Infinity

© 2000 All Rights Reserved........By Margaret Karmazin

Ribs stretches his sinewy, brown arm across the cluttered desk and grabs the telephone. His prison tattoo wiggles as the muscle and prominent veins underneath jump to perform. He has forgotten all about the pain he felt when his cellmate, Roger, dug the design into his arm. Like the affectionate mother who blanks out the birthing agony while admiring her dimpled baby, Ribs sees the small, black figure eight as a gift from the universe.

"Grahowski Plumbing," he announces.

The woman on the other end of the phone is pissed off. It's one of those rich ones who live in Meridian Gardens where his boss, Peter Grahowski, has a big contract to put in plumbing and heating in about 50 new homes. This kind of woman calls all the time. They've got three bathrooms in their house but if there's a chip on one toilet seat they act like the roof's falling in.

"Well, I'm impressed someone actually answered," she says sarcastically.

Ribs doesn't understand why she would say this. He has only missed one day of work in the past month; otherwise he answers the phone. "Can I help you?" he asks politely.

"I have a leak. This is certainly not the first time I've told Mr. Grahowski about it. It appears his method is to do nine tenths of the job and leave the rest unfinished."

"Um," says Ribs, "Pete finishes his jobs. I don't know why he wouldn't."

The woman is silent for a moment, then goes on. "Well you tell him if he doesn't get out here and take care of this by the end of the week, I'm reporting him to the general contractor! It's unfortunate I'm not dealing with him directly or I'd put a stop on the check. But as it is, I'm relatively helpless."

"Spell your name for me, okay?" says Ribs, and he carefully writes down her address and number.

Ribs experiences intense satisfaction from looking at his neat list of calls. His handwriting is childish, resembling that of a fifth grader, but he is proud of the firm way he crosses his Ts. The list gives him so much pleasure that he decides to transcribe the messages from the phone machine that might have come in late the night before. There are, it turns out, four and three are good ones. One is some person with a thick foreign accent that Ribs can't decipher. Probably one of the Chinese or Korean customers.

A delivery is expected at eleven - some stuff from Weiss' Plumbing Supply, but until then he has time to focus. Ribs loves to focus. That's what he calls it when he rubs the tattoo and enjoys that heavenly feeling, remembering the pleasant times when Roger explained about Mind and how to forget everything else but.

His cellmate, Roger, had been a hippie. Even in Lewisburg Prison he still looked the part with his scraggly beard, hair in a ponytail and those tiny glasses like in pictures of Ben Franklin. They'd shaved his head when he first went in but let him grow it out again. When Ribs was first put in there with him, he figured they'd never get along but time had proven him wrong.

"What're you in for?" Ribs asked him the first day.

"Selling a stupid dime bag, man," drawled Roger. "They got people out there raping and murdering, but they just let them go and spend all their energy bringing in harmless guys like me."

Ribs had nodded, understanding completely.

"What're you here for?" asked Roger.

Ribs sighed, looked around at the concrete walls that Roger had decorated with posters of Yellowstone Park and the Red Rocks of Sedona and then back at his questioner. "I kinda went crazy. I killed somebody while I was doing it."

The hippie sat up with interest. "You?" What he probably meant by that was that Ribs was a skinny little guy with the face of an angel. He looked like somebody you'd ask to baby-sit your kid. Except that there were tattoos of fire breathing dragons down the outsides of both of his arms and he did have a certain look in his eye. It wasn't there all the time, just flickered there occasionally.

Ribs was embarrassed. He looked at the floor while a vein throbbed in his temple. "I got this chemical imbalance." Roger was watching him intently. "I'm sort of screwed up in the head. Like I get real down and then after a while I feel good. So good, that sometimes I get out of control. Afterwards I don't remember anything, you know?"

"What happened the occasion that put you in here?"

"I don't remember most of it. I was at a birthday party at my friend's house. They tell me I went crazy and trashed the whole place. They say I threw a lamp and hit my friend's father on the head. They said it caused him to bleed inside his brain and it killed him, man. I didn't know any of this until I quieted down in the hospital. I was in the emergency room and they shot me up with medicine. Even then I was still whacked out."

Roger looked a little concerned. "You ain't gonna go wacko on me, are you?"

Ribs assured him. "No, that won't happen now. They got me on medicine. As long as I take it, I'll be okay."

"I'll make sure you take it, man," said Roger, eyes wide and sky blue.

Much later, after the two of them had begun to trust each other, Roger carefully introduced Ribs to the concept of Mind. He talked in a soft, singsong voice that put Ribs almost to sleep. When Ribs was listening to Roger, he forgot he was locked in prison.

Sometimes Ribs wishes he were still there listening to Roger explain.

Two of the union men walk into the office. Ribs knows they're supposed to be working at South Amboy Hospital but sometimes when Pete has to go up to North Jersey, the men goof off. They pretend they need to get tools so they can ride in their truck and drink beer. Ribs is aware that they think he's too stupid to know what they're doing.

The little wiry one with the pot belly leans over the desk and says, "You slavin' away, Ribs? I see smoke comin' out of your head. What happened? Somebody call and leave an important message? You had to write somethin' down?"

"You know how to write, Ribs?" chimes in the tall, beefy one named Louis. His teeth are stained brown.

"I know how to write," says Ribs. He is starting to feel angry though he doesn't want to. He knows he's no genius, but he made it to eleventh grade and he knows he's not as dumb as they think. When they tease him though, it's hard to remain undisturbed, even with the medication.

"How come they call you Ribs, Ribs?" asks Joey, the little one.

