Only the Moon Watching

Chapter 12: The First Kite

The bowl is clanging when I wake up. Shiv jumps out of bed, pulls a Styrofoam cup from beside her mattress and starts bailing out water.

"From 34?" She shouts, into the empty bowl. "Send it down!"

"Jos, do you have anything we could use as string? A spare t-shirt to tear up, a lanyard, some headbands... anything?"

"I bought floss in commissary, but–"

"Perfect. Hand it to me."

I retrieve the floss from underneath by bed, next to the Doritos I've been too anxious to eat, and pass it to Shiv.

"Let me teach you how to do this," she says, cutting a length of floss as long as her outstretched arm. "There are plastic spoons behind my pillow, grab a handful of them–"

Shiv puts one end of the floss in her mouth and ties a spoon every few inches, so they look like a string of overlarge Christmas lights.

"You want to get them tight," Shiv explains, double knotting the floss, "Because you don't want a spoon to fall off and get stuck in the plumbing. The idea is, your spoons entangle with Steak's spoons, and he can fish them up into his room. Ugh, yuck, my hands smell like floss now – don't worry, it'll wear off after a few uses. You wanna do it?"
She passes me the line but I hesitate, imaging how gross it'll be "in a few uses."

"I think I prefer the floss smell," I say. "This seems gross to me."
"We'd do anything for love, baby," Shiv shrugs.

After feeding in the length of spoons and string, she knocks three times on the back of the toilet. On the third knock, she flushes. So does the cell upstairs.

"Pull!" she shouts at me, even though I'm standing a good distance from the toilet, outside of the splash zone, and she's the only one grasping the strings. The spoons clack around inside the plumbing, sounding almost exactly like Garda Girdle's shoes clipping down the hall – my stomach sinks and churns – my head whips around checking for her – but – Shiv cheers and my attention is snapped back to the toilet – Shiv gathers the string in her hands. At the end, there's a plastic bag.

"Yes!" says Shiv, "Got it!" Shaking water off it, she opens the Ziplock and thrusts two pieces of paper under my nose. "Two pieces, double sided! He never sent that much to Kristina! We really got a good one this time! Here, read it!"

I take the papers hesitantly, too aware that they just traveled through sewage pipes. Still, I have to admit they make my heart race: two pieces of lined paper, ripped from a notebook, ragged edge still intact... signed, Steak.

Josephina (And I am saying that with an "H"),

Welcome to cell! I mean, hell. I heard we had new neighbors in 23 and I wanted to say hello. I hope you get out of here before you have a chance to write back to me, but just in case you don't I wanted you to know my name – in case you need anything. People in here call me Steak.

When I was a kid my mom always kept the neighbor's phone numbers on the fridge. I never called any of them but they were nice to have anyway. If there's ever a zombie apocalypse or something and all the guards get bitten, you can find your way to me and we'll fight out of this place together. Or maybe not. Your choice. (Whatever.) I just wanted to explain how all this works in case your roommate hates you and she hasn't. (It happens.)

Passing notes like this is called "talking the bowl," or "toilet talking" or "toilet Tinder." People send photos and love letters and food. Mostly love letters – if that's what you're into.

Personally, I think most love is the result of close proximity, just getting used to your coworkers or your classmates and deciding they're not half as bad as everyone else. But I don't like that. I want fireworks and romance and – I guess I should save the theatrics for once I know if you're even into men. Or men like me. Guys in jail who shouldn't be (although we'd all say that). Not that I'm specifically looking for dates, anyway. It's just nice to know someone in the event of the Christmas, or if you ever get lonely. My cellmate, despite our close proximity, is not my best friend and I don't love him – but don't tell him I said that. He crushes up all his Doritos before he eats them, like they're sprinkle cheese, and he snores so loud you can probably hear him. Those aren't reasons to dislike a person, but I can't actually put my finger on why I don't like him, so those are the reasons I give. Do you like your roommate? Blink once for yes and twice for no, and then write down your answer in a letter so I can actually know what you think.

(My name isn't really Steak, by the way, it's Jason, but if you called me that people wouldn't know who you were talking about.) People are weird in here, but then again they're weird everywhere. I just wanted to introduce myself in case we both get out one day and our paths cross and maybe we fall in real love, accidentally, with fireworks and everything. (I know you stole a bunch of fireworks, which is why I can't stop using this reference. Everyone uses Toilet Tinder to pair up with their counterparts. The GTAs make each other's hearts race, arsonists burn with passion for each other... I'll tell you what I stole if you write me back.)

Steak