal bench, with the kitchen behind him—placing the vast majority of the room to his back. Everything is overwhelming, he’d prefer to ignore the room, and pretend he isn’t surrounded by hundreds of inmates. He can see a few in his peripheral—as well as those at the table—but the rest are shielded from his sight. If he drowns out the constant noise, he can almost forget they’re behind him.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Reni clears his throat, and begins the introductions. “Everyone, this is Izz. Izz this is Phelix.” Flicking a thumb to the short-haired blond, at his side, with sleeve tattoos covering the inmate’s hands and palms.

Phelix smiles, nodding at Izz. His golden curls an unnatural glossy gold, a pigmentation Izz has never seen in someone’s hair.Delicate strings of gold, shaping his face in an almost movie star fashion.Almost, if they pulled a movie star out of a real-life drug cartel. He gives off the vibe of someone who’s powerful without the need to show it off with brute force. The man who gives the orders from the background, disappearing those who don’t follow those orders to his satisfaction.

“That’s David—” Reni continues his point-and-name routine. Jabbing his finger at a sizable guy next to Phelix.

David wears a cluster of scripture tattoos on the sides of his face. The swirling text is too hard for Izz to make out the letterings . . . or read the script. It has the feeling of something Godly—purely based on the way its script resembles the old English text painted on parchments in church movie scenes.

It’s saying something that all my references for judging ‘bad guys’is based out of movies . . .

“He’s Erik,” Reni waves a hand at the inmate across from David.

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