The Insurrectionist (9 page)

 

            With a towel wrapped around his waist, seventeen-year-old Deni exited the high school shower and headed to his locker where his friends T-Bone, Devon, and Hector were getting dressed after practice. He toweled off and then slid into his underwear.

            “Hey Daudov!” called the team’s offense tackle, Brad Dietrich. “I saw your mom wearing one of those scarfy things. Don’t tell me you’re a Muslim or is your mother just plain ugly.”

            Deni laughed and didn’t say anything, but T-Bone spoke up in Deni’s defense. “Hey don’t be an ignorant ass; our brother here is Muslim just like Muhammad Ali.” He threw air punches at Deni. ‘“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”’

            “No way. Muhammad Ali is black,” said Brad.

            T-Bone was just about to speak when Deni held him back. “I got this.” Deni turned to Brad and spoke as if talking to a child. “Bradley, what’s your religion?”

            “Methodist,” replied Brad with a shrug.

            “That’s funny. I thought you were American,” replied Deni.

            T-Bone, Devon, and Hector laughed and continued getting dressed.

            “You guys are a bunch of pricks,” said Brad.

            “No. I’m not a prick; I’m Santeria,” replied T-Bone.

            Deni turned to T-Bone shocked. “And all this time I thought you was black.”

            T-Bone laughed wildly.

            Hector stepped in the conversation. “No Santeria is Cuban, isn’t it?”

            “No, Cuban is Spanish,” replied Devon.

            “I thought Spanish was Catholic,” said Deni.

            “No, that’s Italian,” said T-Bone.

            “Hey, don’t knock Italians!” shouted one of their teammates from a different row of lockers.

            “Don’t worry bro!” shouted Hector. “Italians make good sandwiches!”

            Deni zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “You know what I can go for¾Chinese.” He rubbed his belly. “I could go for some scallion pancakes.”

            “Nah, that’s white man’s food,” said T-Bone. He put his arm around Deni. “Let’s go get some ribs.”

            “I’m not white?” Deni muttered, mocking confusion.

            “Nope, you’re a brother,” said T-Bone.

            Deni walked out with T-Bone, Devon, and Hector. It struck Deni as odd that he found more camaraderie with America’s so-called minorities, regardless of the rising population of different races and ethnic groups.
The Great Melting Pot worked only if it blended into a bland, white stew, with just a spattering of different races and cultures for taste
, Deni thought.

            Being a Russian immigrant was a novelty for many in his circle. Occasionally he could entertain the crowds by teaching everyone Russian swear words, or being the butt of Cold War jokes. But when his family’s religion leaked into the portals of his surroundings, it was often filled with traces of distrust and hate. Although he did his best to laugh it off, that nerve ran deep. His only other choice was to deny everything he was and just be a white boy to suit everyone’s comfort.

 

            The prison doctor came on his rounds and checked the stats of all the inmates. He looked down at Deni. “Don’t mind Grimes, it’s just his way of making friends. Let me give you some advice, everyone in here has been cast out by American mainstream society in some way or another. They really do not know how to connect normally with people. Try to be  friendly. Humor goes a long way and will prevent any ugly incidents you may regret.

            “Thanks,” Deni said.

            “Yeah, well I just don’t want to see you back here bleeding from the ass,” replied the doctor as he walked away.

           
At least it was good advice
, he thought. It did make him realize that he wasn’t going to be alone in prison. For the first time, it made him wonder what brought him here.
What could I possibly have in common with these men who I will be spending the rest of my time on earth with?

            

 

             Deni was woken up the next morning by the prison staff; it was breakfast time. He sat up in his bed and silently congratulated himself for surviving his first night in prison. The prison guard set a bowl on his tray. It was worse than oatmeal; he didn’t even know what it was. “What is this shit?” he said out loud.

            “Grits,” replied Grimes as he dug hungrily into his breakfast. “You’ll get used to it, sweet cheeks. The day before they stick the needle in ya, you’ll have grown to love it.”

            “That’s all I have to look forward to—a taste for grits. Well that sure sucks.” Deni gobbled up the food, swallowing without tasting. He glanced over at Grimes. “So what’s your deal?”

            “Now you wanna talk?” questioned Grimes.

            “I’m bored,” replied Deni.

            “I knocked off an A&P and killed the clerk,” said Grimes.

            Deni set his bowl on the metal table next to his bed. “Why?” He was shocked by his own question. Why was the first thing the FBI asked; it’s the first question they ask any felon.
Why did you do it?
Why the hell does anyone do anything?
he thought, but Grimes did have an answer.

            “Shitty little fag behind the counter gave me attitude so I shot him then made off with the cash in the register. I would have gotten away with it too if some bitch didn’t get my license plate number as I peeled out,” replied Grimes.

            “That’s it. Just like that you decided to end the life of some shitty fag?” questioned Deni.

