Vernon God Little (32 page)

Jonesy grabs my arm as the group turns to the corridor. I wrassle free, and pounce a couple of steps after Lasalle, but Jonesy threads his arms through mine, Deadlocking me from behind. It’s what he needs. I don’t struggle.

‘Thanks, Lasalle,’ I holler.

‘No sweat, Vernon God,’ comes the voice.

‘Boy,’ says Jonesy, when he gets me to the stairs, ‘you really bought his bullshit.’

‘Somebody told me he was a preacher.’

‘Yeah, right. Clarence Lasalle, the fuckin axe-murderer.’

I lie awake on my bunk tonight as Lasalle’s execution buzzes from the TVs along the row. I expect to hear Taylor’s voice, but one of my fellow inmates says she left the show to try and be a roving reporter. She has all the contacts now, I guess. Just needs that one big story. Anyway, we only catch the last hour of the show. Lasalle doesn’t make any final statement, which seems kind of cool. He chooses ‘I Got You under my Skin’ for his final tune. What a guy.

This view of my ceiling grows familiar over the rest of the week, I even work on my art project, underneath a towel, lying here on my back. The entertainment appliances disappear again, right after Lasalle’s event, and I get to thinking about his last talkings. It all sounded too simple, like a TV-movie or something, like just any ole thing they’d run violin music to. It gets me thinking though, about my wasted ole damn life. They don’t even have job descriptions for the kind of talents I have. I guess the tragedy is that I should’ve been up there as the prosecutor, or even Brian Dennehy - I’m the one that can sense stuff about people, and situations and all. Sure, I’m not a great student or anything, or athlete or anything, but I have these talents, I’m sure I have. I guess the way their powerdimes mount up against mine, the final tally of dimes in the power system means they go through, and I don’t. One learning, though: my big flaw is fear. In a world where you’re supposed to be a psycho, I just didn’t yell loud enough to get ahead. I was too darn embarrassed to play God.

Watch any animal, said Lasalle. Give them what they want, and watch any animal. I can understand the giving thing, but I spend nights all the way to the Ides of March, I survive two, then three more execution votes, trying to place the animal clues. I end up watching these useless brown moths that thwack around the light in my cell, felty splinters torn from nighttime, lost and confused. I guess they’re animals. I hear moths are actually programmed to fly a straight line, steered by the moon. But these supermarket kind of lights mess up their navigation. Now look at them. I watch one snag behind the light cage, spanking dust off its wings in puffs. Then, ‘Thp,’ it spins to the floor, broken. The light just buzzes on. So much for the moon. I can relate to moths, boy.

Fantasy animals start to infect my dreams, linen spaniels that romp with Jesus, but in daylight I struggle to make sense of Lasalle’s concept. I guess the only permanent animal I know is Kurt the dog, and I ain’t sure he counts when it comes to the Secret of Everything. Ole Kurt, who drives himself crazy with the smell of next door’s barbecue, who props up his self-esteem by being president of the barking circuit. You know he wouldn’t be president of anything, if the circuit knew how damn measly he was. He would’ve been laughed out of town, if they knew. But they don’t.

I sit up on the bunk. Kurt gets by with the bark of a much bigger dog.

twenty-five

‘Well but, Vernon, are you using the bathroom every day?’ ‘Heck, Ma.’

‘It’s just that this week you’re up against that sweet cripple who supposedly killed his parents. And he cries all the time. All the time.’

‘You sayin I look guilty?’

‘Well on camera you always just lie staring at the ceiling, Vernon, you can be so impassive.’

‘But I didn’t do nothin.’

‘Don’t let’s start that again. I just don’t want the day to arrive and you not be - you know, ready - it’s March twenty-eight tomorrow, I mean, that’ll be another vote under the bridge …’

Death Row always hushes when my ole lady calls. I guess it’s like that in TV-land too, you know how entertaining she can be.

‘Did you get the thing I sent for Pam?’ I ask.

‘Well yes, and thank you very much, from both of us. You know, we were even saying …’

‘Mom - I think you should use it at the, you know - the time …’

‘Well that’s what we were saying …’ I wait while she gives a bitty sob, and blows her nose. My eyes mist up too. She leaves the receiver for a second to compose herself, and returns with a sigh. ‘Then we can just remember you the way you were - just imagine you’re out on your bike …’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘That’s why I sent the token - you can use it at any branch y’know.’

