Water for Elephants

A slice of a letter from 7 March 2011
* Peashooters are his biceps, according to the inmates :)
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"If only you would put up with a little foolishness from me! Please put up with me." 2 Cor 11:1.

Never could I have punched a concrete wall and felt in the echo on the other side; never can I guess what love in a prison cell when you forget time is so good interrupted. Then an unexpected bumping morse code -- should I ignore it? I timidly bumped with my left hand. It was Matt corresponding on the other side. I never that it could feel as wholesome as a hug.

"He scrutinizes me, shoots an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth, and goes back inside." Water for Elephants, p. 33.

My peashooters are shot after four shabby sets of diamond pushups. Met Anton, the young guy shaved bald, pimple pocked, nose like a mole. Says he doesn't work, he only has six months to do and will maybe get a halfway house. This morning he gave me his breakfast tray. "I don't eat that shit," he says. "Monday morning is the worst." The biscuits were huge though. "Where I came from they give us quarter size ones like this," I counter, pinching the air. We've completed the lap and taken our positions, splayed our fingers apart on the polished cement. I flop on the seventh and sputter a few more. "That's it?" says John, seeing us break up. "Already done?" "That's it," I say. In his hand he carries a plastic chair from his room. "You doing a set?" "We're doing backs." "I'll join you in a bit," I say.