Monday, January 25, 2016

William Myrl; Letters To No One (32)

Dear No One,
I feel that I have been neglectful of you. Typing Lady in the Labyrinth has kept my adulterous thumbs busy in another venue. I have a bit to catch you up on. My new address is C2, a pod that was once meant to be all shop workers and is now more of a grab bag. My new celly is a man named Blue, though his actual name is a different color. Blue is a thin, dark skinned inmate of indeterminate age who speaks and moves in the manner of perpetual addle. He is a wonderful celly, at least so far, because he believes in doing his own time, as it were. We talk a little, mostly he plays chess in the pod or watches TV with his earbuds in. Everything is so loud in the silence. Nearly a year with Alfred has acclimated me to a constant aural assault. My tv was on all day, and usually blasting something stupid. Alfred had weak ears, and he enjoyed the history channel, Wheel of Fortune, The Voice. He wanted us to share things, and always look after each other. That may not seem too great a defamation of character, but when you are forced to live with someone you would normally never associate with, his attemps to make you like a family can chafe. I would much rather we both watch our own tvs, and eat our own food, and not try to plan to cook meals together at every opportunity. He gave me a lot of food these past eleven months, I would rather he had put that money toward replacing his tv. All that he could make was soup. Even when he was making wraps, he was really just spooning soup into a tortilla shell. I have never known a man more proud of his culinary prowess. I shouldn't speak ill of one I abandoned to the whims of the unit manager, but it all bothered me toward the end.
I think I have a friend. It is an odd feeling. Point of order, I may have two of them. They are the compounds preeminent manga collectors. They both work in the shops, and that is where their money goes. They run roleplaying games, Pathfinder and some zombie apocalypse thing respectively. Let us call them Mao and Ender.
Ender is a few years my junior, short and mildly stocky. He comes from a line of dwarves that hail from the mountains of Mondoria. He dabbles in art and writing, and though I haven't read his stuff yet I hope to cultivate him. He has a legitimate borderline personality disorder diagnosis, but he evinces none of the bitchiness observed in another known BPD sufferer Im aquainted with. He actually seems quite together, and that is probably coherent with IED, another disorder that involves occassional eruption punctuating periods of normalcy. Two out of three psychiatrists recommended he be confined to a mental hospitol, or whatever they call them now, rather than going to prison. Guess which opinion the judge sided with. It hasn't come out yet what he did, I generally let confessions come about naturally, but I do know he won't go home before his fiftieth birthday. My guess is that there was a fatality involved.
Most of the people in this pod retire by nine thirty, so the kiosk and the phones are readily available to those ready to brave the pod after ten. Compared to where I came from, it is paradisical.
It is after eleven now, I promised myself I would type this tonight. I haven't done anything else today except work eight hours for four dollars and watch the thursday night NBC lineup. I truly need to step up my self control game if I am going to continue working as a clerk. My drawing suffers, and my writing is squeezed into a smaller bottle.
My eyes grow heavy, and my thumbs forget their skill. I will write more soon, hopefully before my bedtime.


William Myrl

PS: Boom Clap.

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