Flower Lounge (5A) -- Into the Cuckoo's Nest (part one)

As I descend creakily from the toilet altar, head, soul, and bladder feeling light and empty, I spot the only creature which I’d refuse to deliver from existential suffering even if I somehow became a saint or attained Buddhahood.

A few roaches are roaming the sink, audaciously ignoring my looming presence. Perhaps they’re undernourished and blind, or giddy from my high sodium dinner, desperately needing a drink to dilute their creamy bloodstream before returning to the sewer for a diurnal nap. Good thing I didn’t sleep last night. They might have nibbled my fingers instead of salty peanuts otherwise. They’re lucky that I’m in a spiritual don’t-give-a-shit mood, or I would have flattened them all on the spot. Splat splat splat. Despicable. All baby animals are adorable, except this bunch.

Eons ago, big fat cucarachas were rampant in this part of the planet. They once ate the tip of my index finger while I slept. It wasn’t a big bite, and the wound mild, but bloody enough to leave an indelible smudge in my childhood psyche. Having been feasted on by roaches was humiliating and disgusting, though not as worrying as the prospect of having one in the ear. To add psychological burden to my wounded finger, my father told me cockroaches are indestructible, destined to rule the planet after our self-extinction. ‘And they don’t have reverse in their gearbox. Once inside a narrow canal such as our ears, they would crawl forward into deeper and deeper trouble, until they hit the brain. You have big ears. Be extra careful.’ He, my own father, was actually grinning. It was then that I realised grownups are inevitably sick.

Being eaten by roaches is not as creepy as having one die on the chest though. I was still a kid — it was a long childhood — barely recovered from the psychological damage inflicted by children-eating roaches, when a flapping giant flew right through the window on a stormy night, and headed straight inside my pyjama. Reflexively, I squished it against my chest and screamed, as one is expected to under the circumstance: ‘Mum! Mum! Mum!’ I didn’t want help from my father when it comes to cockroaches. While in a frenzy, I could feel hairy scratchy legs struggling against bare skin, leaving a slimy mess of crushed cuticles. I found out much later that cockroaches can live and function without their heads for days. Creepy. Though some government humans can survive without their heads for years, metaphorically speaking, haha.

Clank! The sound of gates opening fills the air.

A screw appears outside mine and unlocks it without haste or caution. He saunters on, doesn’t bother to look my way to see if I’ve escaped downstairs through a spoon dug tunnel in the night. Is he the same imperturbable guard who counselled the See Hing next cell last night?

Was last night real? Or just a dream? Did all that really happen?

I look back at the sink. The creeps are gone. Were there any a moment ago?

Asking oneself questions like these is the first step towards insanity.

I stop asking, therefore, and proceed to arrange my toothbrush, toothpaste and towel on the little grey stand to make access difficult if and when they return. If they want to taste the residual toothpaste on my green brush, they’ll need a little acrobatics. Nothing can stop them, I know, not even a nuclear holocaust. By making it more challenging, I hope they’ll follow the path of least resistance to the next cell. That’s nasty and selfish, but I don’t feel any guilt.

Drowsy inmates straggle past, mugs dangling from fingers, slippers hissing against bare concrete, staring at the floor a metre ahead. None of them turns to look my way. They’ve all had a rough party last night, I suppose, with a face to show. I put the spoon inside my mug, hook my finger through its ear and slip outside, trawling slippers. When in prison, do what prisoners do.

Next door’s vacant. The gate’s wide open.

Involuntarily, I check the toilet paper in my pocket. It feels even smaller than I remember. Has it shrunk from humidity? Or biodegraded overnight?

Following the flow of unguarded cons, I arrive at Fan Tong — dining or Common Room — on fourth floor. Its double-gated entrance is wide open at the moment.

