Libra - Don Delillo [49]
Hidell means don’t tell.
The id is hell.
Jerkle and Hide in their little cell.
Oswald stood at the white line in front of the urinal. A guard moved alongside, peering in that inquisitive way, like what do we have here to pass the time.
Oswald requested permission to cross the line.
“I’m looking at your hairline, shitbird. What is supposed to be the length of the hair in the area of the nape of the neck?”
“Zero length.”
“What do I see?”
“I don’t know.”
The guard pushed him stumbling across the line. When he turned to recross he looked directly in the man’s face. A long-headed type, half intelligent, small bright eyes.
Oswald turned to face the urinal, requested permission to cross.
“I’m looking at your sideburns. What am I looking at?”
“My sideburns.”
“The hair on your sideburns will not exceed what length when fully extended.”
“One-eighth inch.”
The guard extended the hair between his thumb and index finger, twisting for effect. Oswald let his head lean that way, not so much to ease the pain, which was mild, as to show he would not accept pain stoically in these circumstances. The guard released and then popped him in the head with the heel of his hand.
Oswald requested permission to cross the line.
“The length of the hair at the top of the head will not exceed how many inches maximum.”
“Maximum three inches.”
He waited for the guard to grab a handful.
“The fly of the trousers shall hang in what kind of line and shall not do what when they are what.”
“The fly of the trousers shall hang in a vertical line and shall not gap when they are unzipped.”
The guard reached around and grabbed him by the nuts.
“I know the type.”
“Aye aye sir.”
“I spot the type a mile away.”
“Aye aye sir.”
“The type that can’t stand pain.”
“Aye aye sir.”
“The sniveling phony Marine.”
A prisoner approached the second white line, requested permission to cross. The guard looked over, slowly. He let go of Oswald’s crotch. It was raining again. He detached the billy club from his belt and approached the second prisoner.
“What’s your name?”
“Nineteen. ”
“Don’t you know the code, Nineteen?”
“I requested permission to cross the line.”
“You didn’t request permission to talk.” The guard jabbed him lightly in the ribs. “Prisoners are silent. We observe the international rules of warfare in this head. This is my head. Nobody talks without my say-so.”
He jabbed the prisoner with the billy club.
“Prisoners run silent. They fall to the deck silent when struck. Do you know how to fall, Nineteen?”
The guard jabbed twice, then three more times, harder, before Nineteen realized he was supposed to fall down, which he did, crumpling slowly, in careful stages. His right shoulder touched the white line. The guard kicked him back over.
“We observe the principles of night movement in this head. What is the first principle of night movement, Nineteen?”
“Run at night only in an emergency.”
The guard swung the club without bothering to lean toward the prisoner, using a casual backhand stroke, grazing the man’s elbow. The guard did not look at the man as he swung. This was one of the features of the local style.
The guard looked at Oswald.
“Why did I hit him?”
“He recited principle number two.”
The guard swung the club, hitting the man in the shoulder.
“In this head we know our manual word for word,” the guard told the crumpled man, standing with his back to him. “We say nothing in this head that does not come from the manual. We kill silent and with surprise.”
Oswald needed desperately to piss.
“In the final assualt,” said the guard,