Page 2 of The Care of Broken Things
“Pleasure to meet you all. I’m Eli Thompson.”
Samuel didn’t attach meaning to the words, too busy with that voice. It was deep, as befitting a man of that size, but it had none of the roughness Tank’s voice had. This was rich and rhythmic. A bit like the operas Jenny liked to listen to. He'd never understood why before; now he did. Eli's voice sank into his skin and dissolved in his blood to spread all through him, stirring things up everywhere it passed. Thankfully, he wasn't aware of those changes, or his terror might really have turnedhim to stone. No, he was only thinking it was a good time to go sneaking off back to the library when Mathews snapped, “Fuller! Get this man his gift basket.”
The gift basket was just the shitty collection of items given to new prisoners. A garbage toothbrush, some no-name toiletries, and a pair of plastic shower slippers. In general, he didn’t like running errands, but worse was that it meant walking past Eli again.Don’t look at him, he warned himself.Keep your eyes down.
If he’d been any more in control, he would have been less horrified and more curious about his own reaction, but he was so embarrassed and so afraid he could do nothing but flee. He didn’t even remember fetching the gift basket. It was just suddenly there in his hands, and the thing was worse than he remembered. The toothbrush was one of those garbage motel ones, and the slippers were just a sheet of plastic with a band across them. Then there was the shampoo—if that's even what it was. He popped the cap off the top, and the smell of industrial chemicals practically melted his nose hairs. He couldn’t hand that shit over. Just the thought of Eli putting such harsh chemicals on that fairy-tale skin had him shuddering.
He went right to Frank, who was happy to see him, though only because he was one of the only customers to tip the man when he picked up his orders.
“Hey, Fuller. Forget something in your order?”
My damn Skippy’s, he wanted to say. “I was an idiot who left his kit in the showers, so I need a replacement.”
“I’m surprised anyone’s stupid enough to rob you.”
“Probably didn’t know it was mine.”
“Doubt it. You’re one of the high rollers here, and that OCD of yours is easy to spot.”
He didn’t know when basic neatness had become a sign of pathology. “Just give me another set.”
In addition to the basics, he chose some other things. Eli had a shaved head. He didn’t know if the man meant to keep it that way, but he'd find it difficult if he did. Razors were loaned out at timed intervals, but too infrequently to be convenient to take advantage of. Electric razors were predominant— for those who could afford them, anyway. He put one into Eli’s kit. He also bought whatever vitamins were in stock, basic medical supplies, some essential clothing items (socks, underwear, undershirts) some of the better commissary snacks, and, of course, toilet paper. He had to get another bag to fit all the stuff inside—a sign he’d gone overboard. Would the man notice? It could take a while to get a new commissary account up and running, and he didn’t know the state of Eli’s finances. The stuff in commissary wasnotoffered at discount prices.
Eli wasn’t in the cafeteria when he returned, still receiving the grand tour, and that gave Samuel the opportunity to rid himself of his embarrassment. He went to the barracks, and hunted around the empty beds. Bottom bunks were more popular than top bunks, and that kept them full, but top bunks had their benefits. He himself slept on a top bunk. It made him inaccessible to the others. Eli, he decided, was a bottom bunk man.
He looked around. “Tweaker!”
The man was picking at some balled-up tinfoil in his lap. Even among prisoners, he was an oddball. The man pointed at himself and tilted his head.
“Yes, you." As if anyone else wanted that nickname. "I need your bunk. Clear out.”
“But you don’t like bottom.”
“It’s not for me. Here. I’ll trade you.” He handed Tweaker all the shitty originals from the welcome kit along with some beef jerky and a package of honey buns. Tweaker’s face narrowed in suspicion. “All this for the bunk?”
“And you don’t talk to the new guy.”
“There’s a new guy?”
He sighed. “Just move.”
He switched out the mattress (Tweaker didn’t shower enough) and set the bed with some fresh linens he stole off the laundry cart. Eli’s bunk was strategically chosen to be near enough to see from his own bunk, but not so near he’d be tortured by the man’s smell and gleaming skin. At least, he hoped not. Some images were burned worryingly deep into his mind already, but that was just the way of first impressions. Soon the man’s glow would be eroded by the trials of prison, and he’d be just as gross and unlikable as the rest of them. Hopefully.
He was safely atop his own bunk when Eli finally came in.EYES DOWN, he warned himself, but swore he could still feel Eli looking at him, burning his skin like he’d taken a lighter to him. He felt his face heat and cursed his curiosity. He should have gone back to the library.
Eli was approaching.
He told himself to stay calm, but his hands were suddenly too big for his body, giant shovels swallowing his book. He kept his eyes on the page, but Raskolnikov was no longer speaking to him.
“Hey.”
His eyes snapped up from the book. Too quick. Too obvious.
“I just came to say thanks. Michael says you’ve really decked me out.”
The name skated over him, totally foreign, until he caught the grinning Rat in his peripherals. Michael. Technically, it was the man’s name, but nobody used it. Even his mother called him Rat now.
He dropped his eyes again. “It’s nothing.”
