The Kid

Al Gore focuses the camera in tight on the handsome sixteen-year-old black face. He zooms in on the boy's eyes, the windows of the soul, and he like what he sees. The half-closed brown eyes are moving around the room more quickly than the kid realizes or intends.

Al brings the frame in tighter still, and holds on the eyes, recording them in their rythmic dance; they move up, then down, then sideways, taking everything in. Everything; the bars, the stone walls,the plexiglass viewing windows, the four sneering guards, the puke-green painted walls.

Keys jingle--the eyes flash to the source..

The smell of ammonia and mold wafting over century old dead rat--the eyes narrow and blink.

And then voices in the background, voices far away and close by, swelling and shrinking voices like ocean waves that build, but don't break, and the eyes move now to the wall, and beyond the wall, searching. And still the half-hooded eyes, with all their movement, remain the same; unconcerned, unimpressed, almost bored, taking it all in as the camera vibrates in the ex-Vice President's hands.

The kid is told to stand still and he stands perfectly still. He wears a black track suit with the swoosh, and black basketball shoes that say gang-banger loud and clear, and bad-ass mother-fucker, and bling-bling, and bring it on, and this ain't shit--I seen far worse-- as the unmistakable sound of the prison gates slam closed behind him. Heavy iron meeting heavy iron.

The kid doesn't turn around to look at the closed iron doors. He doesn't take a deep breath, or lick his lips, or even move until they tell him to move. They tell him to sit at the table and he sits, slouched over slightly, head leaning off to one side, his body-language saying he is waiting for this to be over so he can go home, or back to Juvie, or where-the-fuck-ever they send him. He is here to get the piss scared out of him and he appears calm and somewhat amused by the prospect.

Scared Straight. An idea that Al Gore believes in and wants to make work. Something has to be done. The prison system is a mess, and as such, a new crusade for Al Gore. Somebody has to deal with it. With Tipper gone the time is now.

The kid is perfect.

Then it begins, with the camera rolling, Al holds his breath and hums projected theme music inside his head as a side door opens and in comes Samuel T. Washington, the biggest baddest African-American Al Gore has ever seen. The biggest human being he's ever seen! Samuel T. Washington moves to the kid, at the kid, over him, and the boy no longer seems quite so big, or quite so bored.

This is going to work!

Then! with Samuel T. Washington leaning down into the kid's face, the huge, tatted-up, skin-headed lifer lets loose with a string of spit-spraying bellowed words that will take lots of editing to manage, but even with the bleeping, the words are perfect and horrifying. Both his words and the spit coat the boy's face and suddenly the boy is no longer seated. He is on his feet. He swings once, connecting, and Samuel T. Washington is no longer standing over him, but is on the other side of the room, the other side of yesterday, half against the wall and half on the stone floor.

Al shakes his head, but keeps the camera rolling. Another time, another place, he could have made this kid a star. And maybe, Al realizes as he pans back to view the four guards rushing in, leading the boy away, he still might be able to... And wouldn't that be something?


600 Words-