Tarzan Syndrome Breakout
by J. Clayton Stoker
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Free At Last
“You know the movie where two friends from prison end up on a beautiful sunny beach in Mexico?” asks Charlie, who is clad in a bright orange jumpsuit. His hands tightly grip the steering wheel of the old Chevy Cruze. His right foot is flooring the accelerator to over eighty in a race toward the southern border. “This time tomorrow, Professor, we’ll be on the white sands of Rosarito, stretched out on long wooden chairs under blue-and-white striped umbrellas, sipping Coronas, inhaling the salty Baja sea breeze, eyeing pretty señoritas in string bikinis. Only this won’t be a movie. This will be real life.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” replies his orange-suited passenger. It has been an hour since they made it through the hot, damp, foul-odored underground pipe, then up the manhole. “We’re not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.” Still, getting this far is impressive.
“I couldn’t find the dark T-shirts and sweats to camouflage the convict threads. Did you see them?” asks the Professor.
“Nope,” responds Charlie, eyes wide open, gazing at the hypnotic Botts’ Dots on endless broken white lines of their winding lane. How liberating to see overhanging lights of the freeway, shadows of thick foliage and the illuminated green exit sign with the name San Juan Capistrano.
On the other side of the divider are bright headlights of a big rig heading to L.A, “Jim’s Supermarket” in big bold red letters on the long flank. The Professor marvels as they zoom past glass windows revealing lit interiors of office buildings and glowing blue arches of gas stations.
Berta left the beat-up old Chevy Cruze where promised, a hundred yards up the dark dirt road from where they crawled out at one in the morning. “I can’t be there,” the prison counselor insisted. “The keys will be under the driver’s seat. You will drive to Chula Vista. I’ll give you directions. Fake passports will be ready when you arrive. There’ll be another woman with us. We’ll take an SUV into Mexico. It’ll look like two couples going on vacation.”
Berta met the men several weeks ago. She took an immediate interest in Charlie. Wasn’t long for the relationship to evolve and for her to forget the fundamental tenets of counseling.
The Professor is anxious about daily life in Mexico with Charlie and Berta but tries hard to put those thoughts on hold. They can be addressed later, he tells himself, after they make it across the border.
“How about some music?” says Charlie.
“How about some local news?” says the Professor. We better listen up. Berta should be calling soon to see if we made it. Let’s pay attention.”
The Professor looks down at the cell phone that Berta left on the dashboard and reflects on past and present.
A Connection in Captivity
Thick pine trees with sunlight seeping through the branches tower over a giant body of water. The top of the grove can be seen over the barbed wire fence while standing in the yard of Jungle Lake Correctional Institution. A tall, muscular man with thick, dark hair combed straight back is looking up over the fence when he hears a voice.
“Nice view.”
“Yep.”
“You’re the one they call the Professor, right?” The voice belongs to a younger and thinner man with rugged features and wavy hair.
“One and the same.”
“I’m Charlie. Pleased to meet you. Why do they call you that?”
“In a former life, I was a grad student teaching classes and working on my doctorate. Then one morning, I shot my academic advisor. Went from university to penitentiary in no time at all.”
It’s an unusually warm day for January. The sky is clear. The whistles and shouting from the nearby basketball court where both teams wear identical uniforms can be heard through the yard. Every few minutes, there is a buzzer followed by loud announcement over the PA about time remaining.
“Why did you shoot him?”
“Long story. Maybe I’ll tell you one day. How about you? What are you in for?” asks the Professor, while pointing to the wooden benches by the weightlifters.
“I was tried and convicted for being too much of a romantic,” says Charlie chuckling.
“When did they make that a crime?” asks the Professor, pondering the possibilities. One can never have too many friends while incarcerated.
“They called it manslaughter. I’m talking about what got me into trouble.”
The men walk together to the exercise area where fellow inmates are pumping iron in bright shorts and no shirts, showing their upper bodies and arms covered in tattoos.
The equipment is on a large gray rubber mat that covers the asphalt. They find an empty bench in front of the free weights on the dumbbell rack.
“I went looking for a job. Needed money. I had given acting a go and it wasn’t working out. After doing a few commercials in downtown LA as an extra, I thought I would try to get some steady work. I went to an open-air shopping mall in Santa Monica. Real fancy. If you ride the glass-sided escalator to the top deck, you can see the ocean and palm trees. I was going to ask around to see if there were any openings. I was thinking retail, but I was pretty much willing to do anything.
“Went to Nordstrom’s and the Armani store. Tried a few others. No luck. Then I saw a small shop called Nobility and Old Money Jewelers. Ruby necklaces and diamond rings on black velvet twinkling under bright lights in sparkling glass. From the outside, I saw this beautiful blonde girl behind one of the display counters under a gold chandelier. And it was like love at first sight. She had long, thick hair, light blue eyes, porcelain skin, a tight red blouse, black wool skirt, with a swimsuit model figure underneath.”
“Sounds gorgeous,” says the Professor.
“And believe me, it wasn’t just the looks. It was that irresistible smile, that cheerfulness. Wouldn’t it be something to be around someone like that every day? She reminded me of those women you see on TV reporting the weather. Always in a good mood while pointing to those big colorful maps behind them. Even when they tell you it’s going to rain all week. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Indeed I do,” replies the Professor. “The kind that look like they’ve never experienced suffering in their entire life, not even one day, not really. And when they see guys like us, they either look right through us as if we’re invisible or turn the other way. Yes, Charlie,” the Professor nods, “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“I hear ya. But I’m thinking what’s the worst that can happen right? I walked up to her counter and said, ‘Do you have any watches under fifty dollars?’
“‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Most of our inventory starts at $1000.’
