6. Calaboose
“Another one in the clink?” Chubby Bernie asked, knowing full-well the answer, as he rubbed his tucked-in shirt that stretched across his intimidating belly and wondered about the man in black next to the passed out body of Bobby the Bottle, a regular.
“Uh-huh. Now, ya wouldn’t think it – on accounta only seeing his back, on accounta his head in the terlet, on accounta he was drunk and still is – but it’s the old Reverend Sheffield.” Replied Soft Jerry, the new kid under the badge, who was constantly shifting his cap by the plastic bill, trying to look like he’s worn it for years.
A few inches away from the greased surface of water in the toilet, Sheffield’s eyes opened, blinked several times, then locked shut. Dry-heaving. Shaking. Alive. On his knees. He wasn’t at all cognizant of his location, but he was vaguely aware of the conversation in the room.
“Old Sheff? You gotta be shittin’ me like I’m a bran-muffin!” Not even Chubby Bernie had so much as heard of such a thing. By Chubby’s estimation, Soft had to have been shitting him.
“No, sir. He was out breakin’ empties ‘gainst the the chapel steps. Broke my heart to do it, I swear, but I hadta haul him in.” Soft Jerry grinned his cheeks sore while snapping bubblegum between his molars. “An’ he’s all stinkin’ of corn-whiskey, mumblin’ how they ain’t no God no more, wiggln’ ’round like a night-crawler.”
Reverend Sheffield’s faith had been called into question decades prior, but in as much time he had successfully stifled the urge to answer such questioning. He would hear the voice of God and that would dominate all doubt. Recently, he had been prescribed Risperidone, and after months of taking it, he no longer heard the voice of God.
“Well, what on earth happened?” Bernie’s eyes were a sight.
“Reckon he lost his faith, C.B.”
Reverend Sheffield had first called his faith into question decades prior, but in as much time he had successfully stifled the urge to answer such questioning. He would hear the voice of God and that would dominate all doubt. Recently, he had been prescribed Risperidone, and after months of taking it, Sheffield no longer heard the voice of God.
(Jerry had hoped “C.B.” would catch on around the department. He knew Chubby Bernie was a perfectly serviceable nick-name, but when Jerry finally got labeled Soft, he wore it like a cap and gown, and he felt so touched by the gift that he wanted to return the favor, and then some. The first stage was “C.B.” If and when that caught on, stage two would be to start referring to him as “Radio.” Were “Radio” to stick, Soft Jerry would find himself in a unique situation, wherein he could refer to Chubby Bernie’s good moods as “FM” and his grouchy moods as “AM” And this development was sure to become a regular form of ongoing amusement for the whole gang – assuming everyone in this theoretical reality could get past the fact that the name “Radio” had first arrived under the implication that it was a Citizens’ Band radio. This logical discrepancy would sometimes keep Soft Jerry restless at night until he hushed himself by riffing dialogue in his head, always ending with a phrase comparable to this one: Radio, what’s got you all switched to AM about?)
“Well, I reckon no-fuckin’-shit he lost his damn faith, but where’d he go and lose it?”
“Could ask him, but I wouldn’t wanna be the one to smell the answer.” The rookie held his own within the brusque banter and this made Chubby Bernie smirk up to one side before making his third lap to the coffee pot that night.
In the morning, Sheffield woke to Bobby the Bottle shouting, “Forgive me Father, for I gone and sinned! It has been never since my last confession!”
“Go on, leave the Reverend alone! You said you’d play nice if you got your precious coffee.” Soft Jerry yawned over his own mug of coffee while Chubby Bernie snored beneath his cap.
Bobby the Bottle pressed his face in between two bars and said through a half-drunk giggle, “Anything you say, Softy!” And then quieter, to Sheffield, “How does it feel to play for other team?”
“Hmm?” Sheffield could feel his heartbeat in every part of his face, and when he raised his head and tried to focus his eyes, the pulse rate seemed to triple.
“Now that’cha got you a taste for sin, you gonna keep it up or pray for forgiveness?” Bobby the Bottle was still riding the drunk out before the hangover took the helm.
Sheffield had not much more strength than it required to squint and grimace under the flickering florescence that obscured the gleams of natural light coming in off the sunrise. Soft Jerry tried to throw a pencil at Bobby the Bottle, but it bounced off one of the bars.
“Go on, now.” Bobby the Bottle had dropped just above a whisper. “Tell me: is this little hiccup gonna set well with your God?”
Sheffield closed his eyes without trying and said, “I have no God.”
“Oh yeah? That’ll be the hoot of the week. A preacher who preaches, ‘God is dead.'”
“How could God be dead?” Sheffield snapped back. “He hasn’t been born yet.” An unearthly silence fell, save for the metronomic contrast of Chubby Bernie’s snoring. Soft Jerry realized that the sleeping superior would want to see this.
“Hey Radio, wake up and give an earful to the Reverend!” Soft Jerry went blanch in the face and hoped that Chubby Bernie did not just wake up to hear that future nick-name slip. Sure enough, the snores kept coming.
Bobby the Bottle and Sheffield looked to Soft Jerry who was taking deep breaths. They both thought he had said this last comment to the radio on his desk.
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