Maybe he is trying to be nice so Ribs explains. "My real name is Winston Thomas Bower," he says. "I got called Ribs when I was a kid because I was so skinny everybody could see my ribs. That's why."

"You're still skinny!" says Joey. "How's it feel to be skinny, stupid and ugly, Ribs? You're black, too, aren't you? Or are you Puerto Rican, I can't tell what you are."

Everything in front of Ribs' eyes turns red, like someone poured a bucket of translucent paint over it. He feels heat creeping up the sides of his neck and over his cheeks. Oh no, part of him is thinking, I took my medicine so why is this happening? He isn't supposed to feel this, the doctor assured him. The last thing he wants is to mess up this job. Pete is a nice guy who is willing to hire ex-cons and Ribs does not want to do anything to hurt the boss. In addition, he has a girlfriend now, or at least she is female and a friend who agrees to have beer and pizza or watch a movie with him occasionally. One time so far, they had sex.

"What'd you do to go to jail, Ribs?" asks Joey who, against regulations, pops open a beer can.

Ribs can hardly get the words out since his head seems to be filling up with dark steam. "I-I killed somebody," he says thickly.

"Oh, right," says Joey. "Like Pete would hire some murderer to work here. I'll bet you got caught stealing out of somebody's house or something. You were probably walking out the front door with your arms full and tripped!" He drinks from the can, then adds, "For that matter, I'm surprised Pete hired a nigger."

The red paint is almost finished coloring all of Rib's range of vision and the heat in his head is so tormenting that he is beginning to lose consciousness. His hand grips a marble penholder on the desk and he is about to pick it up with the vague intention of smashing it down on someone's head when before his mind's eye he suddenly sees Roger's tranquil hippie face with the wide apart blue eyes.

"Hey, man," his old friend seems to drawl, "here's how to do it." He pushes up his sleeve which keeps falling back down and points to his own tattoo. "You press on the tattoo and remember what I told you. That's no eight; that's an infinity sigh, man. Infinity is power! You can create what you want, man, go where you want to go, be who you want to be! Press on that tattoo and you'll transform, man! You'll transform into anything you choose! Remember how I showed you!"

Of course, Ribs had not believed him when he said it the first time. If an infinity sign or whatever it was could change you into anything, then why was Roger stuck in the cell with him?

"I ain't talking about physical going, man!" he'd said then. "I'm referring to leaving with your mind!" He laughed. "Not only leaving, but being, man." He motioned for Ribs to come closer and lowered his voice. "I don't share this with just anybody. You think I'd tell this to Buzzhead over there? Or Tommy or Leonard?" He was referring to guys in their cellblock. "No. This information is only for people who are ready, man."

"I'm ready?" Ribs had asked. "You think I'm ready?" He was surprised. It was the first time in his life anyone had considered him ready for anything, certainly anything involving thinking, and somehow Ribs had the idea that whatever Roger was talking about did involve thinking.

"You're ready, man," said Roger. "I think you've been ready all your sorry little life."

Ribs was going to protest that his life hadn't been sorry at all, but then he thought maybe it had and kept quiet while Roger rigged up his primitive tattooing equipment.

"What are you doing?" Ribs asked warily.

"Before you concentrate, you need something to focus on," said Roger and after that Ribs held out his arm and let him do what he wanted.

Now Ribs slides his left hand up to the mark on his upper right arm and presses into it with his thumb. His eyes partially close as he begins to gently rub the spot.

Louis, who has been talking low to Joey, suddenly stops and looks at Ribs. "What're you doing?" he says. "You look weird. Are you having a fit or something?" He backs away from the desk.

Joey snickers. "What's the matter, Louie? Are you afraid of this jailbird here? I tell you he probably got put away for snapping antennas off of cars."

Louis says in a low voice, "I don't think so, Joey. I heard stories. It wasn't no antenna. You didn't live here then so you didn't read the papers."

Joey's face remains frozen in its perpetual sarcastic grin.

"I'm serious," says Louis. "It was on the news."

Joey's face goes blank but the sneer stays on his lips. "Come on," he says.

Louis turns back to Ribs whose eyes are now closed and moving, like marbles rolling under the lids. His head is tilted back slightly. There is something almost luminous about him, as if he is enveloped in a mist.

"What did he do?" whispers Joey. "Who did he kill?"

"Let's get out of here!" says Louis, backing away from the desk.

Joey stands there a few seconds more wavering on some kind of edge, then drops his beer can and runs. The can rolls across the floor spewing liquid until it bumps into a chair leg.

Their voices sound far away to Ribs, farther and farther. As he expands through the layers of time and space, the two men disintegrate into concentrations of light and he sees them as they are but as they do not see themselves. He sees them through the walls as they run to their van.

When the boss returns after the day is done, he finds Ribs eating a tuna hoagie with his arm up to the elbow inside a huge bag of Wise potato chips. His mouth is full, but that doesn't stop him from greeting his employer.

"Hey, boss," he garbles.

"How'd it go today?" asks Pete. "Any important calls?"

"Just that woman from Meridian Gardens. You know the one who gets mad all the time?"

"Yeah," says Pete, sighing as he hangs up his jacket. "I'd like to glue her to her fancy toilet seat."

Ribs laughs. He glances at the trash can and hopes he buried the beer can deep enough so Pete never sees it.

"Well, you can go home now, Ribs," says Pete. "I'll take your place at the desk there. Got a lot of paper work and I'll probably be up late working on it."

Ribs stands up, gathers his things and moves toward the door. "See you tomorrow, Pete" he says, and lets himself out.

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