“‘And people really pay that much?’ I said.
“‘They certainly do.’ She beamed as if she were glad I asked the question. Then she said, ‘Anything else I can show you?’
“That’s when I said, ‘You seem really nice. I’d like to get to know you. Do you have a break coming up? Would you like to have coffee and cinnamon roll with me?’
“She tells me, ‘That’s very kind of you. I don’t think so. As soon as I’m done, I have to go back to campus to study.’”
“Why am I not surprised?” says the Professor, who stands up and grasping with both hands a basketball that has just rolled in their direction and hurling it back. “Please go on,” he says before sitting back down.
“I say, ‘What are you studying?’
“She goes, ‘I study business administration at Pacific U.’
“’That’s great,’ I say. ‘I’m thinking about going back to school myself.’ To be honest, I’m not interested in watches. I saw you through the window and said to myself. That lady seems really special. Not only incredibly beautiful, but the way she carries herself, so classy and personable. I said to myself if you don’t say hello to her, you’ll regret it.’
“’That’s so sweet,’ she says. Then she goes: ‘My boss told me that if people are not interested in buying anything, I’m supposed to ask them to leave. I’m really sorry,’ she said, sounding like she meant it. That happy vibe again.
“’Could I get your phone number?’ I ask.
“She goes, ‘I don’t think so.’
“Then she turns toward this smug guy with every hair in place who’s wearing a dark suit and tie. He is standing behind the glass display case with engagement and wedding rings. She may have even raised her eyebrows at him. He responded with a concerned look.
“Then I said. ‘Will you be here tomorrow? Can I come by and say hello? Maybe you’ll change your mind.’
“She goes, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think it would be best if you left. I’m sorry. Then in a very friendly, even-keeled and pleasant tone, still flashing that winning smile, she said, ‘I wouldn’t want to have to do anything like call security.’”
“Call security,” repeats the Professor, nodding back hello to a bulky man on the bench press. “Interesting.”
“Exactly. Here I am telling her how wonderful she is, how beautiful she is, being super polite, wearing my heart on my sleeve, and she goes and talks about ‘calling security.’ I didn’t get it. I got totally confused and my mind went blank.”
“Then what happened?” asks the Professor.
“That’s the helluvit, Professor. I don’t remember. The police report says I went to another store in the mall called Babe’s Baseball and Sporting Goods and used my credit card to purchase a bat called the Grand Slam Slugger.
“They say I went back to Nobility and Old Money and went to work on the display cases as if they were fast balls I was trying to knock out of Dodger Stadium. I shattered most of them and a few of the revolving racks with earrings and necklaces. They also said — and I don’t remember this either — that I kept hollering the words ‘call security’ in an enraged tone.”
“I understand,” says the Professor. “You lost it. But why manslaughter?”
“Oh yeah. That. According to the witnesses, mister smug tried to wrestle the Grand Slam Slugger from me. I supposedly bashed his head in with it. He didn’t make it. The only thing I remember is standing in the middle of Nobility and Old Money holding a baseball bat and seeing chunks and pieces of broken glass stained with blood all over the floor and a human body in a wool suit on top of them.”
“What a disturbing story!” the Professor says. “So unfortunate. So unnecessary. If that pretty girl with the irresistible smile had simply accepted your invitation, all that death and destruction would have been avoided.”
“Goddamn right,” says Charlie.
“Not only that. I’m sure a beautiful girl like that gets hit on all the time by rich guys who feed her a bunch of BS to get her in the sack. If she had given you a chance, she would’ve seen something she probably does not see much of.”
“What’s that?”
“Honesty. Sincerity. And she may have said, ‘Wow, this guy really means it. He is not like those phoneys.’ And if that happened, who’s to say where it may have led.”
“Exactly,” says Charlie.
The return to cell announcement comes over the PA. Then a loud prolonged buzzer. The muscle men return the weights, and basketball playing comes to a halt. Directed by dark uniforms with batons, Charlie and the Professor stand up and march behind the others to the prison interior.
“I’m not saying if she’d sat down with you at the plastic tables by the food court for coffee in a foam cup and a Cinnabon the two of you would now be in a house on a hill with babies and a white picket fence,” he says. “But you know what bothers me about this story? You know what really pisses me off?” The Professor pauses. “We’ll never know, will we?”
“No, we won’t.” Charlie exhales a deep sigh of relief mixed with the frustration of how long it has taken to get to this moment. “Finally, someone who gets it! I’m really glad we met Professor!”
“Me too, Charlie. Me too.”
Racing South: First Call
The blare of trumpets playing El Jarabe Tapatio startle the driver and passenger in the compact getaway car that has close to 150,000 miles on the odometer. The Professor wonders how much, if anything, Carmax would pay for it. He hopes it will make it to Chula Vista. The sound is coming from the bloody cell phone.
“Hello?” says Charlie nervously.
“Hola mi amor,” says Berta.
“Glad it’s you, babe,” says Charlie. “We’re on the way. We just passed San Clemente.”
“You find the car OK? No problem starting?”
“Yes. But we couldn’t find the clothes. Are they in the trunk?”
“Oh. I must have forgot. Just as well. Don’t want you getting any ideas about doing anything but coming straight here. My friend says she has the passports with the altered photos. Should be here any minute. No te preocupes. We’ll be in Mexico tomorrow. My uncle at the hotel says he can get you both a room for work.”
“Berta, you’re the best.”
“Can’t wait to be alone with you,” says the voice of Berta. “Do you love me? ¿Me amas?”
“You know I do.”
Berta replies with edgy laughter, “You’d better.”
The Professor thinks back on the first encounter with Berta.
Copyright © 2022 by J. Clayton Stoker
