Generations

Generations Part 1, Chapter 4

The holding cell didn't have true benches or beds, unlike some of the nicer jails Emit had been in. Those had cells, one to a person. This place was more like a drunk-tank, the space of it lifting goose bumps on his skin. He guessed it to be at least twenty-five by thirty, bigger than his apartment.

Instead of beds, slabs of cold concrete jutted out from the cinderblock wall, just long enough for a man to sleep on if he curled up. He counted a dozen in all, each holding another man. Most of the other men were older, or at least older than Emit, all with the same greasy film on their skin that came from being up all night. . One guy caught his eye, seemed to recognize him for a second before continuing to pick at the black tape wrapped around his sneakers. Emit vaguely recalled being locked up with him before and felt glad to have some familiarity. He let his hand drift over the gray rock, feeling its nicks and chips.

The first time he'd stayed in one of these stone rooms, Emit was seventeen.It hadn't seemed as cold then, but he'd had Pop. It was only a disturbing-the-peace charge, but Emit was shaking by the time he and Pop made it through processing. As the officer brought them to the metal doors, Emit saw that the small steel cage, no bigger than his bedroom, already held four other men. Their stubbled chins and dirt-lined nails made the fear in him swell.

Pop looked to Emit, a grin wrinkling his eyes. "Nothing to be down about, Chief," Pop told him.

With that, Pop made a jaunty side step into the cell, twirling an imaginary hat down the length of his arm. He went into a spirited imitation of Gene Kelly, swinging and dipping while he hummed "Singin' in the Rain." At first the others barely acknowledged Pop. The tired sigh from the man closest to the door told Emit they probably had already dealt with too many others tonight that were too drunk to sit down quietly. Emit tried to be invisible, hiding himself in the corner of the cell next to a communal toilet covered in brown streaks and mold. But Pop wouldn't give up. His humming became singing, rolling out in a rich tenor. He held onto one of the jail bars like Gene's lamppost and swung himself around.

Gradually, each of the four others in the cell began to sing along with Pop, at first under their breaths, then as boomingly as when Pop's friends sang along with the jukebox at the bar. The man closest to the door even got up to try to copy Pop's tap routine, laughing so hard Emit could see a gap in his molars where he was missing a tooth. Emit thought the officers on duty looked jealous, sitting at their desks, looking in on their happiness from the outside.

He didn't realize he'd been humming until the sheriff station clerk, a woman with a heavy-looking forty-five resting against heavier-looking hips, interrupted him to ask who was next for the phone. The other men in the holding cell rushed the door, complaining about wait times. "All right, all right. I'm not having any of your shit. I know most of you already went. You in the corner, humming guy. You haven't made a call yet."

"Not yet."

"You got someone to call? Anyone without bail's going to have to wait until nine a.m. for the judge."

"Okay. I got a call. Thanks."