The One in the Wooden Chair

The Man withered on the edge of his skinny cot.  A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his yellowed, leathery fingers.  Smoke rose in lazy tendrils from its blistering nub, twisting into ghosts that taunted him with vague memories before joining the milky haze that filled the tiny room.  He squinted, but mostly out of habit.  The smoke didn't bother him anymore.  It had become a friend, rising and falling in time with his breath until the two were like one being, merely existing.

His view was a dingy gray wall, not at all bad if you were partial to the color of old underwear.  Tighty-whities, his wife used to call them.  He was a boxer man, couldn't stand the confinement of briefs.  A while back (time, like the smoke, had lost its shape), the irony in that might have made him smirk.  But the fact that he could reach out and touch the wall in front of him had lost its bitter humor.  He could vaguely remember a time when his walls were brighter, whiter.  Perfect for making shadow puppets.  But that was Before.  Before the smoke.  Before the bars.  Before he stopped living life in color.

Smoke slithered through the iron bars and glided along the corridor.  He brought the cigarette to his mouth, clamping his cracked lips around his only hope.  One deep pull, and he concentrated on the smoke invading his lungs, suffocating him one cell at a time.  He held it in as long as he could, until he felt his lungs burning
(ashes, ashes, we all fall down)
and then let it seep out as he reached for a fresh cigarette.  He lit it from the smoldering butt, pulling in deep again.  Death, he'd learned, was a process.  Pull.  Hold.  Release.  Repeat.

He didn't consider himself a smoker, at least not in the ordinary sense of the word.  Technically, he supposed he fit the description.  Except he didn't crave cigarettes.  He actually hated the things.  So no, he wouldn't call himself a smoker.  He was more like a fugitive, using the smoke to escape his life until nothing was left but to call it a day. 

Footsteps slapped along the corridor floors.  The Jailer.  Right on time.  The Man used to fight back.  But the smoke took care of that, too.  Still, The Jailer returned every day, as punctual as the rising sun.

The Man stared at the wall as the footsteps halted outside his cell.  He didn't have to look at The Jailer to know that his ample belly was pressed against the bars and that he was running stubby fingers through a greasy combover as gray and dingy as the wall.  But The Man knew better than to underestimate The Jailer.  Because he was a contradiction.  He may look like a half-wit, but he was powerful.  His power came from the bars.  And his words.  Oh yes, his words.

"Ain't you gonna say hi?"

The Man ignored him.  It always started out this way. 

"Didn't your mama teach you no manners?  Ain't you got no respect?  R - E - S - P - E - C - T?  You know what I mean.  That Knight broad sang all about it." 

"Aretha Franklin."

"Huh?"

"It was Aretha Franklin.  Not Gladys Knight." 

"Whatever."  The Jailer shrugged.  "Don't make no diff'rence.  They both sing."

The silence hung in the air, battling the smoke.

"You ain't forgot why you're here."  It wasn't a question.  The Man remained quiet.  He'd heard it before.

"Nah, you ain't forgot.  None of 'em ever forget.  But I tell ya, the whinin' gets me every time.  'I didn't do it.  It wasn't my fault.  Somebody else done it.  I wanna go home.'  Eventually, they quiet down, though.  Just like you.  I don't know which I like better.  The moanin' or the givin' in."

The Man didn't need to look at The Jailer to see how much he enjoyed the moans.  He thrived on them.

"I hear it all.  Men and women whinin' all damn day and night."

The Man looked right into the The Jailer's smirk.  He'd been waiting for this moment. 

"Ah, didn't know that, did ya?  Been here all this time and never knew this is an equal-rights prison.  No playin' favorites here, no sir.  It don't matter if you're a man or woman, black or white, eight or eighty.  These here bars don't discriminate."

The Man shouldn't have been surprised.  This wasn't your everyday offender housing.

He used to be a whiner.  It was Her fault, always Her fault.   He'd never so much as whimpered in his other life.  In that life, he was a take-your-licks kinda guy.  But prison did things to a man.  And then time, that shapeless bandit, snuck up on him.  He got lost in the smoke until he didn't know who to blame and his heart was nothing but a fossil.

That's when he gave in, when they all gave in.  The whining stopped and the silence became it's own kind of abuse.  And they stayed...quiet.