Along both sides of the long rectangular hall are narrow vertical windows similar to the ones downstairs. In front of the windows are bolted-down fibreglass picnic tables with side benches. Near the entrance is the guard’s duty desk and, that’s right, a widely open washroom. At this morning hour, it’s full of squatting See Hings chatting, grunting, pushing, and reading newspaper within sniffable distance from the nearest table. Hanging from the ceiling are two television sets tuned to competing channels — one near the entrance, one at the far end, both very loud.

Morning has broken, rather badly.

I walk to one of the emptier tables on the right side, near the middle of the room, a respectable distance from the toilet.

‘May I sit here?’ I direct my request to both occupants, overly polite.

‘Taken,’ one of them answers without looking up from the entertainment pages of Apple Daily.

I thank him, then look around feebly. Every table has at least a couple of occupants.

Something — perhaps everything — has abruptly collapsed.

Don’t think I have ever been this hyper-sensitive to an impassive rejection. It may not even have been a rejection. This could indeed be a popular table, fully booked in advance. But whatever it was, it has shattered my confidence, self esteem, judgement, orientation…I have no friendly courage left for another enquiry.

The mental clarity attained an hour ago has vanished. Merely an ephemeral illusion.

Inmates are pouring in. They all seem to know where to go. They head straight to a table and plonk right down. The officers obviously don’t care who sits where. I wish one of them would usher me to my designated seat right now, handcuffed if necessary, see if I care. Just get me out of this tight spot under my feet. Don’t they know gaolers exist because of convicts? I am the reason why they have a job to pay mortgage. They should at least make sure that I am duly seated. The relevant authority can’t let me stand here till the sun goes down, can it?

Must have stood frozen for a minute or more before noticing the friendly eyes of a boyish-looking fellow across the aisle. He’s looking at me with pity, or curiosity, or condescendence. I summon all my residual courage to smile back. He gestures me to join.

I walk over and sit down at the side-bench he’s on. He gives a friendly smile. I meekly return one. The tag on the table says 33.

Another See Hing sits opposite from us has fixed his stare on me. Empty and intense. Weird.

I smile and nod. No response.

The three of us sit in awkward silence. I feel guilty for having brought my saviour this moment of unease, assuming he feels unease like I do.

Now, how to break ice in jail…

Last night, while checking in, I promptly lost the ultra tiny Prisoner’s Handbook amidst the chaos. Might have left it in my dress pants pocket. There might be a paragraph or two on prison etiquettes. Now I’ll have to make them up as I go.

After a few more minutes of silence, I feel obliged to say something to my rescuer: ‘So, what’re you in for?’ After all, there’s one thing we all have in common: We’re in here for something, no? Seeking commonality is a good way to start pointless small talks in social situations.

But this is not a company cocktail, idiot. The question could be taken wrongly. Wake up.

Too damned late! My brain isn’t functioning smoothly, not at all.

Luckily, he doesn’t appear to mind.

‘Sham marriages.’ The reply is nearly eager.

The guy across the table is still goggling at me. I make another smiley attempt to connect, more relaxed this time.

Nope.

Oh well, glad to know that I’m not the only confused person in here.

‘Mainlander?’ I return to the normal fellow, and take a statistical guess.

‘Four,’ he volunteers with a self-mocking grin: ‘In the same year.’ He proudly emphasises the absurdity.

Is he stupid or something? Does he know there’s a thing called computer?

I’ll call him the Polygamist in my future diary, when I have pen and paper.

‘Wow!’ I exclaim, trying to look impressed and stupefied at the same time. The brain is slowly defrosting.

‘Needed the money badly. Consequence didn’t matter.’ He must have read my mind.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I lie reflexively.

No, I don’t know.

In my social cul-de-sac, consequence matters a hell of a lot, at least in theory. So is risk, as well as return on investment, also in theory. Before retirement, a major pastime at work was to hold endless meetings to discuss and devise ways — we called them strategies — to maximise shareholders’ return at minimum risks and responsibilities. The keyword is maximisation, which means as much return on the buck as possible regardless of need or reasonableness. My new friend has a valid point though. Even for us, consequence was often rationalised away or deliberately overlooked when the money was irresistibly good.