‘Well we’re very grateful, specially if you saw the price of a Chik’n’Mix lately. Pam and I will use the token, and Vaine can pay for her own …’

‘And Ma - tell Nana she don’t have to come up here either.’

There’s a pause on the line. ‘Well - Vernon, I haven’t told your nana about, you know - the trouble. She’s old, and she only watches Shopping anyway, she won’t have seen the news - I think it should just be our little secret, okay?’

‘And when I don’t show up for lawnmowing this spring?’

‘Oh hell - Vernon, the gals just arrived and I haven’t finished Vaine’s skirt.’

‘Vaine’s wearing a skirt?’

‘Listen baby, we’re canvassing votes for you, so don’t worry - some people end up waiting years on drrth rhrw …’

After the call, I lay back on the bunk and plough things over in my mind. Needs, boy, human needs. Mom once said Palmyra was into food because it was the only thing she could control in her life. It wouldn’t run from the plate, or stand up to her. I think about it, and see Leona sucking attention like sunrays; ole Mr Deutschman savoring his mangle-headed tangs. Sympathy dripping giddy into the aching sponge of Mom’s life. Melted cheese and Vaine Gurie. Give ‘em all what they want, I say.

I know the Barn token is a good want to give Palmyra, but I should think of something especially for Mom, even though another death in the family will probably fix her true need, like for sympathy. Shame it has to be me, though. And, know what? Who else I’d like to fulfil before I go is ole Mrs Lechuga. She’s had a hard time of things, and I regret the stuff I said about Max, I guess I’m just pumping cream pie about it all, this giving of wants and whatever, but - what the heck. You only die once. Strangely, I even feel I should grant something for the ole jackrabbit media. You can only guess what they really want.

Then there’s Taylor. Oh Tay. She’s tight with all these media types now, reporters and all, with helicopters and stuff, so it won’t be easy granting a wish for her. What she really wants is a big new story to launch her career. Maybe just a real nice call or something would do the trick. Maybe that could solve all the more difficult wants, a nice phone call.

I work my way through the list of wanters, until I hit Vaine Gurie. She seems to have fallen in with Pam now, don’t even go there really. The only thing I can think she wants is a homicidal maniac for her SWAT team to practice on. She ain’t easy. To be honest, though, I think I only linger on Vaine to avoid working on Lally’s want. I know the Godly thing, the forgiving thing to do, is to give a want to Lally, even though he has just about everything. Just some bitty token, y’know?

The appliances return early this Sunday morning, giving the day a brisk feel. March twenty-eight. Execution day for somebody. Engineers set the TVs up permanently this time, and install a system to shut them down during the vote. Emotions howl like pack-dogs in my soul when a bunch of paperwork arrives with my breakfast tray. First is a brochure about how to act for the cameras, and what not to say or do. The whole Row must’ve got that one, on account of everybody’s saying and doing the wrong thing. Under the brochure is a glossy page showing some cartoon convicts, with arrows on their clothes and all, giving hints for your last statement. Then another form has a list of musical choices for the Final Event: you get to choose one tune before the witnesses come into the chamber, and one for the Event itself. It’s mostly real ole music on the list. I know I’ll regret my choices when the time comes. I’ll just have to be brave to that wave.

As I digest things, the regular Sunday quiet falls over the Row. You hear some papers rustle. Then a con calls out, softly.

‘Burnem - you okay, my man?’

I turn over the last sheet of paper on my pile. Under it lays an order for my execution, effective six o’clock tonight. I look at it like it was a napkin or something. Then I fall down on my knees, bawl like a storm cloud, and pray to God.

twenty-six

Folks are friendlier to me on the afternoon of my death. The cons are friendlier by not hassling, especially the one I gave my clacker-balls to. Everybody else quietly avoids the issue. It’s a busy-feeling day, like one of your mom’s urgent baking days gone wrong, with feelings left unattended, a sense that somehow I forgot something, left the oven on, didn’t lock the door. A sense that I can do it when I get back.

When my belongings are neatly folded on the table, and my bunk is stripped clean, four executives arrive with a cameraman. My row-mates wave fingers through their grilles, and holler good wishes as I shuffle down the row. ‘Yo, Burnem - fuck ‘em up man, piss on those muthas …’

Bless them. We pass down the hallway Lasalle disappeared from, not for the ride to the Huntsville unit, but to the new Events Suite here at Ellis, right downstairs. It’s a one-stop shop now, carpeted and all, with artwork on the walls. I miss the chance of a last drive, but at least the Suite has windows. It seems gray and cool out, with just a few bugs clicking. A part of me is disappointed there ain’t tornadoes and firestorms for the night of my death, but then - who do I think I am, right?

