The Seared Chicken

by Barlow Crassmont

I barely done a set of curls before guard Rawlins pulls me off.

Warden wants to see you he says warden I say but it wasn’t me that done JayJay last week he had it coming with the Wasps but he waves his hand no no he’s got a proposition for ya warden’s office is cold dark impersonal opposite what I imagine the outside feels like I no longer remember after twenty four years the penitentiary is all I know in another six I’ll have a third hearing my parole was denied last two times but third time might be the charm the warden says how would you like to be allowed outside on a daily basis I ask seriously he nods my heartrate escalates palms sweat breath shortens I can’t believe my ears but he continues my friend owns a small fast food chain needs people grill man sandwich maker someone to make fries sweep floors mop after closing he can’t pay much business struggling but he got a family to raise the gig’ll do you good get you away from here and you’ll put money away can’t beat that right I wait for him to finish then raise my hand I say this is not a joke you’re not putting me on he shakes his head serious as a heart attack I stick my hand out prematurely he shakes it then hands me a sheet or two or three I put my John Hancock on each making it official you start in three days he says before I leave his office later I spot Higgins Brown he’s playing endless chess games against himself I sit across he check mates me in six moves I tell him of my offer he approves any hour you get outside of this hellhole is a gift from heavens I smile and say you’re right but butterflies soon set in I can’t sleep the following night tossing and turning my bunkmate grunts and curses threatens to shut me up if I don’t quiet down I close my eyes and silently curse this place curse my bunkmate curse entire institution I count minutes until first day I board the bus along with four other inmates Buck something Fred this or that Carl whatever and Jimmy who gives a crap we’re driven out of county in a van passing farms and ranches when we get to the restaurant it’s a burger joint The Seared Chicken neon sign flickers even during daytime loads of people standing in long lines around the block grease and fat aroma overpowers cholesterol fills the place like a haunting entity the manager shakes our hands sounds civil respectful not something I see a lot of soon I’m training on the burger-making pair of buns cheese lettuce tomato onions mayo mustard and a sizzling patty to boot before long I’m putting them together like a card dealer extraordinaire every item precisely placed in right size quantity amount the manager’s smiling patting me on the back saying I’m his golden goose we chuckle and develop a unique camaraderie the hours pass quickly by the time the bus takes us back I climb into my cell with aching legs arms sore back but this is just day one it’ll get better and easier once I get accustomed to the work and hours my posture will adjust weeks go by then months I’m doing six day weeks twelve hour shifts with two half hour breaks I’ve gained weight nibbling at work on loose fries they limit our bathroom breaks I heard Carl nearly pissed himself the other day but after three months first paycheck arrives I’m shocked it’s not even five hundred for toiling twenty four days each month how can that be I ask the manager we technically pay you sixty percent more but your institution takes a cut it’s in the contract you signed but he never told me that he doesn’t have to you gotta look at fine print is it possible my dreams have turned into a sham I thought I could earn enough to afford a place of my own by the time I’m released but at this right rate I won’t have enough for a coat and pair of boots in two years’ time how’s that fair manager looks at me funny I sense resentment his smiling ceases and previous cheerfulness is replaced by scorn look you’re a good worker but you are a criminal whaddya expect a six figure salary while you’re still incarcerated that’s just crazy I shake my head and grind my teeth in silence best not to say what I can’t take back who knows he could tell warden I’m complaining and I’ll be back in the yard where time crawls slower than a limping snail over following weeks my back aches like hell but I fill those shifts cover my station prep the burgers and sandwiches without a peep seventy two hours per week for all that I get less than a hundred and thirty what kind of life can be had my solitary day away from Seared Chicken is the holiday I look forward to like faithful to scripture my parole is creeping closer and closer but I’ve not much put away on the side despite living breathing dreaming burgers fries soda grease fryer stink of summer vapor invades my pores and can’t be removed even after twenty showers warden tells me of new fees and taxes and job related costs I have to pay including transportation to and from work which is crazy now they charging for rides which we’re put on against our will and when we’re given a new uniform shirt that’s also taken out of our pay but it is what it is I think to myself it’ll get better I must keep a positive mind when I see old Higgins in the yard he smiles leans in at least you’re not out there where fools commit assault daily on each other I nod you’re right you’re always right but as I later ponder on it in solitude I’m not sure anymore most days are indistinguishable from one another I miss the yard and the mess hall and my cell in unimaginable ways I watch the sunrise on the way to work with a fleck of hope that today will grant a new lease on life but by the time I glance at the weeping moon on the way back shoulders slumped eyes weary spirit beaten inspiration as difficult to find as a saint in lock-up Rawlins takes me to see the warden again he says he appreciates what I do and how positively I represent his institution also you must continue working at Seared Chicken until further notice how long I ask who knows several months maybe a year or two we’ll see and just like that I’m discouraged from rebelling if I reduce my days or hours my sentence will be extended and I’ll never get out that’s crazy my lawyer hasn’t returned my calls for the longest I can’t find a friend or an ally within or without my inmate colleagues at Seared Chicken keep to themselves tolerating their objectives with muffled whimpers that can be sensed if not heard the shakes of my head are soon limited to internal pondering I question the warden’s power detest his bullying ways the more I think of the unfairness the more rage builds to a boiling point he can’t do all he’s doing right the few inmates that listen during chow hour say no technically on a legal level he can’t but guess what he’s in charge and connected to the governor and the corporations who funnel millions into this place no one will stop him especially not an insignificant felon so I put my head down glance over my shoulder and hold my winces as my deteriorating back bends and my fingers are burned and hands scarred on a daily basis I curse the restaurant and those who run it my colleagues even myself this is no way to live the realization that I’d rather be back at the penitentiary cuts deep slashing my hopes disintegrating my dreams but what can be done I’m up against it a minority and a felon to boot I’ve no chance against the system so I labor and toil with head held high I serve Seared Chicken’s superiors as if they were the warden and the guards of the pen I’ve been condemned to because when you think about it both are a type of dungeon it’s just that one has bars and the other doesn’t.

Barlow Crassmont has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East, and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages.  He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Wilderness House Literary Review, Sudo Journal, and in the upcoming 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.