W i s p

          EDITOR'S NOTE: Even though Christmas has come and gone, this true short story is worth telling even in January.

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by Anthony Raby

          
"I hate Christmas," Marshall said.

          We sat in his cell, just a couple of weeks from Christmas. The United States Disciplinary Barracks hadn't seen much snow, but it was still cold, and we both felt like we were on the verge of seeing our breath. Brick walls do little to insulate the heat, and the poor design of the HVAC system meant all the heating sucked back into the system long before it came near the stone floor.
          “How could you hate Christmas?” I asked.
          “My alleged crime happened then,” he said.
          I knew Marshall for quite a while at this point, but as is common, we didn’t speak much about our crimes unless we needed someone to talk to about something we were feeling. While I knew what Marshall supposedly did to end up with a tour of the USDB, I didn’t really know the specifics.
“It was Christmas Day. Me and a couple of buddies were drinking, and looking at a new pistol I recently bought. Somewhere in the handling around, a bullet ended up in the chamber, and ended up going through my friend. He died in my arms,” he said.

          We were quiet for a minute. Marshall isn’t one to let emotion ever get the best of him, but he falls quiet at times like these, like it takes all his enormous discipline to stop any weakness from showing. Even with my own heartache and crime, it can be very hard to console a man when he’s looking at one of the darkest moments in his life.
          “I’m sorry, bud,” I eventually said.
          “So, yeah,” he said, regaining some composure, “I hate Christmas. I hate A Christmas Story. I’d rather just be done with the whole damn thing.”
          “Nothing’s happened since then to make it better?” I asked.
          “Nothing. All I’ve got is that terrible memory, and all these people telling me it should be the most joyous day of the year,” he said.
          I didn’t tell him just then, but right in that moment, I resolved to fix this. Like other men, I have a bit of a “fix-it” problem. I see a problem, I want to fix it. Period. To me, this was a major problem. It REQUIRED fixing. A small idea hatched and started growing.
          I spoke with our other two friends, Josh and George. I had intimate conversations with them, trying to divine their likes and dislikes in such a way neither suspected of me prying. I didn’t want to give away what I planned.
          As those last days passed (because let’s face it, the weeks before Christmas always pass as days), I kept an eye out for books discarded by other prisoners. It’s an interesting aspect of prison. Given little options for entertainment, many men, and women I suppose, rediscover reading. There’s a pretty healthy “underground” book trade in prison. In the USDB, just a simple trading of books is “trafficking,” a charge worthy of a disciplinary report. That DR can do a lot to mess up a man’s chance at parole. Usually, when someone is done with a book, he’ll leave it out in a prisoner-designated spot, such as the phone booth or the mail-box. Books left there are up-for-grabs, and I was grabbing.
          Not to mention, I already had a healthy book collection myself. As an aspiring writer and avid reader even before prison, I routinely break the 50-book limit. My collection includes writing reference books and the likes of: Edgar Allen Poe. Hunter S. Thompson, Stephen King, Patrick Rothfuss, and a couple of poetry compilations. Between what I picked up from the discard piles and my own collections, I had a book each for Marshall, George and Josh. I also dipped into my own rations, and picked out what I knew were their favorite snacks. I said nothing, but inside, I was practically glowing.
In the USDB, there’s a holiday/weekend schedule which allows for prisoners to lock down later at night. All of us were in the USDB’s Minimum Inside Only custody, which allowed for us to be out of our cells until 1 AM.  On Christmas Eve, I waited up, trying to outlast my buddies. I didn’t want them to discover what I was doing too soon. George came over as I was getting ready to start wrapping the gifts. I rushed to the door to block his entry.
          “What’s up?” he asked.

