Chapter Twenty-Three

The Bethlehem jail was tiny, comprised of a single cell with two bunk beds and one open toilet and a dirty brown sink, which rested between the beds. Ransom sat still on the bottom bunk of one of the beds, toward the front of the cell, near the bars. Directly across from Ransom sat an extremely overweight man in dingy overalls facing him.

Tommy had chuckled a bit when he took the cuff off and locked the cell door and indicated that this excessively large individual was, in fact, the mysterious “Bo.”

For the past several minutes the two men had just stared at one another without speaking a word. Bo was clearly inebriated; his eyes masked a foreboding, familiar glaze that Ransom recalled from his mischievous college days. It was the sort of look that kept the ceiling spinning and the stomach churning, and it most often ended with a pre-digested mass making its way out his mouth and onto the floor. Bo’s stare made Ransom uncomfortable, but he wasn’t certain if he was even being seen at all from underneath the drunkenness.

Outside the cell, Matty kept watch at a desk. He recalled that the kid could barely carry on a conversation at the Barton dinner table last night, and wondered how on earth such a clearly disabled thinker could single-handedly man the local jail.

Matty twirled a knife around his fingers, seated there fighting off sleep. The knife was large, of the hunting variety, and Ransom recalled how Tommy had drug the large plastic bag from the squad car containing the dead goat. He also duly recognized that he had been stuffed into this cell without the customary phone call he’d heard about in the movies.

It was Ransom’s first arrest; he’d actually never even come close to walking on the wrong side of the law, and had never received so much as a traffic ticket until today. He had a great many personal flaws, but law-breaking just wasn’t one of them.

Remembering the patches of dust and dirt that had accumulated on his trousers and shirt in the school basement, Ransom took the opportunity to stand up and dust himself off. As he rose to his feet, Bo didn’t even move, but Matty clearly got nervous and also stood up.

“I didn't even get a phone call, you know. I mean you'd think there would be some semblance of due process in this crap town,” Ransom said. Matty didn’t respond, but never took his eyes off the cell.

Ransom completed his self-cleaning ritual and turned over to inspect Bo more carefully. Determining that there was a good chance the large man wouldn’t be capable of issuing a response, Ransom didn’t feel too insecure about offering a little conversation:

“They got me for breaking and entering? What about you?”

Bo turned his head slightly, and even that seemed like it took a great deal of effort, so Ransom was genuinely surprised to get a response.

“Public defecation,” he said.

Matty was growing more at ease now, since it appeared that Ransom really wasn’t going to pull a prison break. He decided to enter the conversation, and Ransom suddenly realized that he’d sacrificed the enjoyable silence of the evening on the altar of his fear and discomfort.

“And dwunkeness! Ha,ha,ha! Bo likes da drink da boobs.” Matty was as incoherent as ever.

Suddenly, Ransom noticed that Bo was moving. He was still expressionless, but none the less taking great effort in an attempt to stand up. As he rose completely to his feet, Bo wobbled and Ransom backed further away from him toward the corner of the cell. The enormous, intoxicated man waddled and swerved his way to the toilet between the beds and unhooked his overalls.

Using the wall to keep his balance, he pulled everything – underwear and all – down to his ankles and lowered himself onto the lid in a seated position.

“Dear God! You've got to be kidding.” Ransom erupted in horror.

“I gotta take a dump.” Bo slurred out his response and clearly began pushing.

“Matty can you get me out of here while he goes? Please?”

Ransom looked back out of the cell, happy to turn his head away from the grotesque image unfolding before him. He noticed Matty was also turned away from the cell, seemingly uninterested in what was taking place inside it. The young cell-keeper was fumbling with a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, which were sticking to his hands as he slid them on.

“I got to cween the goat.” Matty responded after Ransom’s second plea to be removed from the cell.

With fully donned rubber gloves, Matty turned and grabbed the knife in one hand and the top of the bag with the other. He looked over at Ransom and grinned ear to ear before pushing the front door open with his backside.

“You don’t get any ideas.”

And with that, Matty was gone, leaving Ransom to the un-pleasantries of a public commode in the depths of a drunken night.