Cover Stories / Stainless Steel Ride
A Cover Band Approach to Interpreting Influential Short Stories
Cover Stories / Stainless Steel Ride
An Homage to “Hunger” by Peter Christopher
Cover Version by Stephen Conway
As a kid everyone said you’re such a great listener. Same with high school. So when it came time to choose a college God told me to study theology. You are what you do, some say. Others say you do what you are.
After a church-load of confessions, sermons, spirituals, and funerals—streams of candle smoke floated from my ear canals. Sharing my burnout with a fellow brother from seminary school—he suggested doing God’s work in prison: as a chaplain.
“Prison:” he said, twirling a cotton swab in his ear, “one of the few places left on this God-forsaken rock in space where redemption and forgiveness is sought.”
Five hundred thousand ‘Hail Marys later as the prison’s chaplain—the brother was right. A lot more redemption requestors, forgiveness forgers and spiritual seekers than outside. Some have committed unforgivable acts, yet strive to build their spiritual connections. Others in here—on death row—when they see their roasting spit waiting for them in Hell—they start praying for God’s mercy—crying for their mothers, or both. Strange to see and hear cold-hearted killers, pedophiles, arsonists, and drug addicts wail and howl like enormous infants. Cheeks all wet. Scrunched up faces. Dribbling. Drooling. Curled up all fetus-tight on the floor.
Some death rowers try to play me; try to use me to get a governor’s pardon; snag a seat in Heaven; special treatment from the Warden. Can’t blame them. Not much to lose before their skin gets poked and that juice enters the hole. Swiss neutrality is my position. Do a favor for one and it comes back around to you like a sharp and rusty lawn mower blade.
Other inmates and death rowers don't talk to me. They pray, but punish themselves more than anything the state or prison can do to them. Only a stainless steel ride can bring them relief. Or doing the Dutch—prison-ease for suicide. Of course, some get into a dance with another prisoner. A Dutch loophole that lets them bypass the sin of suicide.
Take Andy “The Pugilist” Puglisi. He told me his youngest took after him. Spitting image. The older one he called Flower Boy. Puglisi tried to toughen the kid up at the local gym. Smacked him around. Hit Flower Boy with big heavy bag jabs. In spite of all the humiliation, neglect and abuse, the kid made good grades just to spite Puglisi. Whereas the younger one—Puglisi’s favorite—struggled with school. Puglisi wasn’t having it. Had to knock Flower Boy down a few notches. They found the kid pulverized in the garage hanging next to Puglisi’s practice heavy bag.
Take Cogler Igstau. He said after tying up the parents—he shoveled their two toddlers up to their necks in the green backyard. Fired-up the the electric ride-on mower and cut the grass. Neighbors said they didn’t hear the mower, but called the cops after two gun blasts bounced through the neighborhood. Cops found Cogler walking down the street, blood-splattered. He didn’t drop his empty sawed-off shotgun when they ordered him to do so.
Take Quinn Dinblatt. He shared his earliest memory: a summer trip to a lakeside shack his folks left him in a side room for the night. Morning found him scratching like the junkie he would become. Unable to stop scratching—his folks landed slaps and punches. That was the appetizer to his life. After years of this he walked into his parent’s bedroom. Shot them dead in bed. In a world where parental and family worship borders the cultish—Quinn was found guilty before proven innocent.
Most death rowers never talk to me—until a few days before the lethal injection—the stainless steel ride. They see themselves all poked-up and skewered on the iron roasting-spit being held for them in Hell. The ladle and steel bucket close-by with their name on it—ready to baste them in their own juices.
Two Ninja Turtle guards accompany the inmates that visit my small office. Their last meal requests are handled by the brownies in the kitchen. I handle confessions, spiritual guidance and atonements.
Many have little or no religious exposure, so they think of me as a middle man for their next life. If what they tell me doesn’t get written down right then-and-there—rowers tend to get upset. “How come you’re not writing this down, Chaplain Notch?” they say wide-eyed. Given the ludicrous nature of their requests, it made no sense to write them down.