Just like she promised, Pam supervised my last meal. Chik’n’Mix Choice Supreme, with fries, rib-rings, corn relish, and two tubs of coleslaw. How smart she is - she had the kitchen people stuff bread in the tub, to absorb any excess steam, and keep the bottom pieces crisp. You figure the coleslaw ain’t Pam though - that’ll be Ma, on account of it’s healthy. Those gals will be eating the same thing this evening, when I’m on the gurney. It’s what they want, to imagine I’m just out and about on my bike, instead of being put to death.

At four-thirty I get to evacuate my tracts in a private restroom. They even give me a copy of Newsweek to read, and a Marlboro to suck on. I’m numb, like anesthetized or something, but I still appreciate these little touches. Newsweek says Martirio has the fastest economic growth rate in the world, with more new millionaires than even California. The cover shows a bunch of Guries throwing banknotes into the air and laughing. It ain’t all roses, though: if you read farther down it says they’re getting sued by the California tragedy, over the use of their statistics. Typical Martirio, I have to say.

An hour before my execution, I get to make some private phone calls. First I try home, then Pam’s. There’s no answer, I must’ve missed them already. Ma’s been through a lot, and so’s Pam, I guess. Bless them. They don’t have answering machines, so I can’t just say ‘I love you’ or something. In a way, though, it gives me the courage to make some other calls.

First I try Lally, to get it over with. His secretary almost hangs up, until I tell her why I’m calling. Lally’s in a meeting at the new Martirio mall. She connects me to his phone. ‘Big man!’ he says when the phone answers. I give him what he wants, and tell him where my gun is stashed. He seems to accept the gesture gracefully.

Next I call Mrs Lechuga. Boy is she surprised, she even tries to change her voice so I’ll think it’s a wrong number. ‘Oh my God,’ she says.

‘Yes?’ I answer. She’s been through a lot, bless her. In the end I think she’s glad I called. Knowing her love of information, and her ole position as president of the douche-brigade, I’m sure she just loves the want I grant her. In a way, I designated her the command center for this evening’s wants.

The next brainwave is to call Vaine Gurie, on her way to meet Mom and Pam at the Barn. I give her just what she really wants - just what she really needs, actually, if you think about it. She ends up being real touched to hear from me, and promises to pass my love on to the gals. I guess it is love after all, in that zany way we humans have.

Finally, for my last call in the world, I try Taylor Figueroa. She answers her phone personally, and her voice immediately takes me back to another time and place - a moist, fruity place, if it’s not too smutty to say. And guess what: I give her the break she’s been waiting for. She squeals with delight, and says to look after myself. Sounds like she means it too.

When I hang up the phone, two guards appear with a chaplain, and escort me to the make-up suite.

‘Don’t you worry darlin,’ says a make-up lady, ‘a little blush’ll perk you up.’

Another lady whispers, ‘You want toothpaste, or you think you can make it on your own?’ I snort when she says it, and she looks at me, confused. Then she kind of gets it, and laughs along too. Not everybody gets the irony of things, that’s what I learned.

Next, a girl with a clipboard arrives and makes me sign a waiver for my final statement. I’m going out quietly, just like Lasalle. I ask her one special favor in return. She calls a producer to check it out, then says it’s okay. I can take my shirt off for the Event. She leads the pastor, the officers, and me down a bright hallway to the execution chamber. My knees go weak with the kind of swooniness you get from hospital smells; the pastor even takes hold of my arm when I hear the tune playing down the hall.

‘Galveston, oh Galves-ton - I am so afraid of dying …’

We pass the broadcast control room, and guess what: they must’ve licensed the TV weather theme for the show. I hate that theme. I close my ears until we reach this simple white room with a window along one wall, and theater-like seats beyond.

‘Before I dry the tears she’s crying …’

I take off my shirt. My skin is mostly healed now, from my art project. Tattooed in big blue letters across my chest are the words ‘Me ves y sufres’ - ‘See me and suffer.’ A medical orderly helps me climb onto the gurney, which is kind of person-shaped, like the hole left after a cartoon character crashes through a wall. I catch a glimpse of Jonesy in a room at the back. He must be manning the governor’s phone. The governor is the only man who can stop this now. He’d need some damn convincing evidence to do that. Jonesy just turns away when he sees me. He doesn’t stand near the phone.