Pruno by Clay Thompson
I doubt anyone can get used to the taste of Pruno. Something about rotting oranges and mold that people were just not made to stomach. It leads to laying on the bed, holding your gut with its little inferno burning merrily inside trying not to puke everywhere. I guess it worked though, I felt fucked up. But that could have just been the effects of being so nauseous. And the bed was shaking and it wasn't making my stomach any easier. Shaking Hard. I tried to let it lull me to sleep, imagined myself on a slowly rocking ship listening to the calm waves lap against the side of the boat. Tried not to picture the kid violently jerking off in the bunk below me and attempted to block out his ragged gasps. The night watch wasn't going to do anything because they never did. I couldn't tell him to stop either or I'd be docked and never get a phone call back home. Plus I might have just shot the prison hooch out all over the side of the bed if I tried to talk. I heard somewhere that people can go blind if they ingest homemade moonshine. I guess I came out lucky. I tried staring at the far wall and blocking out my gurgling insides as well as the manically convulsing bed. It was bare and whitewashed like everything else. Damnably bland. Some of the kids against the far wall were snoring peacefully. Ted from Night Watch Shift One was leaning back in his chair and reading a magazine in the center of the room. From my position in the dark it was about a bunch of celebrity faces I didn't recognize. You're gone from civilization for 14 months and every silicon-filled famous face is different. Hell, it could be the same people with just a different nose or chin. I couldn't tell anymore. The kid below me shuddered and the bed stopped and seemed to sigh in relief. Ted flipped the page. Another night at Spring Creek Lodge.
I could never sleep anyway and my insides were valiantly trying to claw their way out of my mouth. How the fuck did I end up like this? A year and a half ago I would have been getting ready to go out for the night. Fuck lights out. And I could wear shorts and not freeze my dick off. I'd never even been west of the Mississippi before they shipped me out. (Your parents love you and are worried about you, that's why they sent you to us.) Bullshit. They just didn't have time to take care of me."Teen in Crisis" was the term they threw around pretty liberally around the Lodge. I'd just gotten caught and the 'rents didn't want to waste the effort disciplining me themselves. So instead I woke up to them packing my bags and crying. "Benjamin, you did this to yourself. Just be happy we're not sending you to a military school." So instead it was a military "alternative" school. What was the difference? We wore red polos instead of army fatigues. We didn't have to do push-ups. There was still the walk heel-to-toe, eyes forward, no talking or looking at members of the opposite sex. The constant attempts to tear you down emotionally so they can make you a fucking robot. And if you fucked up, you stayed. Period. So you had to throw up this facade that you were REALLY growing into a better person just to get privileges you didn't think about in the real world. You learned the joys of revelling in wiping your ass in solitude or reading a non-approved book during your few hours when not at class or on cleaning detail. Tried not to go insane and tried to not buy into a damn thing they said. Lies and propaganda twenty-four-seven. Doublethink was necessary. I'd have to write a letter to Orwell's corpse and thank him later.