            “Shitty little fags are worthless pieces of shit that just take up air,” said Grimes.

            “So you just knocked someone off because they consumed oxygen?” questioned Deni.

            “World’s over-populated; we need to start conserving our recourses,” explained Grimes.

            “Ah, so you’re an environmentalist,” Deni joked.

            Grimes studied Deni and really hated his sarcastic smirk. “You’re one to speak. Don’t you guys want to kill all infidels?”

            “No. We just want to get people’s attention when no one is listening, but you Nazi’s were the real masters at killing populations of people by gassing them. There is a difference in making a public impact and hiding secret genocide for the purpose of mass extermination,” explained Deni.

            Grimes turned away from Deni; he was done with the conversation. He may not have been the most educated man, but he had his own justification for his predilection for violence and didn’t care much for Deni’s sarcasm.

            Deni rested back in his bed. For all the murderers in this facility, there were a million more murderers on the outside world who would never be judged for their evil acts—all the world leaders who start illegal wars for profit, leaders who allow their population to starve so they can live in riches, corporatists who poison foods and the environment so they can receive greater bonuses, bankers who steal houses from the poor leaving them homeless.
What quantifies evil? The amount of blood spilled, the body count, the intentional destruction of innocent masses?
Regardless of how evil is defined, there will always be those in power to discriminately judge it and their corrupt policing forces that enforce it
, he thought.

 

            It was the summer between Deni’s sophomore and junior year of high school when his buddy T-Bone steered his old white Cadillac onto the A&P parking lot. T-Bone, Devon, Deni, and Hector climbed out of his car and swarmed the convenience store. They were on a mission for junk food. Devon made himself a plate of nachos from the hot station, T-Bone and Hector roamed the chip aisle and Deni searched for his favorite snack¾Ding Dongs.

            The A&P clerk watched carefully, especially T-Bone and Hector in the chip aisle. It didn’t help much they were joking around and giggling. “Are you boys finding what you need?”

            “Yeah, I just can’t make up my mind, too many choices,” said T-Bone.

            Deni caught what was going down; his buddies were being unfairly profiled for their race and ethnicity. In an act of rebellion, Deni glanced around the store for mirrors and cameras. He stood as close to the shelf as he could and then stuffed a couple packages of Ding Dongs and Twinkies in the pockets of his baggy basketball shorts.

            He walked up to the front of the store, got himself a grape slushy and then headed straight to the clerk. He grinned and paid for his slushy. Since he was white, the clerk paid him very little mind and remained focused on T-Bone and Hector. Devon crowded the checkout with his nachos and lemon slushy next to Deni.

            “Dude, how can you drink that shit? It tastes like piss,” said Deni.

            “It helps digest the nacho cheese,” replied Devon and then sloppily swallowed a cheesy chip.

            “Okay boys,” the clerk said to Deni and Devon. “Why don’t you guys move along?”

            Deni and Devon stepped outside. It was only then that Devon noticed Deni’s pockets weighed down. “Shit, what do you got in there?”

            “Stocking up on Ding Dongs,” he said with a smirk.

            T-Bone and Hector finally exited the A&P both with bags of chips and a drink. “Man was that clerk a crazy fuck or what?” said T-Bone, obviously offended. “We weren’t doing anything. I got money; I was going to pay.”

            They crowded around T-Bone’s car as Hector lit up a joint. Huddled together they passed it around, so no one could see. Suddenly a cop car pulled into the parking lot. Deni took the joint from Devon and stuck it upright in his grape slushy.

            The cop, a tall, brawny blond with a crew cut, got out of his car. His assured stride indicated his superiority over the boys. He walked right past Deni and stood before T-Bone. “Now you boys aren’t causing any problems are you?”

            “Nah, we’re just hanging out,” replied T-Bone.

            “Got a call from the clerk. He’s concerned your loitering will deter customers,” said the cop.

            “Deter customers?” Deni questioned with a giggle.

            The cop turned around and stuck out his hand. “Look son, I have no problem with you, so why don’t you just stay out of it.”

            Deni glanced around at his friends. They all started laughing. The joke was what the cop didn’t know; the white boy was holding the doobie in his slushy and had lifted a handful of Ding Dongs from the A&P.

            “All right boys,” said the cop, “I can see you’re up to no good, so why don’t you move it along.”

            “You got us wrong,” said Devon. “We’re just hanging out after football practice; we don’t mean any harm.”

            “The clerk inside said you were all acting suspicious inside the store, like you were casing the place. Now did any of you lift anything without paying?” questioned the cop looking directly at T-Bone.

            “You have got to be kidding,” said Hector.

            T-Bone stood with his arms out and his legs spread. “Go ahead, search me.”

            Deni, Hector, and Devon snickered.

            “You watch yourself young man, or you will find yourself in the back of my squad car,” said the cop.

            “For what, trying to prove myself innocent?” replied T-Bone.

