“You don’t want to see what’s behind you,” says Jug. “I figured you’d want to free him. He’s a good one. That black crystal does all sorts of stuff. Makes you feel superman. Problem is we’re about to run out. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, that’s why I let you in here in the first place. All this is going to turn out for the better, you’ll see.”
“It’s a m-m-m-myth,” says Z.
“I’m afraid, good sir,” says Jug, so confident now, not like the previous health meeting, “that you’re incorrect.”
“It’s just dark-colored red,” says Z. “You’re living a lie.”
“Not sure that matters because really, we’re running out,” says Jug. He reaches his hand into a pants pocket and scratches himself.
“Then walk in and steal some. Send Mob of Mary’s.”
Inmates cheer in a rhythmic sing-song way and Z. wonders what’s happening. Is Bobby T. dead? The prison is evil. Arnold is probably saying something offensive. His arms will be torn off by dogs.
“I’ve read the letters. You’re smart,” says Jug, “and also dumb. My sister is like this. She’s the smartest dumb person I know. She has two college degrees and when we get together with Mom she always makes the last point, always breaks people down. She’s unemployed and has never held a job for longer than a month she’s so smart.”
“I remember looking for them,” says Z. “Everyone digging around like crazy in the rain because someone said they thought they saw one.”
From his pocket where his hand scratched, Jug pulls out a tiny twisted branch of black crystal. He holds it up in the dull light between his thumb and finger, turning it and rolling it between his fingers. It’s about two inches long and in its thinness looks breakable. The blackness is undeniable, and without realizing what he’s doing, Z. reaches out to touch it and the hand on his neck digs in deeper and pulls him back. In the jerking-back-to-reality motion Z. thinks the crystal has to be a fake, a set-up, no way, how is it possible.
“They exist,” says Jug, carefully placing the black crystal back in his pocket. “It’s very simple what I’m asking here. No bullshit.”
Z. says it’s just a dark-colored red, you’re being fooled, total bullshit. Everyone is eventually fooled into believing in something that doesn’t exist. Give meaning to your existence no matter what. Z. remembers this passage from one of the books, and he’s proud of himself for being able to recite it, it seems so powerful, it sounds so good, but it has no effect whatsoever on Jug who just sits with a neutral facial expression. And the more Z. thinks about it, the more he thinks maybe it is a black. He too wants to believe.
“You’re perfect because you live there. Spending time in the mine won’t be odd compared to, you know, Mob of Mary’s, or someone from here going in that deep.”
“It does something to your insides?”
“Yes,” says Jug, kind of looking at Z. with a half smirk and general disbelief. “You’re not like my sister, no, not at all. You have things at stake and you’ll work hard to make sure everything works out.”
“It’s not supposed to happen like this. This place, in here, isn’t like how people think it is.”
“If one exists,” says Jug, “more exist.”
Z. getting anxious and self-conscious: “H-h-h-how am I s-s-s-suppose to f-f-f-feel about this?”
“Feel good.”
Z. races back through memories of Younger Years but can’t find a black crystal. Generations have looked and failed. Some believe that a combination of rain and heat bring them up, but this has never been proven, only rumored. It will be impossible to find in hours, days, what has been worked at for years. Z. feels lightheaded, like he might pass out with the next breath. Everything — the heat, the sun, the stress of the jailbreak in reverse, what his life is or isn’t — is killing him. He imagines his count as salt in a half circle around his boots.
There’s a long pause. More bells ringing. Someone from the second floor throws a shoe filled with rocks at a window. Jug shakes his head, rubs his face with two sweaty hands. “Go into the mine and bring back more black crystal. That’s it.”
Z.’s shoulders feel like they are arching around his head. The hand is still on him. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“We don’t trust anyone here.”
“I think we should just forget all this.”
Prison noise and silence in the cell, Jug just staring through Z.
“I could list everything that would happen to your friends,” says Jug. “Listen, I’ve read the letters multiple times, they’re fascinating. You want to be someone important, that’s fine, I understand that urge. But it’s greed. Don’t pretend it’s something more or something different. I’m here to help though, because my greed is black crystal and being the guy who gets it. Bring it back here and you’ll be remembered, that’s what you want, I know that and you know that. Win-win. See?”
Another hand from behind runs up the inside of Z.’s leg.
“But what you’re asking me to do is impossible,” says Z. “This feels like a t-t-t-trick.”
“What you’ll learn,” says Jug, “is that everything is a trick. Only thing that isn’t is the universe. I’m talking about outer space, the sun, the moon, planets, stuff we don’t know about. No humor out there. Serious business among those stars. The universe does whatever it wants while we’re forced to play games. We’ve all thought about our lives compared to what’s above, right? Think about it, the universe is going to live forever. No counting days or crystals. No last breaths with loved ones. The universe will just keep expanding. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s important that we just do what it is we do and we keep doing it for as long as possible.”
Z. imagines an entire network of black crystals underground. It has to be a fantasy. But he saw it, Jug held it up for that quick moment, and he’s never seen a crystal like that before. Was it just a red, this messed jail lighting, his exhaustion, his mind dimming the color? Why would someone like Jug make up such a story if it wasn’t real?
“What I’m saying is, you had your own idea of a game to keep you occupied. A jailbreak in reverse. I mean, fuck, stupid and somehow brilliant. That’s why you can do this. And we have a game in here where guards take black crystal, and when they don’t they act like idiots. They hurt more. What are we suppose to do — fire them and let them tell the media what’s going on? PR disaster. I feel like I’m talking to myself here. This is the game we want to keep playing and there isn’t anything wrong with that. The game is what keeps you distracted from the universe bearing down on you.”
“I understand,” says Z., “but I don’t know what’s happening.”
“I’ll give you a few days. I’m not sure your friends can last more. Come back with it and they walk. Pants too. As a matter of fact, all the villagers in here, everyone goes, why not. You’ll be remembered as the man who sprung your people free. They’ll build you a statue and you’ll be remembered forever. Don’t let me keep you longer. The guards get wild without it. No telling what they might do to your friends while you’re away. And no telling what they may do if we can’t control them, maybe run rabid to his home and find the one his mom has in that box. Only so much I can do here. Come on, let’s go.”
Z. runs under the sun-clogged sky. He makes eye contact with a man wearing a dress sitting on the stoop of a brick building. The man raises his arm slowly, the sleeve of his blue dress gathering around his elbow, and while coughing, he gives Z. the middle finger. Z. runs faster. He puts the city on his back. The man holds his middle finger as high as his arm will stretch, leans forward in the direction of Z. who slides down the cliff, creating long dusty tunnels in the air above.