I shook my head. Damn that Pruno must be working. I tried to relax both my stomach and my mind and lay in peace. The kid below me, Neal Parsons, started snoring. I couldn't be mad at him, he was just a scared little kid. So was I. His parents had to bail him out of prison after the first night he tried acid. Cops picked him up completely naked in the middle of the road during a thunderstorm. One drive in a police car, one express ticket to Spring Creek. In Cabin Seven with me was the anti-Semite who took a sledgehammer to the Temple Beth El windows. There was the priest's son who passed out drunk at a stoplight and hit two missionaries in a Lincoln Towncar. There were smackheads, potheads, queers with Generals for fathers, punks, anarchists and communists with parents that worshipped the ground that Reagan walked on. All of us were just kids with a healthy allowance and too much time on our hands. Overnight, that allowance had transferred from drugs and Anarchist Cookbooks to sticking us out in the Middle of Nowhere, Montana. None of us were friends per say, we just stuck together for sanity's sake. Brian Hogan was the only one that took the risks with me. He wasn't too bright but he had a mean streak in him that you could land a jet on. One of those enlarged forehead throwback-to-a-thousand-B.C. types. If we weren't in Spring Creek i'm sure he would have been a lineman. I called him Big MacGuyver. He didn't look a thing like Richard Dean Anderson but if you gave him a rubber band, some Clorox and a penny he'd get you fucked up for a few hours. It was me and him that had stole the oranges,ketchup and sugar from the kitchen during cleaning detail to make our Pruno and stash it out in the woods by the cabin. And on our way back from supper, it was me and him that had held our noses and strangled down the vile liquid. I looked over to where his bunk was to see how his alcohol-fueled adventures were faring. He was tossing and turning like a fish out of water, grunting fitfully.He stopped and pulled half of his massive body into a sitting position. "Ted? Hey, Ted!" he whispered and I slammed my eyes shut and try to look like a blissful sleeper. What the fuck was he doing? Why the fuck was he getting Ted's attention? What if he... "What do you want Brian?" I heard Ted drop the magazine and walk over to where his bed was. It was steps from mine, so I held my rancid citrus-and-booze breath. "I have to go to the bathroom" I heard in a barely audible whisper. My own bladder was at the breaking point but there was no WAY I was going to draw attention to myself. "Alright, come on." I peeked out and watched as they headed to the pisser.
At the lower levels of the program at Spring Creek you can't be left alone. Ever. If your going in to take a shower or a shit, there's someone with you. One of the girls that came in around the same time as me was one of the only ones that had a few moments alone. Apparently they did a bad head count before they went to classes and she got some free solo time. She used it effectively. Strung her sweater up around the shower curtain and put her head in a loop. She'd had an uncanny way of getting left behind at activities. A week or two before the hanging business she had been left from the group leaving the gym. I didn't even realize she was there until she grabbed me and pulled me behind the bleachers. All our teen angst and hormone-induced aggression led us to fucking like coked up rabid monkeys for fifteen minutes before parting ways. Being 16 and not even being able to even LOOK at a member of the opposite sex was just not healthy. That had all happened a few months ago. All in all, she had been able to pull off two things at Spring Creek during her stay that no one had ever achieved successfully: Sex and suicide. That's admirable. If I knew her name I'd get it tattooed on my heart when I left.
Voices in the bathroom brought me out of my reminiscence and my rapidly growing drunken stupor. It was Ted, shouting his damn head off. Yelling at Brian, telling him that he smelled like a brewery. " I have NOT been drinking Ted! Fuc..I mean for crying out loud!" Ted roared back. He started talking about pushing him back down to Level One, screaming about barring him from his next T.A.S.K. (Teen Accountability, Self-Esteem and Keys to Success) seminar. Brian's voice came yelling back, still claiming he didn't know what Ted was talking about. A few people started waking up to the racket coming from behind the little whitewash door. That fucking mongoloid needed to shut his goddamn meathole. Ted retorted. " Contraband is not to be on the premises of Spring Creek! You've taken the steps that will lead you right to Tranquility Bay Hogan! " A collective gasp came up from up those awake at the name Tranquility Bay. That was the sister school to Spring Creek located in Jamaica. That meant that rules regarding the code of conduct to students in the States didn't apply there. Spring Creek only battered you mentally but the same was not true at The Bay. If the outside was heaven, we were in purgatory and Jamaica was hell. There was a bang against the bathroom door and the sound of shit falling all over the place. There was grunting and shuffling footsteps, the sound of body on body. Ted started shouting, his voice sounding more and more panicked. I broke code and jumped off the bed, my bare feet landing silently on the cool blue carpet. I crossed the room quietly, easily masked by the clattering toiletry items being spilled everywhere. The silicon celebrity faces on the magazine and the rest of the cabin held their breath while i reached for the nob. The second it turned Ted fell out like a pile of bruised and bloody bricks. Brian stood like a half-mad caveman over him, holding the shower curtain rod like a club. He was screaming now, shouting "Fuck You! Fuck You!" and bringing the rod down on Ted again and again. Ted rolled over onto his back to shield himself from the blows. His angular face looked up at me in sheer animalistic panic. The curtain rod came down on his skull with a crack and his eyes glazed over. Night Watch One's head went limp and he fell onto the plush carpet, silent. (Violence is not a way to properly deal with the events that happen to us in our daily life. T.A.S.K. seminar two training.) I shook my head violently as the thought creeped around my skull. Hogan dropped his makeshift weapon and it bouncing against the floor was the loudest thing i'd ever heard second to our ragged gasps. Everyone was staring at us, silent as a morgue. I took a slow step forward, my brain trying to figure out what to do but stumbling over moonshine. Where were the rules? Where was my order? Brian looked over at me.