            Devon stepped before T-Bone. “We’re leaving,” he said to the cop.

            They all got into T-Bone’s car. There was silence in the car as T-Bone drove away furious; there was retaliation in his eyes. Deni could see it in the rear view mirror and he felt guilty. He was the one who did something wrong and got away with it just because he was white. Deni probably would have never believed it had he not seen it first hand—race baiting and profiling.

            “T, sorry about that,” said Deni.

            “It’s not on you bro, you’re cool. You played that mo-fo good. You know it just sucks. I go to school. I play football. I’m looking forward to going to college and everyone wants to categorize me as a crook just because I’m black. It really just pisses me off.”

            “They’re the ignorant ones,” said Devon. “Few years from now those assholes will be asking for your autograph and you can tell them all to go to hell.”

            Deni tossed T-Bone a Twinkie. “Courtesy of the A&P. I saw how that fucker was eyeing you guys.”

            T-Bone laughed. “You’re fucking kidding me? What a fucking douche bag! Idiot’s eyeing Hector and me and the white boy walks off with his pants filled with pastry.”

            “Hey where’s mine?” asked Hector. “I was profiled too.”

            Deni reached into his pockets. “Twinkie, or Ding Dong?”

            “Ding Dong,” said Hector, “no wait, Twinkie.”

            Deni handed Hector a Twinkie.

            T-Bone laughed hysterically. “Don’t tell me you got any Little Debbie’s in your pants?”

            Deni snapped his fingers. “Shit! And I have the perfect place in my pants for Little Debbie.”

            Everyone in the car roared with laughter.

            “Boy!” yelled T-Bone over his shoulder at Deni. “You just got yourself a new nickname, Sweet Pants.”

            “I can dig,” said Deni as he opened his slushy and pulled out the damp, limp, purple joint. Surprisingly he was able to relight it. He took a hit and it was quite a sensation—grape weed. He handed it to Devon in the front seat. “Purple haze,” he said.

            T-Bone glanced aside at the joint and started laughing. “Dude that is one sick looking doobie.”

            “I could have stuck it in my Ding Dong,” Deni replied.

            Hector laughed. “Ah shit!”

            Devon puffed on the joint. “Not bad.” He handed it to T-Bone.

            T-Bone took a hit and admired its purple tint. “Daudov, I think you may have just made a great discovery.”

            Devon took the joint from T-Bone. “Grape herbal.”

            “Grape Ape,” suggested Hector.

            Between the weed and the boisterous camaraderie, the incident at the A&P had been forgotten. They all wound down their windows and cruised Reading and its outer neighborhoods looking for their next conquest—girls.

 

            It had been a few days since anyone came to see Deni. He was beginning to wonder what was happening in the outside world.
Did they forget about me? Is Marsha even working on my case?
He was getting a little stir crazy and his mind was beginning to spin. The only thing he came to look forward to was his next crappy meal and a trip to the bathroom which was such a fucking ordeal.

            The prison guard uncuffed his ankle from the bed and helped him to a wheelchair where he was taken to the lavatory facility. The guard waited outside the stall as he did his business. It was painful moving about; the sores and stitches from his wounds were tight and it made it hard to move without wincing.

            Seated on the toilet, it all just came to him in a flash. The friends he will never see again. They will go on to graduate college, get married, and have families. Many will forget about him and some will deny they ever knew him. From the tiny space of the bathroom stall, he thought,
My past has been wiped away and my future is questionable
.
What does that leave me and my existence?

            He rose from the toilet seat and struggled to pull up his pants. Outside the stall, he was greeted by the prison guard who helped him back into the wheelchair. On the way back to his bed, Deni fingered a plastic bottle of pills and dumped it down the opening of his scrub top. He wasn’t sure what it was he grabbed; he didn’t care.

            Later in the evening, after he choked down his dinner, Deni beckoned the attention of one of the guards. “Can I have some paper and a pen?”

            “What for?” asked the guard.

            Deni raised his eyes. “For writing.”

            “What do you want to write?” asked the guard.

            “Poetry,” said Deni. “I’m feeling inspired.”

            The guard shrugged and found a pen and a few slips of paper for Deni.

            “Thanks.” Deni sat up in bed and with the pen perched upon the paper he thought of all the soldiers, rebels and martyrs that preceded him. He thought of all who were caught behind enemy lines, imprisoned, tortured, executed, hung, and decapitated with their heads posted on stakes. He wrote in Russian:

            When the doctors and guards were occupied, Deni swallowed the bottle of pills and laid his head down on his pillow. He could feel his stomach swirl; he coughed and choked. As his body started to tremble, he could feel his consciousness slip away.

            It didn’t take long for the doctors to notice Deni convulsing in his bed and the bottle of medicine that tumbled to the floor. Within minutes the curtain was pulled around his bed and a tube shoved down his throat.