But unlike my polygamous friend, corporate consequences could be mitigated on paper, justified by unforeseen circumstances such as economic downturn, new policies after an election, stupid government decisions (a panacea), competitors gone irrational because we had been far too good for far too long, driving them to suicidal pricing, and so on. All rather standard, nearly formulaic. Having duly explained that consequences were in fact an act of God well beyond our control, we then went on to happy hours instead of prison.

Polygamist puts one foot on the bench. I do likewise.

When exchanging personal anecdotes on the crimes which have brought us together, I speak tentatively to match his halting speech — imitating due to an eagerness to blend, not to mock.

He married four mainland women nearly concurrently for ten grand each. The reward was quick cash, the consequence imprisonment. The time in between was bonus.

As he tells his story, I give it a mercantile cost-benefit analysis. Marrying as many as possible in his case isn’t as stupid as it first sounded. The chance of surviving a sham marriage these days isn’t much better than surviving a real one. Knowing that he would eventually go to jail for it anyway, he might as well do it in quantity, as fast as possible. He’s been sentenced to fifteen months. Had he married only one, he would have received only a quarter of the money, and most likely the same nominal sentence. Being monogamous in sham marriage isn’t optimal, though the chance of getting caught would have been somewhat smaller, in theory. He must have worked that out in his guts before deciding to enter into multiple contracts.

My turn to sum up ‘my reason for being in here’.

Helped by the celebrity of Macao’s ludicrously corrupt minister, elaborate background intro is unnecessary. Everyone knows his name, and the many incredible stories — some real, many fabricated — which go with it. Just make sure I don’t sound innocent or bitter. Innocence somehow seems pretentious in this room, a negative reflection of one’s personality.

Soon after breakfast, new arrivals are sent to the Admin Office to give urine samples. My urine has never been so popular. Peeing on command feels ridiculous, but surprisingly easy. There’s always a small amount of reserve in the bladder. After submitting my urinary dues, they take electronic smudge-free prints of all my fingers, then give me a laminated ID featuring name, number, crime, and a mugshot against a height scale. The ID is to be kept on my person at all times. The photo must have been rendered with a specialised filter. I look scary, hopelessly criminal in high contrast black and white, palpably incorrigible. Crookface would be a descriptive product name, my marketing side says.

Most inmates carry a transparent portfolio or plastic bag containing all their belongings. Polygamist also has his toiletry items with. Something doesn’t seem right. What normal person would carry his toothbrush around all day?

‘I left my toothbrush and toothpaste in my cell. Is that okay?’ An innocent grin.

‘Your cell? The one you stayed last night?’

‘Yeah.’ Anxiety swells in my voice.

‘We sleep in a different cell every night.’

‘Oh.’ Ha ha. Shit. ‘What should I do, then?’

‘They issue new ones every two weeks. You probably won’t stay here that long though. We normally Guo Gai within a week or so. They’ll give you a new set there.’

‘I see.’ Guo Gai means crossing a boundary. I guess correctly that he’s referring to the transfer to my destination prison. Living without soap and toothbrushing for the next week or two is a depressing prospect, but I’ll survive. Super bad breath is probably not regarded anti-social in here. After the tissue enquiry last night, I know better than requesting replacement, for I now know the answer would be something like: Does this look like a fucking hotel to you? Oh well, this isn’t a hotel, for sure. I’ll just pretend to be a king living a few thousand years ago. They didn’t have soap and toothpaste, yet they lived like kings, surrounded by guards, like I am right now.

I internalise a sigh. My tongue performs an involuntary glissando over gritty teeth.

A few minutes later, Polygamist retrieves a tooth brush, a tube of toothpaste, and a bar of soap from his bag. ‘Take this.’ He must have considered my situation carefully, and decided that I deserve charity.

