Wally

Wally

by Headley Hauser

Wally didn’t mean to keep people away. He liked people, but most found him forbidding, stand-offish, and restrictive.

Maybe if I was made of field stone, thought Wally, or even decorative brick.

Wally, as you may have guessed, was a wall. He wasn’t just any wall. He was the 28 foot, razor-wired exterior wall to the Murphysboro State Correctional Facility for Men, and in spite of every attempt to look pleasant and friendly, people avoided Wally.

Maybe it was the three strategically placed sharpshooter towers. The guards were not at all understanding when friendly inmates socially scratched Wally’s mortar.

In spite of his isolation, Wally wasn’t bitter. He reflected the gentle early morning sunshine into the exercise yard when the highly violent inmates of C block lifted the weights and did their drug deals. He blocked the harsher afternoon sun when the mob enforcers of B block smoked their cigars and planned who needed to sleep with the fishes.

The mobsters and murderers lives would have been far less pleasant if it hadn’t been for Wally, but as he was off-limits, he had to content himself with listening the inmate’s conversations.

“So, we got a movie tonight?”

“We did, and it was a good one, at least my kid liked it when they showed it at Youth Correction.”

“Your ex-wife tell you that?”

“She might have if I hadn’t planted three nine-millimeter slugs behind her right ear.”

“You know? The metric system ain’t as bad as people say.”

“You got that right.”

“It’ll be nice to have a good movie.”

“It’s a no go. Bubba smashed up the flat screen to make shivs out of it for A block.”

“Why didn’t he ask me? I got a gross of ready-made shivs hiding in my mattress!”

“Tough break.”

“Yeah, the marketplace is a jungle – hey, don’t they still have that old projector?”

“Sure, they still got it, but Jerry’s blood is all over rec room wall.”

“Ain’t it like Jerry to get in the way of a good time?”

“Yeah, if he weren’t in a coma, I’d…”

Wally stopped listening as an amazing thought occurred to him. My surface doesn’t have any blood on it! No one leans on me, or paints gang symbols on me, or anything. Once the sun goes down, all these great guys could gather in the exercise yard and watch their movie on me!

But there was one problem. Having no mouth, not to mention lungs, diaphragm, or larynx, Wally couldn’t communicate with humans whether they were guards or serial killers. Wally blocked harmful UV radiation from Big Louie and South Side Gang as he contemplated his problem – Wally was an accomplished mult-tasker.

Suddenly he heard a squawk. Wally looked for blood, but everyone in the South Side Gang looked unpunctured.

“Stupid Wall,” said a voice. “What’s the big idea, putting all this sharp stuff up here where folks are supposed to land?”

Wally followed the voice to the razor wire on top of him, and saw a grey bird.

“Don’t move,” said Wally. Birds can hear walls – even ones without a mouth. “That razor wire can hurt you.”

“I figured that out on my own, Blockhead.”

“If you stand still, I’ll get you out.” Wally shifted his blocks, slightly stretching the wire in one spot, and opening a hole in another. The bird jumped out of the wire and perched on Wally’s central rifle tower.

“Thanks, Wall, you’re a pal,” said the bird. “Anything I can do for you – just let me know.”

The bird must have thought it was unlikely that a wall would need a favor – or maybe he was insincere in his offer because he was already in flight before Wally could shout, “wait!”

“What now?” said the bird with less than perfect manners.

“I don’t want the mobsters and murderers to miss their movie,” said Wally. “They could show it on my surface if they wait until after sundown, but they don’t know that because humans can’t hear me when I speak.”

“Yeah?” said the bird. “I can take care of that for you.”

“You can?”

“Sure. I’m Stoolie the Pigeon. Talking to the Warden is what I do.”

So that night the inmates of Murphysboro State Correctional Facility for Men got to watch their movie. There was less than the normal amount of violence because Wally the Wall reflected the movie in all its wonderful colors. (The sound was crappy, but Wally didn’t have anything to do with that.)

And yes, the movie turned out to be Wall-E, but Wally didn’t think the main character was any relation.

All I really know about the inside I learned from Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder.  Warning - language.

Psychic Roach Part Two

The is the second of 6installments of the Story Psychic Roach. In the first part a roach finds himself the only roach remaining of his tribe which has entered a box. He overcomes his attraction to the box by a feeling – a premonition – very foreign to his roach nature. A similar feeling prompts him to travel.

Psychic Roach Part Two

by Headley Hauser

For the first time in his life, Only Roach moved off the smooth ground – no, not ground… tile floor, and onto the high grass – no, not grass… carpet. It was harder walking on carpet than on tile, but he could climb it. He had plenty of legs, more than humans or dogs, not so many as centipedes, but these legs were good for climbing. He even liked climbing.

Then he saw something really worth climbing.

Several hills lay stacked on each other –

Not hills… stairs. He could climb up the wood part as long as it ran straight up, but each stair had a lip that blocked his way. Carefully he scaled the back and sides of the… carpet runner. If the light came on, he knew this was a place where humans step. It was a foolish risk, but everything he’d been doing seemed foolish. Was he any more foolish than the other roaches? After all, he was the only one left alive.

At the top of the stairs was an open area ringed with… doorways. The carpet had an old, musty scent. The smells spoke of the journeys of many roaches, but none from his tribe. Ahead loomed a small room with tile on the floor… a bathroom. All signs pointed to this room being the home of a mighty tribe. Even though he was afraid, he crossed the carpet to the cold floor beyond.

The bathroom had thousands of scents: some subtle, some strong. One scent, coming from a piece of plastic struck in the wall, was so strong and shrill it was difficult to appreciate the softer sweeter aromas.

He hadn’t been attacked. Even more surprising, all the tribe traces here in the bathroom were nearly as old as those in the carpet outside. Where were they?

There was the scent again, like an open can of peas, the same as in the kitchen. Following the scent was easy, almost as if it wanted to be followed. The box looked just the same, though it was at a different angle from the wall. The drawing power was strong. He wanted to go in the box. He knew it was death, yet the only thing he wanted was to go in the box.

The box must have killed this tribe just as the box downstairs had killed his own. Maybe there were no more roaches, only him. Why was he the one to survive? What was so special about him?

Maybe the tribe’s death was a mistake. Maybe his survival was the mistake. He wanted to know, but whom could he ask? Lately words popped into his head when he thought about places and objects, but the words didn’t answer questions. What would he do if there were no way to ask?

Asking wasn’t what was important; living was important.

Suddenly he felt powerful

A new sensation for him, and he liked it! He needed to leave traces in every room in the house. He was Only Roach, and leaving his trace mattered.

Finding cute roach-related video isn’t easy. Thank goodness for Pixar, and the movie Wall-e.

Put your antennae up on Monday for Part Three.