“Your wishes are shared in my prayers,” I told them.
They’d insist their requests get written down. Giving these lost souls what they want is the easier road for me. No harm really. Let them believe they’ll get everything they couldn’t have here. Besides—most leave my counseling more pleased when they see me taking notes: Santa Claus style. Checking my list. Checking it twice. No skin off my back to press that steel pen tip into the paper.
Here’s what Andy “The Pugilist” Puglisi wanted: Ten-thousand Bitcoins, a black Corvette, Louis Vuitton X Nike Air Sneakers, Massimo pants, Giorgio Armani Leather Jacket, Carhartt cap, endless bottles of Cîroc, full access to his hip hop music catalog they took from him after they threw him into the slam.
Cogler Igstau wanted: A new name, a Lear jet, all the pussy he can eat, a mansion and a yacht like Elmer Fudd’s, champagne flowing from the faucets of his palatial estate, a Rolex Coffee Maker, a Gucci king size mattress. Correction: make that a Gucci water mattress with satin sheets, a chauffeured Rolls Royce with Gold Spinner Rucci Wheels and matching bling.
My aunt—the one who said they should lock me up for taking on this kind of work checks with me weekly. Always wants to hear the latest requests. They all want the same expensive high-profile brands.
“Confidential,” I tell her. But share the ones that stand out. Rare that they do. All cookie-cutter except for the letter Quinn Dinblatt wrote. It’s kept locked in my desk, and reads as follows.
Dear Chaplain Notch,
I’m not sure what all this talk on the rapevine is about, but word is that you can get things for people. It’s probably not true. You seem smarter than that. Probably people talking shit in here. That said I’m not one for asking anyone for anything. Learned my lesson early.
With my date closing in my time is limited. Not much anyone can do to me now. Figured why not write this note to you. It could give some idea on why I don’t want anything except one thing. One thing that might not be possible.
Growing up my folks made hay while the sun shined. Coming from the poverty and lack of education didn’t matter all that much in this country that allowed most folks chances no other place would. Getting spat out into this world it never crossed my mind how good it was for me—especially compared to them. How could I? That trip with the mosquitos eating me alive—both sets of grandparents were here on a first trip to the States. My folks scrimped and saved for months so they could take them to see the sites, food, a place to sleep. The least I could have done was to obey them. And to do so in front of my grandparents. Aliens.
So my folks beat me the way you’d beat dust out of a big old carpet. Patterns developed in the random beatings. I learned how to read their tells. The body twitch before an arm swung for my head. They missed. Missed me again and again. Made them look worse. Their next strategy: changing the rules. You think you're on familiar ground when they pull the rug out from under you. But you take the hit for pulling a rug you didn't pull.
It's twisted to do those kinds of things to your own kid. Treat them as if they should know better. That’s a cage no one can escape unless you find drugs and booze early enough. But as long as you’re doing all right in this country, you can pretty much do whatever you want to your kids. So they did. But lucky for me, all the chin checks and beatings and lockdowns made me ready for this place. Prison reminds me of home. Not the material things. Folks on the outside, they’re trying to patch the holes in themselves. Holes that are bottomless pits.
So, all I’m asking for Pastor Notch is this: could you get a nun to come in for my stainless steel ride? To hold my hand during my execution. If you’d be so kind to hold my other hand too, I’d be forever grateful. If it’s not something that can be done discreetly, then forget it. I’d be long gone, and you’d still be on the blade for favors.
What Quinn Dinblatt got was me on one side of the cold stainless steel gurney—and Sister Mary on the other side. Doc was in the middle. A holy trinity of sorts. How Sister Mary got into the prison is still a miracle. God—it’s been said—works in mysterious ways. You just need to listen.
The original story “Hunger” is featured in the posthumous release of “Campfires of the Dead and the Living” by Peter Christopher
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