The Cell

by Galen Leonhardy

‘Round Midnight, I feel like an old monk in a monastery. Course, who knows what time it is. Every hour, every moment, every day is midnight. That’s the ever fonky lowdown. Nothing but time-draining darkness, a horrid, emptying darkness, pierced sometimes by a thin, ray of light passing through the metal door’s translucent window. Lights flicker back there. Still, it’s all just shapeless shadows drifting past. Day after day after day, day in and day out, morning, noon and night, this is my cell. 

In my solitude, I want what’s deep in a dream, but it never comes. Who could sleep? I’m tellin’ ya there’s dampness here, a chill making my darkness brittle, nothing but lonely cold cement holding in moisture, water babies dripping off the ceiling, water dripping down the corner by the slick white crapper, water dropping from eight feet above, water dripping down and striking the porcelain sink, never stopping, just a drip, drip… drip, drip, drip… drip, drip, drip… drip, drip. My God! The water torture never ends—shifty rhythms so rare. The drip, drip dripping, some kind of passion dance.

I’m telling you Chick Corea’s off the piano and playin drums on the floor by the door. That splashing, that’s Old Chick hitting cymbals. And me…me, I’m tappin bare feet on the damp floor, shaking my head back and forth, swinging on a star. When it’s just me, this six by eight has a dank beat to it.

Mostly, I’m by myself, but sometimes, in the deep night, the steel door bangs open. That’s when the Shanghai shuffle starts. It’s never just one--usually three black-shirted bastards beatin me silly. Lights flash, body jolts, launching me into a corner all curled up, head tucked. In come the dogs, two of ‘em, white fangs and barking, barking, barking. I call ‘em Big Butter and Egg Man. All you can do is curl up and grab your balls with one hand, cover your face with the other elbow, bicep, and forearm. Go ahead motherfuckers bite anywhere but there. Me all curled in a ball while Buddy Rich rolls the bugle call rag. Big Foot, Bill and Django, all three in boots, stomping, fists and fire hoses slapping, laughter, and then it’s the old thump, thump… thump, thump, thump… thumpty thump-thump as kicks fly and punches drop. They do it again and again and again. Damn, they make like Buddy and play the old drum boogie on my back and ribs. That takes dexterity. I’m tellin ya. 

Eventually, their jazzy razzing ends. The dogs get pulled back, boots slapping time on the way out and past the door, the slamming, the clanking, the lingering echoes. Everything gets fine and mellow. My heart slows down, starts thumping, sounding like Miles Davis tapping his own chest, and I can feel it, a love supreme. Yes, I’m telling you, that’s not so bad, not so bad at all.

And then, for Heaven’s sake, the drip drip… drip drip drip… drip drip… drip drip drip returns. That’s right, man. There’s some groovy religion in my jail-cell darkness. I tell myself, “Just keep that body shaken. At least, you’re still alive.” There is nothing like a good shake and moaning to take ya where ya need to go, which is beyond this damn dank cell and out to where I can see those blue skies.

Dedicated to Lyle Nakonechny 

Galen Leonhardy currently teaches English and humanities courses at a community college in Illinois. Leonhardy has published essays in five books and self-authored three books in addition to publishing in a variety of journals and blogs, including Truthout, Beyond Outcomes, College Quarterly, New City (Chicago), Teaching Composition at the Two-Year College, College Composition and Communication, Teaching English in the Two-Year College, The Chronicle of Higher Education and the AAUP’s Academe Blog. His poetry has been published by, among others, the National Council of Teachers of English and Mosaic Magazine (New York). His photographic work has been published in National Geographic Research. His greatest joy is spending time with wife, Lea, and his two daughters, Sarah and Hallie.