SHORT STORIES: ‘The Luckiest Girl in the Room’

“Turn left.”

“Turn right.”

“Now stare straight ahead.”

Three flashes, then you can finally look at the floor. You can’t believe you just finished posing for your own mug shot, like a woman in one of those grainy black and white photos of bad-assed prisoners. Some of those gals smile for the camera gleefully, like they can’t wait to get out of the cell to resume their chosen mode of unacceptable behavior. Others are furious, refusing to believe they were apprehended for robbing a bank or punching somebody.

Now you get to join the club. Like everyone else, jail is not your fault. You and your boyfriend had an argument, and you tossed some of his books on the floor. He pinned you to the bed, threatened to kill you, and called the cops. A policewoman arrived, decided you were the criminal. After all, you started the argument when you dumped the books.

You press your fingertips against an ink pad, roll them onto a piece of paper. You surrender your clothing. You shuffle behind your captors in shower shoes and an orange jumpsuit.

At dinner, a gaunt, pale girl asks for your meal. You give her most of it, and she presses her face against your plastic tray, shovels the globules of food into her mouth. She’s detoxing from some drug, but you don’t know what kind. When she’s finished, the girl smiles. “Give me your food every time you eat” she says. You nod, uncertain. An older woman leans over, hisses in your ear. “Don’t feed her” she says.

Someone left a pile of self-help books on one of the tables, along with a few Reader’s Digest condensed romances. You thumb through them, find nothing of interest. You feel detached from your body, like someone snatched the old one away and returned it to its proper home, leaving a mannequin in its place. Happiness and sadness and anger belong to the other body.

Two of your fellow prisoners eagerly discuss the intricacies of catalytic converter theft. They crouch in a corner, huddle against each other conspiratorially. “I can get one off in under two minutes” one woman brags. “That’s nothing” says the other. “It only takes me half as long.” Both of them erupt into bawdy laughter. They could just as easily be talking about men.

You call an ex-boyfriend collect, ask for bail money. He has an overnight female visitor and can’t get to your cell until morning. He’s sympathetic, but he’s also horny. You tell him it’s okay, you can spend the night in jail. After all, this is your fault. It happened because you cheated on your current boyfriend with an even bigger asshole. The same asshole who said, “You’re used to getting exactly what you want, aren’t you?” when you begged him not to leave after the two of you finished having sex. Of course, the guy went home anyway, leaving you alone in bed. Ah, if he could only see you now.