          "Nothing. I thought you were asleep,” I said, maneuvering to block his view of my cell.
          “Ah, I was just visiting with someone. I came over to see how my friend was doing.”
          “I’m good,” I said. I may have smiled a big, goofy smile.
          “What are you doing?” he asked, now slightly suspicious of me.
          “Absolutely nothing that you need to know about. In fact, I’d rather you go away now, so I can finish the nothing I was doing. Nothing against you, man, I’m just trying to finish up something private,” I said.
          He eyed me a second, and then relented.
          “All right, my friend. I’ll see you in the morning. We’re eating breakfast together, right?” he asked.
          “Of course, George. I’ll see you in the morning.”
          I watched him lock down. I was free to continue the operation. I dug out the construction paper I saved, as well as some tape I light-fingered from one of the work details. I turned on Christmas music on my radio, and got to wrapping. For the first time in a long while, I felt real joy. I anticipated Christmas morning, knowing my friends were in for a surprise. I stayed up until about 2 AM, wrapping those presents, and then arranging them under my tree.
          Even my little Christmas tree has a story. It’s a small 3D cardboard Christmas tree with little fold-up boxes. Chelsea Manning received it for Christmas a few years ago, but since I was more into Christmas than she was, she gave it to me. I put it up every year the day after Thanksgiving. Every year, the day after Christmas, I very carefully fold up the tree, and unfold the boxes. I keep a large envelope to protect it the rest of the year. It’s one of my few treasures in this place.
          I set up the tree on one of the legal boxes I had, and set up the presents around it. It was a little rag-tag, but it looked like a real Christmas tree set-up. I was happy, and blissfully went to sleep for a few hours.
          Wake-up at the USDB is at 5:45 AM, even on holiday/weekend schedule. Even though we are no longer military, we still run on a pretty militaristic timetable. Wake-up came, and for the first time, I shot out of bed, excited. I quickly dressed and got out of my cell. I didn’t want my friends to come by early and see the set-up. The guards called for chow, and everyone else stumbled out of their rooms. The four of us went to breakfast.
          “Okay, Raby, what are you up to? You’re smiling like the Cheshire cat,” Josh asked.
I was smiling. I couldn’t hide it.
          “Okay, I’ve got a surprise for all of you in my room when we get back,” I said.         
“Was it what you were working on last night?” George asked.
          “Yeah, I was working on it last night. I think you guys will like it,” I said.
          Marshall gave me a funny look, but didn’t say much. We sat in amiable silence and polished off the food amid the bits of Christmas decorations hung up around the chow hall. For once, the chow hall wasn’t all steel and gray. There were small riots of color on each table covered by tablecloths. Decorations were hanging from the Styrofoam ceiling tiles. Wall-hangings dangled crookedly from the tape on the walls. It wasn’t perfect, but it’s what we had.
          We got back to the housing unit. Everyone agreed they would use their respective restrooms and then head over to my cell. I jotted over to my cell and rearranged it a little so all of us could have some space in it.

          Our cells aren’t what you would consider spacious, but since we’re only kept one to a cell, it’s room enough. The cells are approximately 6.5 feet by 11 feet, roughly 10 feet tall with two little 4-inch, 3.5-foot windows. I sat on my bed at the head of it and waited.
          Marshall, George and Josh made it to my room at the same time, and because of where I sat, I was able to watch them as they took in the sight of the little cardboard tree surrounded by presents. In that tiny space, I watched three grown men’s eyes light up like children.

          “Are those for us?” they all exclaimed.
          They all started talking at once. It was a joyous, happy sound. Everyone grabbed a seat, and I handed out the presents. Marshall tore into his like you couldn’t keep them from him. George carefully removed the paper, not putting a single tear into it. Josh was somewhere between the other two.
          “Oh, man, this is cool!” Marshall said. I gave him a “Write Your Own Novel” kit someone else gave me. I never got around to using it, and we always talked about writing, and he had his own desire to get his act together and put words to paper.
          “What’s this?” George asked about his book, a copy of Life’s Lottery by Kim Newman.
          “It’s like an adult choose-your-own-adventure novel,” I said.
          George immediately started flipping through it. I gave Josh a copy of Catch-22, as he was working his way through a bunch of classics and hadn’t read it yet. Then it came down to the snacks. I gave a box of brownies to Marshall, and some sugar-free hard candies to Josh. Josh was an absolute work-out nut, and extremely conscious of everything he ate.
          Then I gave them each a handwritten note. Each one was personalized, telling them how much I enjoyed them as friends, and encouraging them each on their various life’s pursuits. I think it was Josh who hugged me first.
          “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it,” Josh said.
          George gave me a hug, and then Josh and he left with their goodies. Marshall grasped me in a tight hug. He pulled back and looked me dead in the eye.
          “This is the best Christmas I’ve had in a very long time, and definitely the only one worth mentioning since I’ve been here. Thanks for giving me Christmas back.”
          “You’re welcome” was all I could choke out.
Mission accomplished.   

 

          Anthony Raby, who writes occasionally for Wisp and The Star Beacon, as well as Inmate Shopper, is coming out in January with his first book, Fractured Minds and Lost Souls, a collection of nine gripping, mind-blowing stories of the dark and grim, along with many of his thought-provoking poems. He is a writer, poet and playwright currently incarcerated in the US Disciplinary Barracks in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He is working on his Bachelor’s degree in English from Adams State University, and is in the 2017 Who’s Who Among Students in American Universities and Colleges. His play, The Boxer, won first prize in a playwright
contest at Kansas State and was performed at the college. It appears in short story form in his book, which can be ordered through Earth Star and on Amazon. Watch for it soon!