Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
THE COUNT
My job was the count.
Not the standing count—the one where the block goes still and the guards walk the tier calling numbers in flat voices.
My job was the other count.
After.
Spoons.
Forks.
Trays.
Cups.
Plastic.
What went out had to come back.
It was a job for someone careful.
I was.
That’s how I noticed Alistair.
He was older. Quiet. When he spoke it was softly, as if expecting interruption.
He had a cup.
We all did. Thick plastic, issued when you arrived. Most were stained, scratched, forgotten.
His was not.
After every meal he washed it at the sink in his cell with the small bar of soap we were given. He dried it with the corner of his towel and set it on the shelf beside his bunk, upside down, on a folded square of toilet paper.
Every day the same.
Dinner was fish—breaded gray—with mashed potatoes.
I was collecting trays.
A new guard was on the tier.
Reilly.
Young.
He stopped at Alistair’s cell.
Alistair stood there holding the cup.
“What’s that?”
“My cup.”
“Let me see it.”
Alistair hesitated, then handed it over.
Reilly turned it in his hands.
“It’s been altered.”
The block went quiet.
He ran his thumb along the rim.
“The edge is sharpened.”
Smooth.
Worn dull with use.
Alistair looked at him.
“Officer,” he said carefully, “it’s just worn.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“No, Officer.”
Reilly smiled.
“It’s a weapon.”
He tucked the cup into his belt and wrote the ticket there on the tier.
A 115.
Alistair lost yard.
Commissary.
Radio.
And the cup.
He never got another.
After that he drank from the tap with his hands.
Coffee from the bowl.
He stopped washing his spoon.
Stopped folding the towel.
Three years later I got out.
I drive a forklift now.
Last week I was in a diner.
An old man sat at the counter. When he finished, he left the mug where it was.
I looked at mine.
Cold coffee.
Thick.
Smooth.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual businesses, events, locales, or institutions is entirely coincidental. The views and opinions expressed by characters in this work do not reflect the views or opinions of the author. This story is not intended to represent, and should not be construed to represent, a factual account or a critique of any specific individual, entity, or institution.