Gray stillness in the halls of concrete and steel. Three incandescent bulbs hanging fifteen feet apart. Not enough light for the long corridor. After supper in the penitentiary in Texas, where the state kills, rapid pace, watch out down there. Fred Douglass isn’t a guard he’s a prisoner. But not in a cage. Not yet anyway. He wears blue denim too-long pants almost cover his black work boots. Calm aged. Been on the inside for all of time. Fred wields a broom, ancient rhythm, practiced and ingrained, smooth graceful habit like a retired dancer. Starts at the far end of the hallway, near the thick metal door that slams solid, and he lolls slowly, moving his pile from there to here. Pile quietly grows, patient. Dust and dirt, candy wrappers cigarette butts wasted packages torn papers condoms even a white chewed lollipop stick, broken pencil, and more paper. Mound at Fred’s feet, unhurriedly, boots his cuffs bristled braid of broom. Whether deaf or not listening to occasional catcalls you cannot tell. His fellow inmates have given up cajoling. Why would you? His grim features, staring down, thick brows and thicker brooding lips sometimes a toothpick, doesn’t flicker eye when you say anything and he likes it that way. Has to step and sweep in front of every one of those cells. Cages for human beings. How we do things. Down on the concrete, at the level of his black boots and worn denim, hand moves a pawn two squares. Hand black arm black. The same hand, down on the concrete, reaches through bars and slides the chess board until fingers stretching from another black arm from another cell drag the board away. Moments of considerable ponder. The second hand jumps the knight, poised to strike. No remarks. His opponent can’t see the move yet. The second set of fingers slides the board and it- the board- retrieved. Men on their stomachs inside their prison home. More silence, contemplation, more time. Fred eases his collection past the chess match moment captured on the gray concrete floor, musty corners and odors of men, container living, broom deftly snatches feather. A hand caresses the bishop then decides against it, settling instead on castling and push the board away to the next cell his friend, his move, and their fellow inmate curls reality toward the far end of the hall, to another steel door, under dimming light.
