Bradford Bradley couldn't move.
The cold stainless rim of the seat-less toilet was biting into his ass and thighs and the stool's low height forced his gangly knees to rest several inches above his pelvis. He was very uncomfortable.
Brad stared across the yellow cell at the door opposite his seat. There was a small opaque window in the upper third of the metal portal, through this pane the young man could sense eyes watching him...or maybe that was from the ceiling camera in the left-hand corner. It was trained directly at the cell's far wall, where the open toilet was. Where Brad sat, crapping and exposed.
Brad could only feel one of his feet and it was rapidly falling asleep but he barely noticed the tingling, his attention was split between the catapult warfare taking place in his guts and the storm of panic-driven despair that was occupying his thoughts.
He felt an urgent pressure somewhere deep inside his stomach as a battalion of armored elephants charged across his intestines, then a series of jarring, convulsive pains as the besieged defenders of his lower bowels dropped the gates, a spiked iron portcullis slamming shut moments before the attackers could break free into sweet relief.
"Owwww" moaned Brad as the defenders dumped flaming oil onto the fighting pachyderms, melting the attackers into a foul gray stew that forced its way through the bars of Brad's lower gate.
He lowered his head, lost in misery, pain and stench. When he looked down he saw that his numb foot and ankle were tightly wrapped in a mud-colored Ace bandage. There was no sign of his shoes.
A phalanx of pikemen planted their weapons in Brad's guts and braced for impact.
After a lifetime, the battle subsided. Brad reached for a handful of the wispy-thin toilet paper on the nearby plastic hanger. It seemed to be water-soluble, but he cleaned himself as best he could , always mindful of the invisible eyes watching him. He tried cleansing his befouled hands in the tepid soapless water dripping from the tiny metal sink but the smell remained, mingling with the wet-food reek of his dishwasher's pants.
Brad had stopped noticing it. He was tired and hurting. He drifted away.
Yesterday, he'd had it made. He'd decided to invest his first paycheck in a fairly large quantity of the local marijuana after a co-worker had introduced him to a dealer in nearby Salt Lake City. It was much cheaper there than in his hometown of Chicago, so he'd buy it, then ship it home to his friend Paul, who would sell it. They'd split the proceeds 50/50. Simple.
Brad hadn't planned on breaking his ankle during the deal. He had stepped out the kitchen door of the ski resort where he worked and into the backseat of the dealer's Pontiac. An exchange was made, Brad went to exit the car, a plastic bag of skunky green buds tucked underneath his grimy apron.
His foot slipped on the ice on the parking lot, his other foot caught in the old car's seatbelt.
Twist. Snap.
Brad fell out of the car- he was pushed, maybe- and onto the dirty, graveled ice. The weed dropped and slid a few feet away. He stood to fetch it, fell as his broken ankle gave way.
Fuck, fuck...he picked up the sack, hobbled to one foot and half-hopped up the short flight of corrugated metal stairs to the back entrance. Once inside, he tossed the dope inside a sheetmetal locker marked: Brad. B.
He covered the contraband with his heavy winter coat and fumbled with the combination lock. His trembling hands couldn't work the dial so he slammed it shut and walked through a storeroom and into the kitchen.
"Dammit Bradley, I need salads- four dinner, four garden", yelled Don, the restaurant's owner, as Brad entered the fluorescent chaos of the bustling resort kitchen.
Don owned the place, leased it from the resort actually, but he still waited tables, choosing the two largest tables in the semi-private room for himself. He never told his customers that he was the owner and he pocketed the 18% mandatory gratuity every night, usually making more than the ski bunny waitresses who served the smaller, less profitable tables.
"Don, I hurt myself. I fell down."
Marie, one of the waitresses, looked up from her tray of desserts and got an eyeful of pale, sweaty Brad. His limbs were visibly shaking.
"You poor thing", soothed Marie, taking his elbow."You are in shock. You need to sit down."
"MARIE!" Don thundered through his deceptively friendly-looking Santa beard. "Service first, nurse later."
"Yes, Don." She headed back into the dining room, casting a worried glance back at the wobbling Bradford.
"You too , Bradley."
Bradley is my father's name, he thought. He tried to speak, but the pain became too bright to feel and the darkness rushed into the numbing void.
Brad fainted.
Don and a bartender carried Brad to Don's truck and took him to to the resort clinic, where waivers were signed and Brad's ankle was set.
A localized pain-killer reduced the daggers of pain to pinpricks, then to a dull throb of relief.
The doctor asked him where it happened.
Behind the dumpster, he replied.
"What slope is the Dumpster on?", she asked, assuming his injury to be ski-related.
"It's behind Don's. It's Don's dumpster. I works at Don's."
"Oh."
She paused, looked at Brad. Made a note on her clipboard.
"Well, tell Don you need to stay off your foot for four weeks, maybe five. I'll give you some crutches and you can get this prescription filled in town if the pain is a problem. Make an appointment for a week from now and we'll check it, makes sure it's mending ."
Whoo , thought Brad. Four week vacation! He pictured his massive bag of dope. He was gonna get soooo stoned...and pills too!
Brad had always wondered why people said: "break a leg" when they meant "good luck", now it seemed like he knew.
This was turning out to be a good day after all.
Just as he stepped out of the clinic's sliding doors, the County cops arrived. Don had gone into Brad's unlocked locker and found the weed. Two officers stepped out of a Jeep and approached a frightened Bradford.
"Son, we need to talk to you", the older of the officers had said. So they drove him to the County jail, put him in a cell and ignored him for hours, letting him sit and worry.
The stress gave Bradford a stomachache. It always did.
Much later, he was allowed to call his parents. Collect. Just as Bradford hoped, his father answered.
Alice, his mother, would probably have refused the call-she was never the nurturing type- but Mr. Bradley took down the information as provided and told his son to sit tight.
In the background , Brad heard his mother's voice. Is Brad in trouble? Tell him to keep his mouth shut.
There was a moment of silence. His dad had cupped his hand over the phone. A second later he returned. His mother wasn't audible, but Brad could swear he heard breathing on another line.
Whatever you do, said the Mr. Bradley, don't say anything until I get there. Is that clear?
The sound of sliding metal bolts being drawn roused Brad. A county cop entered, gestured for Brad to turn around. He was told to hold out his hands.
He was handcuffed, led down a short, bright hallway and into a room much like the cell he had just left. Instead of a bunk and toilet, it had a small table, two chairs and mirror.
Just like on TV, thought Brad, idiotically.
There was a short greasy man in a baggy suit standing in the corner. He had a number of official looking badges on a lanyard around his neck. He spoke without looking at Brad. He was watching the mirror.
"Son, I'll be honest with you. You are in a world of shit. I can put you in prison for twenty five years."
Brad made a whimpering sound of supplication.
"Or," the greasy man continued, turning towards the frightened teenager and tapping Brad's cheek with a stubby, hairy forefinger," you can tell us what we already know. About where you got this". He produced a Polaroid photo of Brad's open locker, the marijuana sitting in plain sight on top of Brad's coat.
Whatever you do, don't say anything. His father's warning washed through his porous mind.
"Well?" asked the detective, thrusting his face forward, an inch from Brad's.
Brad told him everything.
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