They got my undivided attention when they unlocked the handcuff that had kept me in that bed for what seemed like months.
It took four of them to transfer me into a civilian bed.
I kept waiting for them to restrain me in some other way, but they never did. They just put me into a different bed and then two of them pushed the old bed out of the room while the other two backed slowly out behind them, their eyes locked on me as though they had just seen a skunk and were trying to get out without startling it.
That was so cute; like they thought I could take them. There was a time, but that was a long time ago.
I heard the magnetic door lock behind them and I began counting.
Fifteen minutes should be enough time to break their concentration.
Fifteen times sixty is nine hundred: I could count to nine hundred. I rounded up to one thousand so as not to cheat them out of anything.
One, two, three. . . .
Had to be the room was wired. I was aware that I was no longer hooked to anything—no wires, no tubes, nothing. Only way they'd do that was if they were getting their needs met some other way. If this was the Palace, the pasture where people like me get put out, then absolutely they were covering their bets and protecting their investment.
A box job. They had put me in a box and they would be expecting me to try and get out. They would expect me to come at them head on.
They had my file and they knew what kind of work we did, but nonetheless they would plan for the obvious.
There are only so many thoughtful people and I have never met one working in security. They are probably out there, but I am an odds player. If it's the doors that are locked then it's the doors that they're going to watch. I would have to look for another path.
Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine.... I kept my eyes closed, or mostly closed, to make them think I was sleeping. I could hear the low hum of the compact florescent bulb in the bedside lamp and I could feel the warmth of sunlight coming through the window on my left.
My box had two holes in it, it was a start.
It didn't sound like any other prison I had been in. It was quiet like resort hotels are quiet during the day. It sounded like all the other guests were out.
Prisons are never quiet.
Nothing else sounds like a prison: part hospital, part frat house, part locker room, part slaughter house. Like a two movement symphony, there's a daytime and a nighttime atonal arrangement, each punctuated by screams on various keys and scented by biology.
There are daytime and nighttime movements, each driven by different mechanical and biological; each accented by an atonal choir of voices.
A couple of times we went into super prisons behind the curtain. We were told they were set up like no-shit monasteries where there was no talking, but, even there, there was a non-stop white noise of misery.
This place was something else and it would take time to figure out what.
One-oh-three, one-oh-four, one-oh-five....
I stretched and rolled over on my left side, so I could take in the other half of the room.
It was like a hotel room—not a fancy hotel room, more of a mid-price, business class kind of thing. I was actually surprised to see the TV, didn't expect that.
There were sheers and curtains on the windows and it seemed like a private bathroom. Never ceases to amaze me what they can get away with in the redacted portion of the budget.
It's funny the spook stories that we tell one another about what happens when we get to the end of our operational lives. After a career of looking over your shoulder, one day there really is somebody back there and they've got a work order with your picture on it. We've all heard some version of that which is invariably followed by some rationale about how that happens to the other guy, someone not nearly as valuable to the organization as we are.
I never expected to be here, at the end of the line. The kind of work we did, I fully expected to end my days in a box, just not one that looks so much like a Hampton Inn.
Lost a lot of people along the way: some taken away, others went away and too many just fell away like autumn leaves. I can see all the faces and remember most of the names..., well some anyway.
Three-ten, three-eleven, three-twelve....
Six minutes in and already I was losing focus.
This was still a box, just as much as the hospital room and I was letting the neutrals and the high thread count sheets distract and misdirect. I was not on vacation.
This was not my home and I could not let it become the rest of my life.
You can't stay frosty all the time, but they count on you trying. The injections to make you talk, the rotating disks with black and white swirls on them and the strobing lights and loud music make great visuals for the movies, but the truth is that prisoners break themselves then the guards ever could.
You take people out of their given circumstances and make it clear what is the price of freedom and they will beg you to let them tell you their secrets.
And the tougher they were, it seemed like the faster they would break.
Sure, some took a little longer than others. They were usually the ones who were accustomed to being on the other side of the table, the ones that thought they knew all the tricks. For those guys, we would just keep them off balance: just when they thought they had the game figured out, we would change the rules.
When they realize that they will never have control, then they want to do anything to get it back, even if that means betraying their country.
And I was one of those people. I was someone who knew all the rules. I knew their secrets.
And they knew mine.
Five-fourteen, five-fifteen, five-sixteen....
Did I see the dog? Jim? Was their a play? Did I imagine all of that?
Oh, they were good. They were very good.
Very important not to over-think this: it was not me against them, it was me and the box. Couldn't lose sight of that: that was the truth, the rest was guesswork and head games.
I stretched again, and rolled over on my back.
Through my half-closed eyes, I could see the smoke detector directly over my head with its unblinking red eye: ideal place for a camera, classic really.
It was probably there for misdirection.
There would be cheese for me to find and cheese I would never find and my minders would be enjoying watching me hunt.
Six-sixty-six, six-sixty-seven, six-sixty-eight....
The secret of getting out is to not think about it. They have to commit all their energy to keeping you in, whereas you just have to be patient and very observant.
I remember hearing somewhere that the cops could always tell who was guilty by who went to sleep in the holding cell. When you're caught, the chase is over and time to rest up for the next round. Innocent people waste their energy whining about how innocent they are.
This was the time to let go of the rope and stop fighting. Not a surrender, just an interval, time to go into my corner and catch my breath before the next round.
Time for a guilty nap.
Nine-ninety-seven, nine-ninety-eight, nine-ninety-nine....
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