Entry 10
By Steven Paul Lansky
"Trenton"
Strapped down sweaty. Bloody finger wrapped in white handkerchief. I sliced it open climbing out the window of the train. Not serious. Harë Krishna. I fucking chanted a mantra outloud. They don’t ask a lot of questions. The cops gave them enough I guess. Mind racking and rolling, running up and down the corridor, just my mind. Looking around I’m in some crisis center. Rolled, strapped sitting halfway up on a bed into a room. A private room. Then there’s this shaved head dude with lots of piercings and tattoos visible . . . do I remember that right? I cursed at the fucker. Told him I’m an Israeli prisoner. I’m an Israeli prisoner. I know you fuckers want my blood. I’m chanting Krishna chants. Yellow walls, black wheels on my bed, leather cuffs. Humane restraints. Don’t struggle. Fluorescent overhead lamps, heavy steel doors. He’s sitting outside my door, which is open. Hours pass as an Israeli prisoner chanting Harë Krishna. No doctor. Nurse offers OJ and crackers. Dry mouth. Glad I don’t have to pee. Smelling my sweat. It’s hot and I’m in black gabardines, yellow cotton button down and heavy boots. Linen and silk Nat Wednesday jacket, very natti. But now I’m getting angrier and no sleepier. Eventually the skinhead guy is gone. Or I’m moved, something shifts. Two ugly nurse types come in after I’ve been shouting. I’ve been shouting at every sound I hear. I’m sure I can beat the fucking computer. I’m fucking pissed. They don’t make mistakes. This nursing pair, nerdish and straight come in, one has the needle. As she comes to my feet, I time a perfect kick and knock the syringe out of her hand across the room. Panic time. I see spots as I write this. Piercing stars in my vision. It’s scary. Then more people. A man in starched white shirt, badge, black boots, big leather belt with shiny buckle. I’m sure he’s one of the fucking Russians. It’s because of Romanova they’ve got me. That’s it. He’s going to force me into the Bolshoi ballet. I don’t mind, but on my timetable, with my choice of ballerina. But, no that’s a delusion, and he’s pulling my pockets inside out and I’m holding my money and keys in my right hand as he yanks off my black belt with the burnished silver buckle. He holds me down with his hams of hands. He’s bursting over me, unshaved, stinky, bad breath, and sweat, pungent. I struggle and they inject me into the thigh through the gabardines. Fuckers.
Then I wake up walking into a lobby, holding up my loose trousers while they take my pack and money and keys and give me back my clothes and with the two books and toothbrush and I’m on a ward of a state mental hospital. Glad the Russian cop is gone, don’t want to ever see or smell him again.
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Links
· The Citizen Archives
· About Steven Lansky--QCF Magazine March 2005
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