‘Keep everything with you all the time. This is not a hotel.’

Ha, everyone knows this isn’t a hotel.

‘Thank you, thank you. Thank you very very much.’ Can’t stutter enough to exaggerate my heartfelt gratitude. ‘What about you?’

‘It’s a spare set from a guy who Guo Gai yesterday.’

I thank him again, and put everything into my mug.

I’m deeply touched by his generosity. It doesn’t take a genius to notice that every inconsequential article with no recycling value is a big deal in this place. I then ask myself an annoying question: ‘Would I be equally generous if we swapped places?’ Uh, don’t know. This isn’t the time for self-examination, so, drop it. However, I know with no uncertainty that I will not share my toilet paper with anyone, even if he loses control of his bowels right before me.

An internal alarm interrupts my guilt-ridden reflections: ‘Wake up! You’re in jail. This place is full of criminals and tricksters.’

It’s my dutifully distrustful Guardian Angel speaking.

‘Maybe he wants something from you? Better err on the side of caution and suspicion, huh?’

It, that angel, has a point. Last night, while staring at the ceiling, I admitted to myself that I’ve been embarrassingly naive. Prison is no place to be naive.

I sit up slightly, adjust my mentality, raise my guards, continue to look grateful.

As Polygamist and I chat, our table-mate tries to burn a hole in my head with his stare. He hasn’t said a word yet, not even a humph. That crept me out at first, but I have quickly gotten used to it. I now find his obsessive stare melancholy, even a little saddening. The diffused shimmers in his eyes are clearly harmless, though why he stares this way, and why at me, is likely to remain a mystery. Most probably, he doesn’t know either. He may not even be aware that he’s staring.

He looks like a petty thief — and not a very successful one at that. But it’s far too easy to be rashly judgemental in this situation.

What about Polygamist? He’s unremarkably handsome — good looking yet paradoxically indistinguishable from the legendary average guy. He can blend into any crowd and disappear instantly — a natural headache for anyone trying to create a composite picture for the cops. Average in height, his nose, eyes, brows, mouth, ears are all similarly average, yet in the right places, properly proportioned and pleasing to look at as a whole. With a resigned smile and forbearing countenance, he looks more like an account clerk who accepts boredom or salary freeze without an audible grumble. No movie casting director would pick him for a criminal role. Though in the real world, criminality depends on the law, and the law can change and flip to make anything a crime, and anyone a criminal.

Anyway, it’s not nice to judge by appearance, I remind myself, then continue to do so.

There seems to be a vague correlation between look and character, enough to keep prejudice alive and popular. Perhaps popular prejudice creates its own validity. Confident looking people are confident because everyone thinks they look confident. A mousey-eyed fellow with a hairy hawkish nose, pointy teeth, and lopsided mouth, no matter how talented in deceit, will never become a bank president. Career-wise, he’ll find the Triads more openminded.

The Common Room is a dreamland for people watching.

Sitting all day doing nothing is hard on the body and mind. The glutes would hurt and the mind develops static. Except during mealtimes, there’s a steady stream of inmates shuffling back and forth the centre aisle, stretching, yawning loudly, chatting quietly, charging it with captive energy. This pageant of faces defies generalisation. There’s a wild range of physiognomy and mannerism in this convicted lot. Anyway, I manage to come up with a few nicknames: Hyena Face, Tongue Flicker, Jigsaw Mouth…

Most prisoners don’t resemble movie crooks. Among a dozen or so heavy duty aisle-walkers who don’t ever sit down, two of them actually look distinctly accomplished. Both seem well-known in this circle. In their perpetual circulations up and down the middle, they hold mobile discussions with one inmate after another, speaking through the corners of their mouths, nodding periodically as eyes scan the room. They aren’t ugly or scary at all, but palpably intimidating. Such an uncanny aura must surely be a natural asset in their careers, like high IQ in rocket science research. Surprisingly, perhaps not surprisingly, they don’t appear to know each other. The underground is either very big, and they have never met, or too small to accommodate both.

