While 81 said the schedule lacked consistency, he wagered it was about once every two weeks that we were taken one at a time from our cells to the showers. I don’t think I’d ever gone that long without bathing, and I’d be disappointed about it too if I wasn’t thankful that we were still able to at all. I wouldn’t miss the way you’d pass by people and get a whiff of the blatant lack of deodorant in these tight halls. If there was a good thing about being mostly bald, it was that your greasy hair wasn’t sticking on your forehead for all to see.

Exercising his usual impatience, 96 was at the door before the instructing knock came. I didn’t mind waiting, but I minded that he didn’t care and was taking every opportunity to announce it. It was one thing to be selfish, another to get a rouse out of being so. Made me want to be difficult out of spite.

“I’ll go next,” Jay announced, albeit unconfidently, and came down from his bunk. Something he hardly did when we were packed back inside our cell.

Without thinking much of it, I decided, “I’ll be going next after Jay.” A sentence that had the consequence of causing Jay to jump. I waited, curious, to see if he’d voice his concerns. I didn’t think he would, as that would mean speaking with me.

When he did decide to turn to me, it was with an aggressive jab of his finger. “Don’t call me that.” I looked at the finger in my face and then at his cautiously irritated expression. There wasn’t a doubt he was mad; he just wasn’t committed to expressing it. Ready to back off if I challenged him.

“71.” 81 reminded at my back.

“Sure,” I said nonchalantly.

96 returned in a time shorter than any shower I’d ever taken, including the walk there and back. He had a fresh uniform on. It wasn’t new, I saw the stains, only one of the many we washed. The pants fitted more ill than his last. Too short, exposing more of his branch-like legs. The stubble of his chin had been shaved as well. Not with any skill, for several cuts marked the area, one bad enough to bleed.

“Never learned how to use a razor, huh?”

He wound up to take a swing at me until the calling knock came again, then he shook off his arm like he made an impact anyway. I believed it all to be for show, yet wondered if there would come a day when he’d actually hit me. I’d keep walking that line till I knew if he’d cross over it.

The showers themselves were in a room located at the end of the hall of cells. Me and all the other selected inmates were lined up in front of small, square, dark tiled spaces separated by walls that only barely went over some of the inmate’s heads. We couldn’t see each other in the showers, but it wasn’t out of consideration for privacy when we had to undress out in the open before entering. I kept my eyes forward and hoped everyone else had the niceties to do the same.

After my guard took my clothing from me, yelling at me to pick it up after I let it drop to the floor, I stepped into the shower — the one at the very end. Completely out of the light’s reach, I could hardly see my own body. My fingers felt around on the tile to find the tab and came upon it still wet from the prior washes. Handle located, I twisted it and jumped when the ice water pelted me. I shivered terribly but tried to keep moving.

In the pitch-dark corner of my stall, I found the necessities: an unmarked bottle I assumed was intended for multi-purpose cleaning and an unfortunately communal razor. I squirted the “soap” into my hand, it smelled like straight disinfectant. Strong too, I choked. It lathered about as well as hand sanitizer and felt prickly on the skin. The marks I made all across me from my incessant itching disagreed with the substance.

Watchdogs stayed while the rest went off with the discarded clothing. They stood behind us and peered into the open spaces where we tried to pretend to have solitude for a shred of dignity. Even if the purpose was to monitor our behavior, every look was more dehumanizing than the last. I would turn to rinse my back and see a tall shadow there, observing me like a demon waiting at the end of a nightmare. It didn’t matter if it was a featureless face, it made it worse, I didn’t know with what eyes I was being watched — indifference, hatred, or objectification? The mystery unnerved me most. I tried to look through my spectator as though he were air and I was shameless. I would be for both of us.

The water was cut by something and someone elsewhere. I thought for a moment that the faucet was faulty before a potent “Get out” was like another blast of cold. They left us to the efficiency of air-drying in the time it took to get handed fresh uniforms. Mine had a giant stain over the front that after today I could be held accountable for. I smelled it to assure myself it didn’t bear a scent, coming back with only the strongest residues of bleach. 

After I slipped it over my head, I imagined that “straight out of the dryer” warmth. In reality, it was coarse, cold, and now wet. The illusion wasn’t enough to make me any more comfortable as much as I wished I could will it to.