Speedbump [FICTOID]

Speedbump spent the morning in his usual manner, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the second level of cells in the block.  He sat with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out, raised slightly at the knees to balance his book on them.

Today’s reading was Albert Camus’ The Stranger. Speedbump checked it out at least 17 times from the prison library and usually read it through at least twice, maybe three times while sitting at the foot of the stairs.

A young cocky con, someone reputed to be connected on the outside, stepped up to Speedbump. “Yo, pops. Let me by. Gotta see the big man.“

Speedbump took his casual insolence with equanimity. In time the young con, if he was smart, would recognize what a vital contribution Speedbump played with making sure the system — the real system, not the phony one of the guards — ran smoothly.

Right now, however, Speedbump, made a practice show of sighing and groaning, and gradually pulling himself erect to get out of the way of whoever requested passage. 

This pantomime lasted 30 to 40 seconds, plenty of time for the two idlers chatting at the top of the stairs — lookouts actually — the chance to pass a heads up down the length of the tier to the big man’s cell. 

Depending on who wanted it up, the reaction could vary from weary caution to a full force with cons, passing in and out of their cells, delaying whoever came up even further.

This could delay a surprise inspection for up to 3 1/2 minutes, enough time for the big man and his crew to hide whatever it was they weren’t supposed to be doing. 

What did Speedbump get from this?  Peace. Security.  The ability to shower without fear of being shanked. The freedom to spend his day sitting on the step unmolested, reading. 

Nothing in terms of cold hard cash or its prison equivalent, packs of ramen; everything in terms of peace of mind. 

The young con trotted up the stairs, allowing Speedbump to return to his favorite position and pursuit. 

He just reached the part where Meursault pumps five rounds into the Arab when he heard loud yelling from the upper tier. 

Speedbump didn’t look.  He focused on his book, knowing from decades behind bars that it was always best not to know. 

He heard a scream then the sodden thud of a body falling head first from the upper tier landing. 

The tac team arrived five minutes later, kevlar clad knights intent on finding out who did what to whom. 

“Get out of the way!’ their leader barked. 

Speedbump took extra time getting up, exaggerating but not faking the aches and pains he really felt. The tac team leader yanked him out of the way as soon as he staggered erect. Speedbump wondered if he should fake a fall and decided against it at his age fake could become reality in an eye blink.

Shove aside as the tac team stormed the stairs, Speedbump, saw the twisted, bloody lump that used to be the young con laying crumpled on the cold concrete floor. 

Fifteen minutes later, the tac team brought the big man and his crew down. From the smirk on the big man’s face, Speedbump knew the fix was in:  He and his crew would spend a day or two in the hole, it would be an official inquiry, and then…nothing.

The tac leader moved away from his team and stepped up to Speedbump. “You saw this. What happened?“

“I didn’t see nothing,” said Speedbump, speaking truth elliptically through double negatives.

“You know this guy?“ the tac leader said, nodding towards the rapidly cooling corpse.

“Nope. Never saw him before,“ said Speedbump, a serviceable enough lie, for who can truly say what another has seen?  

“Guys like that don’t just kill themselves by jumping off the second tier,“ said the tac leader.  

“I dunno,” said Speedbump.  “He looked awfully depressed.”

© Buzz Dixon