"Get his keys" I stared at him blankly. His little beady eyes narrowed. "Get. His. Keys."
There's motion. Why was I leaning down? Checking his pulse? it seemed strong so I took the keys off his belt. The cold steel and it's little grooves and jagged teeth concreted me. Everyone seemed to fall out of their collective stupor as freedom began burning it's little flag in our brains again. I could almost smell the air that didn't stink of disenfectant. People started moving, getting up and grabbing their assorted neccessities. There was no question, we had gone too far. Everyone began huddling over the inert form of Ted and talking about what to do now. The anarchists started yelling about riots and the communists talked quickly about revolution. I was just lost in a trance, thinking about the sound a skull makes when it cracks. Over the quibbling and differing opinions I heard static. I turned slowly, like in a dream. Neal Parsons, the scared little gangly kid with glasses, the one-time acid user, the chronic masturbator, was holding the walkie-talkie that had sat next to Ted's magazine. There was this FEAR in his eyes. His knees were shaking, his entire body wobbling like a leaf ready to fall off a tree. His trembling lips spoke with an urgency that his form didn't have. "I can't. I can't get in trouble. I can't stay here longer. I have to go home. I need to get home" He held down the talk button and started screaming. About Ted. About what was going on in Cabin Seven. Broadcasting it out across the Lodge. Suddenly i was strangling him with my forearm up against the side of a bunk. Funny, I don't remember moving. My fist just came alive with the force of desperation and kept hitting him across the temple.(You are accountable for every action you ever commit. Before you can be honest with other people, you have to be honest with yourself. T.A.S.K. seminar one.) Neal's glasses and his little beak nose broke, one with a crack of plastic and the other cartliage. I released my hold on him and he fell to the floor in a tiny trembling, crying bloody mess. He looked like a failed abortion. I held the walkie-talkie in my gore-stained hand. One of the anarchists,Pat, took it from me and turned with it, displaying it to the crowd that had amassed around. "If we get everyone out of the cabins, we have a better chance of getting away. The Lodge knows now, they're going to be coming." He said in his matter-of-fact voice. I was staring at my hands, trying to find something under the veins. Through the one available window flashlights started bouncing up the trail from the administration building, making the shadows spin drunkenly in the cabin. Somebody took the keys and gave them to different kids with instructions and orders to open up the other dorimitories. I felt the heavy keychain clip back onto my belt. I turned, dazed, as Hogan unlocked the dead-bolt that kept us trapped inside at night. That hard loud click had the ring of an opening birdcage. But now we were in a roomful of cats.
