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Show page 55 his bunk and indifferently watched a c e l l mate pull on socks. Another cell mate moved to the commode. Two of the eight men stood docile and sleepy behind a t h i r d , awaiting their turns t o wash. Old Greg, on an opposite bunk, sat smoking his f i r st morning c i g a r e t t e . The old man had his s h i r t on, his towel carelessly flung across his shoulder, his face a stone of patience. "This is your day, John; the day you been xraiting for." Bassler said nothing. Old Greg looked at his friend sadly. He straightened his blankets u n t i l the x^ashbasin became vacant, then threw his cigarette in the commode, and splashed his face. Between splashes he t r i e d to equip with some semblance of realism the last old timer friend he had. "Remember the story of the woman who wouldn't bury her husband in one of these s u i t s we wear out of here?" The humor of the story escaped Bassler. He said to Old Greg, "Once I worked on the high side of the c e l l house and --" A prisoner near the c e l l door interrupted: "Why don't the screws open up2 Chow's l a t e ." Bassler moved to the washbasin. He could take his time. He wanted no breakfast. He watched h i s cell mates depart. "Good luck, John." "So long, John." He certainly had a fleeting recollection of many such voices over the years, now at his release only two. Such casual fare* wells are the sum total of long acquaintances, in prison. The peculiar prison desire to look around the empty cell |
