Boys School

Worn windshield wipers smear a window in the window through which I stare. I'm mesmerized by neon lights reflected on the shiny wet street. The cop taking me to the Boys school won't talk; he does mumble a cuss word under his breath every now and then. Sunday evening traffic is light. He's got the radio playing. Nat King Cole's singing We're too young. That's me. Too young. And too hot, 'cause all the windows are closed to keep out the rain.

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Pictures flash through my twelve year old head: Barred windows. Gun toting guards, who stare at us, making sure we don't do anything wrong. My head shaved. Wearing black striped white pants and shirt. My imagining is interrupted by gas pains in my lower gut. The butterbeans they fed me for supper at the jail have turned into gas. I sit there hurting 'cause I can't lower the window: no window handles on cop cars. Sure wish he'd hurry.

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"Are we about there? I gotta use the toilet." "Just a few more miles." He lowers his window, a few stray raindrops smack me in the face. The misty cool night air feels good, though. He slows and turns left onto a dark street. Lotsa trees. Off to the left kind of down in a low spot is a big spreadout one story building, all lit up. He passes the turn to it. Darn. We circle counterclockwise. Ahead, finally is a street light. He slows and we turn left onto a school campus.

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No guards. No fence.  Just a house on the right and a couple of three-story building directly ahead. The big cop parks the car and walks beside me up the fifteen wide concrete steps leading to the School Superintendants office. The office is closed, but an old white-headed night watchman takes my records from the cop. "You're a little late." he tells the cop." "The road was washed out between here and Tuscaloosa; we had to detour about ten miles." "Where's the toilet?" I interrupt.