But The Jailer didn't.  He never did.

"You're guilty, just like the rest of 'em.  You know that, don't ya?  You ain't never done nuthin' right in your life.  A bad seed, that's what you are.  Ain't nuthin' gonna grow from a bad seed.  I heard you before.  It's Her fault.  She done it.  Ain't that right?  But you know she woulda never done what she done if you woulda been worth any more'n the dog turd I stepped in this mornin'."

The Man put his head in his hands.  Smoke simmered in front of him, billowing and gathering strength like a thunderhead.  If only...  His fists clenched and he drove them into his eyes, pushing the thought away. 

"You want that drink, don't ya?"  The Jailer always knew.  "No sense lyin' 'bout it, 'specially to yourself.  Come on, let's have one together.  Just you and me.  Old pals, just shootin' the bull."

The Man kept his face in his hands.  Fighting.  Always fighting.

In the silence, the thunderhead grew darker, pulsing with anticipation.  When The Man finally looked up, it had drifted into a corner of the room to watch and wait.

The Jailer sighed.  "No?  Well, if you're sure.  Know what I'm sure of?  Ain't no one ever loved you.  Not your mama.  Not your daddy.  Not your kids.  And definitely not Her.  Who could ever love you?  You just keep messin' up, son.  Cause you're stupid.  Worse 'n that, you're a drunk.  A stupid, guilty drunk.  And you always will be.  Soon as you get that, and I mean really understand it down deep in your gut, you and I will get along just fine."

The Jailer rattled the bars, laughed, and was gone.

But his words weren't.  Stupid.  Guilty.  Drunk.  They hung in the air alongside the smoke, like hot-air balloons, fueled by the knowledge
(the understanding down deep in his gut)
that The Jailer was right.  He had to be.  It was the only way life made any sense. 

The Man concentrated on his heart, willing the beats to become farther apart.  Willing the balloons and the smoke to suffocate it.

Please, he thought.

The cigarette dropped to the floor and smoldered, before snuffing itself out.  He didn't notice.

Please.

He didn't hear the scraping of the rickety wooden chair as it was pulled up on the other side of the bars.  He didn't notice The One who sat in it.

When The Man finally looked up, he saw him.  Despite the smoke, despite the twisted balloons that danced around him, he could see The One in the Wooden Chair, and he was smiling. 

His smile was different, not mocking like The Jailer's.  He can afford to smile like that, thought The Man.  He's on the other side of the bars.

The One in the Wooden Chair chuckled.  The Man wanted to look away, but he couldn't.  The smoke had cleared enough that he could see that The One's eyes were deep green, the same color of the lake where his father used to take him fishing.

The Man hadn't thought of his father in a long time, ever since the smoke started to thicken.  Those fishing trips had been something in a relationship overflowing with nothing.  The tradition of barely speaking hung on (it always did), but somehow, out on the lake so early in the morning that the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, sparkling its morning greeting on the water's lazy ripples...somehow the silence fit.  And then later, passing the thermos of lemonade that his mama had packed - few words were said, an occasional 'please' or 'thank you' for propriety's sake.  But that was okay.  Sometimes words weren't necessary.  That was one of those times.

The Man looked away.  Away from the memories.  Away from The One in the Wooden Chair.

Wood scraped against cement as The One scooted his chair closer to the bars.

"You don't believe any of that nonsense, do you?" he said.  "He's a liar, you know.  One might say he's the Father of Lies."

The Man snorted.  Whoever this man was, he must not know the whole story.  If he did, he'd know The Man was guilty.  Except...except somehow it was Her fault, too.  It was all so confusing.  He took a deep breath, drawing what was left of the smoke into him.
 
"You're the one keeping yourself behind bars," The One said.  "Not Her.  Not your father.  Not even The Jailer."

The Man looked back at him.  The One in the Wooden Chair waved at the smoke, and it was gone.  Not weakened.  Not diminished.  Gone.

"Filling your life with distractions doesn't weaken the Truth.  It doesn't extinguish the Light.  It just makes it harder for you to see."

"And what is the Truth?" 

"The Truth is you put yourself behind these bars.  The Jailer can't keep you in prison unless you let him.  The only truth he has is that you have done some bad things.  But the real Truth, the Truth for which I was sent, is that you are forgiven.  And you are loved."

