Chapter 6: Rich Boy Problems

Quincy

It's dinner time, As usual, the prisoners jeered loudly upon seeing the guards roll in the food tray. Most of them complain of not having enough food to keep them standing. Some, in dying need to detoxify their guts. The guards—turning on deaf ears—dropped the food through the hatch like we were zoo animals.

I watched the metal tray hit the floor with a metallic clack, the contents jiggling like something that had once been alive and very, very sad. The feeding system in Blackbridge Correctional Facility is the last thing I would ever get used to.

“Dinner’s served, sweetheart!” one of the guards called out, sounding entirely too gleeful about it. It was the same guy with the sharp-eye and a long scar across his cheek, who called me the ‘fund guy’ the day I arrived here. I could hardly tolerate Jordan calling me those persky names, the was doing same. Maybe I think I wouldn't mind risking my six months jail sentence just so I could plunge my fist into his face.

Jordan was already grinning from the bottom bunk. “Aw, you shouldn’t have, Officer Marsh…”

Marsh. The weirdo's name is Marsh. As in Marsh potatoes, after the proposing impact of my punch.

“…Is that your mama’s recipe or just leftovers from the dumpster out back?” Jordan's tone was enough to make Marsh's jaws tightened, his left eye twitching.

Marsh glared through the slot in the door. “Still got that smart mouth, Vex. You’ll swallow it along with your tongue one day.”

Jordan winked. “Swallowing has never been a problem, sir. Just depends who’s asking.”

What the…

The door hatch slammed shut so fast, the tray trembled.

I moved from my bunk, sitting on the floor, the tray between Jordan and I. My attention zeroed on the tray the moment Marsh footsteps receded.

The "meal" looked like a war crime on a plate. It's out usuals with no extra-flavorer apple this time. They usually made switches after every two weeks—that’s what Jordan said.

Just when I was getting used to the bad taste of the cream bologna sandwich with Eve's Apple, they introduced me to something much worse than the latter. Some kind of gray meat blob swimming in thin gravy, a scoop of mashed potatoes so over-whipped it was basically prison frosting, and a square of what might’ve been cornbread in another universe. Maybe during the Great Depression.

Jordan leaned back on his elbows and kicked his boots off with a sigh. “You just gonna stare at it till it evolves legs and leaves?”

I glanced at him, then back at the tray. “What… is that?”

“Dinner.” He stretched like he was on vacation and not in a cement box. “Meatloaf-ish. Kinda like mystery meat, had a bad night and woke up with regret.”

I prodded the meat blob with my spork. It wobbled. I recoiled. “Jesus Christ.”

“Nope. Even He wouldn’t eat that.”

“It’s wet,” I muttered. “Why is it wet?”

Jordan rolled over on his side, resting his head on his hand like we were about to have a slumber party. “That’s the gravy. Or the tears of inmates past. Honestly, no one knows.” he shrugged.

I picked up the mashed potatoes. A thin film of skin had formed over the top like pudding left in the sun.

“I went to Le Cordon Bleu,” I muttered without thinking.

“Is that like French for 'sassy dumbfuck snob with delicate taste buds'?”

I looked up at him. “It’s a culinary school.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, definitely that second thing.”

I pushed the tray aside. My stomach growled in protest, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. I’d lasted on the cold oatmeal we have for breakfast. I think that was the least of the worst meals I've had here, and even those were starting to taste like they were not only seasoned with spit and pepper spray, but they had mucus growing on them for extra flavor.

Jordan swung his legs down and picked up his own tray. “Watch and learn, Richie Rich.”

“I’m not watching you eat that.”

He grabbed his plastic spoon and dipped it into the gravy and slurped it dramatically, moaning like it was orgasmic. “Mmm. Notes of despair. Hints of mildew. And just a whisper of a rat.”

I gagged.

He grinned, mouth full. “Don’t be so soft. You’ll get used to it.”

“Used to it?” I echoed. “I used to fly private just to avoid airport food. This isn’t food. This is… revenge. On a tray.”

Jordan didn’t even flinch. “That’s cute. You think this is bad. Wait till breakfast and change the course of breakfast after the fourth week. By the time you try the new one,” he chuckles, showing off a set of perfectly white dentition, “you'll call the oatmeal you're used to, your best meal.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Shocking.” he mumbles, wiping his lips

I leaned against the wall, legs tied to a knot, arms folded across my chest. The ceiling above me had a crack that looked vaguely like a screaming man. I stared at it until my eyes blurred.

Every sound in this place grated on my nerves—the distant buzz of fluorescent lights, the echo of yelling from another tier, the constant clink of metal on metal. I used to live in silence. Thick glass windows. Custom walls. A $12,000 espresso machine that hissed like a polite whisper.

Now? Now I slept to the lullaby of someone crying three cells down and a guy named Roach scratching himself rhythmically against the bars like a dog with a bad flea problem.

“I don’t belong here,” I muttered.

Jordan didn’t answer for a second. Then: “Yeah, no one thinks they do. That’s how you end up here.”

“I didn’t mean—” I sat up. “I didn’t kill anyone. Or sell drugs. Or whatever it is you—”

He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever it is I what?”

Shit.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I mumbled.

He tossed his half-eaten tray under the bunk and stood. “Yeah, you did. You still think you’re better than everyone in here. Especially me.”

“I think I’m different,” I snapped. “Not better. I—”

“You think you’re innocent,” he cut in, leaning forward so he could stare into my soul and probably snatch the words that were left unsaid. “And you think that means something here.”

His tone was flat, but something dark moved behind his eyes. I didn’t respond.

Jordan cracked a grin again. It was always like flipping a switch—anger to amusement in half a breath. “Don’t worry, Laurent. The walls will squeeze it out of you soon enough.”

“The innocence?”

He nodded. “The belief that it matters.”

He turned back to his bunk and flopped down, arms behind his head, closing his eyes like nothing had happened.

“By the way,” he added lazily, “you might wanna start showering before breakfast instead of after.”

“Why?”

“That’s when it’s warm.”

I blinked. “The water gets cold?”

He snorted. “Like your daddy’s heart.”

I stared at him. “How do you even know that?”

Jordan cracked one eye open. “Saw a clip of your trial on I*. Your dad looked like he’d rather be at a stockholders’ meeting than bailing his only son out of prison.”

I went still.

He sat up, suddenly serious. “Sorry. That was a low blow.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said stiffly.

“Sure it does,” he said, studying me. “Everything matters in here. Even how you eat.”

I looked at the tray again. “I’m not eating that.”

“Then you’re gonna be weak,” he said, shrugging. “And weak means someone’s bitch. And while that’s super tempting—” he wiggled his eyebrows, “—I like my cellmates conscious.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re starving.”

I sighed and reached for the tray, breaking a corner off the cornbread. It was dry. Flaky. But… not the worst thing I’d ever tasted.

Jordan watched me like a proud parent. “Aww. Look at you. First steps.”

“I hate you.”

“You’ll love me by month three. Everyone does.”

“I’ll be out by then.”

He snorted. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I took another bite. Jordan leaned back again, closing his eyes. He looked almost peaceful there. Like he belonged in this cracked, rusted world of concrete and wire.

Maybe he did.

Maybe I didn’t.

But one thing was certain.

He wasn’t going to let me forget where I was. Not for one damn second.