Quite a few See Hings look pleasant and gracious, like helpful neighbours. Perhaps they are. Another few give the impression that life is fantastic and completely under control, as always, while they retreat in flower lounge.

Most youngsters look blithely unconcerned that they’re in jail. Some even look excited, like college freshmen at orientation. Compared with the seniors, they tend to talk more and walk less. Young bodies don’t need exercise to stay fit.

The perpetual circulation reminds me of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, a Jack Nicholson classic. In the movie, a bunch of heavy duty mental cases stroll round and round ad infinitum in an asylum run by psychotics, driving each other nuts. Nicholson finally scales the high-walled madhouse. The movie doesn’t say where he goes from there. To find a clerical job without proper identifications, and be in the company of normal people from nine to five until the end of time? In my present state of mind, his escape seems pretty crazy. Things are no more sensible on the other side of the walls. In fact, it’s likely to be less reasonable and predictable — fundamental conditions of ‘sanity’. Is it what one calls jumping out of the frying pan into the fire? Supposedly a happy ending anyway.

Actually, depending on how one perceives sanity, jail can be a relatively sane place. Professional criminals are purportedly tricky, violent, greedy, scary, all that. But they know the ruthless facts of life, and are therefore more alert and rational. Most crooks break the law for a reason, rightly or wrongly, smartly or stupidly. Some deserve sympathy. Others don’t. But unlike some people I know, they can’t afford to discard reason petulantly because reality isn’t to their taste, or politically correct…

Better not think down this track, lest the ghosts I expelled with the Heart Sutra return to haunt.

Polygamist is a patient teacher, a true See Hing. He also seems to enjoy explaining things to me, indirectly encouraging more stupid questions.

We are temporary guests at LCK, he explains, therefore no need to work, not even doing the dishes. Minor offenders with very short sentences may serve them out here, and be assigned chores. I wonder what Quasimodo’s minor offence was. Can’t recall what he looks like. I was in no condition to take note. Anyway, for now, we just eat, sit, smoke, bullshit, watch TV, watch each other, and party in captivity. And, of course, to supply the authority with urine. Life isn’t bad.

‘Why do they want our pee so often?’

‘Drugs.’

‘Ah, yes!’ Obviously. What a dumb question. When I get my notebook, I must jot them all down to remind myself how stupid I am when taken out of my comfort zone.

I tell Polygamist about next door last night. ‘Can’t imagine anyone needing to smoke that badly.’ Proud to have shared a jail story with someone more experienced.

‘Junkies. When the craving hits, a cigarette is better than smoking the slipper or licking the ashtray.’

‘Oh, I see,’ for the hundredth time this morning. Learning many new things.

Licking the ashtray is a figure of speech, of course. The piece of concrete slab under our feet, covering Mother Earth, is the ashtray, bone dish, and spittoon, among other things, in this esteemed institution.

‘Anything to keep up the suicide, I suppose,’ I mumble reflexively.

As soon as the self-righteous words are out, I regret. I hardly know Polygamist’s history and business interests besides freelance matrimony. What if his main career is drug marketing, and he believes in what he sells like good salespersons do?

Luckily, he agrees promptly: ‘Yup.’

Once again: Suspend all self-righteous or sarcastic remarks until discharge. Absolutely no sarcasm, something I overuse to no effect in Hong Kong. In prison, mistaken sarcasm may spell disaster. Remember!

Okay, one more question: ‘When I arrived, they asked me where I slept last night. I didn’t know what to say.’

Polygamist laughs. He has a nice laugh. Have I just told a prison joke unwittingly?

‘People come and go in Lai Chi Kok. All prisoners transferring between jails, hospitals, and courthouses come here first. That question was to confirm where you’d come from. They knew anyway. Just asking.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Into the Cuckoo's Nest Part II