The One scooted his chair closer, scraping the wood against the cement.  "I was sent here to show you The Way out," he said.  "Don't you want to get out?"

"I can't get out.  This is where I belong.  Besides, what the hell do you know?  No disrespect, but you haven't been here.  You don't know my story."

The One in the Wooden Chair smiled.  "My child, I designed your story.  It's inscribed on my heart."

There it was.  The game-changer.  The smoke had cleared and suddenly he knew.  He understood
(down deep in his gut)
and questions flew from The Man's lips like angry bees out of a hive.

"Then why?  Why would you do this to me?  Was this what you had planned for me?  What kind of horrible plan is this?  Is this how you treat people you love?  Is this how you show forgiveness?" 

The One sighed.  "I get that a lot."  He sighed again.  "Everything I do, everything, is for you.  Never against you.  One day, you'll understand."

"That's it?  One day I'll understand?  I'll tell you what I understand.  Today, right here and now, I understand that you just gave me the lousiest explanation I've ever heard."

The One chuckled.  "Would you like something a bit more concrete?"

The Man shrugged.

"Come closer," The One said.  He put his arms through the bars, palms up.  At first, The Man couldn't see anything.  Reluctantly, he leaned forward a bit.  That's when he saw the flat, white scars on The One's palms, jagged circles about the size of a dime. 

"Keep watching," The One whispered.

The Man watched, and the scars began to puff and turn pink, and then an angry red.  The flesh bubbled and then erupted, peeling away from the center of the scar.  Blood poured from the gaping holes, and The Man closed his eyes...

(forgive them, father, for they know not what they do) 

...a little boy laughing and bouncing up and down on a bed. 

...a girl in pink pajamas beside him, holding a flashlight, trying to keep the beam steady on the white wall where a shadow leapt back and forth trying to find the light.

...leathery fingers intertwining to make a giraffe and then a lion and then a bunny.

The Man remembered.  He remembered a boy in round glasses and a girl with curly blond pigtails.  He remembered laughter.  He remembered piggy back rides and tight hugs and goodnight kisses.

"Ah, now that's more like it," said The One.

"But your hands," replied The Man, opening his eyes.  The scars had flattened and become white again.  The One pulled his arms back behind the bars.

"What about them?"

"How?  I mean, why?  Why would you..."  The Man's voice trailed off. 

The One smiled.  "So that you could have shadow puppets and tight hugs and fishing trips and sweet lemonade."

"But I'm not innocent."

"I never said you were.  I said you are forgiven."  Wood scraped against cement as The One in the Wooden Chair got up.

"It's up to you.  Freedom is right around the corner.  Come.  Follow me."

The One in the Wooden Chair walked down the corrider, took a left, and disappeared.

The Man was tired.  So tired.  He closed his eyes for just a second.

And then...click.

He opened his eyes, and the cell door stood open.

He looked around.  Could he?  Footsteps echoed from down the corridor - the slapping tread of The Jailer. Once The Jailer arrived, the cell door would slam shut again. 

Straight ahead and take a left.  That's where The One with the Wooden Chair had gone.

He stood.  His legs threatened to buckle beneath him.  One step.  And then another.  He was at the door.  The forgotten wooden chair was in front of him.  He picked it up, and as The Jailer's footsteps paused
(froze, he froze in disbelief),
The Man stepped outside his cell.

He opened his eyes to a creamy white wall.  The ghosts of shadow puppets danced along it.  Her side of the bed was still empty, but it was a big bed, not a skinny cot, and that made all the difference. 

Tousled blond pigtails popped up over the side of the bed, followed by a pair of round glasses.

"Daddy?" the Face Behind the Pigtails asked.

"Yes?"

"It's morning," said the Face Behind the Glasses.

"It is, isn't it?"  The Man replied.  Sunshine peeked through a slit in the heavily-curtained windows, and somewhere, a wooden chair scraped against cement.  Leaning forward.  Watching.  Waiting.

The Man smiled.

Pigtails and Glasses scurried into the bed.  They snuggled up into The Man, whose arms hadn't forgotten how to hug them tight.

"Where have you been?  We've missed you," she whispered.

"You've been gone a long time," he said.

"You're right," The Man replied.  "I have been gone awhile.  But I'm back now."

I'm back now.