As soon as the door opened the people were scrabbling for the cooler right outside. It had our shoes in it and was protected by electrical tape covering every available inch. This was another nice safety measure to ensure that we never left the grounds unattended. It was fucking freezing and I probably should have thought to put a shirt on before I decided to do this. But I didn't really decide, did I? Suddenly everyone was running to cabin doors, scrabbling with keys and shouting. I grabbed the last pair of shoes in the cooler (god knows if they were mine) and started running down the steps. The heat built up inside with every step. My vision blurred and I stopped and turned, then hurled all over the handrail from nerves and Pruno. It was all orange and steaming in the freezing air. Surprisingly, it looked exactly like it did when I drank it. Another retch. The flashlights were getting brighter and there were voices and screams from the other cabins. I needed to get AWAY, away from all this madness. I started running for the pine forests that surrounded the clearing where the dormitory buildings were. Tried to ignore that feeling in my gut and tried to keep my balance with all the adrenaline and liquor in my system. No dice. As soon as I hit the edge of the clearing I ate shit, the shoes tumbling away and my head making a nice cracking sound. I tried to hold my brain steady and look at the log that stopped my speedy retreat. But it was blocked from the light by a man the size of a mountain looking down at me with beady little eyes. " Come on Ben, grab the shit and lets get out of here!" Brian Hogan reached down and pushed the log over and there was our stash of Pruno, steaming in the hole we dug a week before. I grabbed the slimy ziplock bag and we ran into the woods, me holding my head and Brian holding his ample gut from laughing at me fall on my ass.
We moved away from the sounds of shouts and glare of floodlights and down a little trail through the woods. I was shivering and half-naked, holding a bag of fermented orange pulp and Hogan was acting like we were in some kind of war zone. Which, I guess, we were. But he kept putting up these crazy hand signs and stopping randomly. I decided that his parents let him play too many video games as a growing ape-boy. Eventually though, despite Brian's guerilla/gorilla tactics, we found the parking lot near the administration building. We hunkered down and watched the frantic Night Watch running up the trail. I looked down at the keys in my hand. Ted's keys. A memory and a flash of insight stumbled through my injured head. Ted driving up after one of our meetings in this big red jeep that seemed only to be missing the Tonka logo on it's side. That car was sitting like some misplaced giant ridiculous kid's toy not twenty feet from me. Action comes again without forethought. I was up and bolting, Brian close to my side. Well, to be honest, I was much closer to his side. He had a lot of sides. In seconds I got the car door open and leapt into the driver seat. I felt the car lurch to the passenger side as Hogan's bulk pushed it closer to the ground. We were stuck in like clowns in a Volkswagon. Cars were just not made for my height or Brian's fat. "Fucking GO!" He roared at me as I frantically tried to stick the keys in the ignition. I panicked, dropped them to the driver floor. "I can't, I don't have a license!" He looked at me like I had just asked him for some quick roadhead. "You're stealing a fucking car!" I found the key, stuck it in and floored it. We were off across the bumpy unpaved road, out towards freedom.
The shocks on the jeep made us shake inside like epileptics in a laser light show. We were turning our heads every few seconds, waiting for blue and red lights to pop up behind us. After the first forty miles, we started to relax. Once we hit State Road 200, we're laughing and splitting the ziplock between us, taking turns holding our noses and gagging and holding the wheel. " I guess the cops have their hands full with Spring Creek right now " Brian said and laughed. For a second, I thought of the kids at the school, then Neal. (Integrity comes from the group. You all need to work together to benefit the whole. For yourselves and for everyone else. TASK seminar five.) Brian's laughter suddenly became ugly. Like the bubbling of a tar pit. Like a pipe to the back of the head. I reached out quick and turned on the radio. It's the news. We both went deathly quiet and listened to the sounds of the real world. " And in other news, the warden at Lancaster prison in Los Angeles County today removed fresh fruit from box lunches in the maximum-security lockup as an effort to reduce violence. Apparently inmates had been making prison wine, what they called 'Pruno'. The result of which was that in the first 270 days of 2002, the staff of Lancaster were assaulted 102 times, a record high in the facility. In international news..." I snapped out and turned the dial. In complete silence we drove through the border of Montana into Idaho. The only sound was us throwing the empty bag out the window, it's warm wet smack very similar to the sound a body makes when it crumples to the floor. After a few more miles Brian looked over at me and there was something missing in his gaze. Maybe it was sanity or maybe it was callousness.
" You know, I heard this stuff can make you go blind."
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found at
http://crwworkshop1.blogspot.com/2005/0 ... mpson.html