Ex Cathedra

by A. L. Sirois

"You're wasting your time, Father," says Sid Birkhead.

The Hispanic chaplain looks up from his Bible. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing, forget it." Birkhead turns toward the sink. He draws off a glass of water and stares at the dust motes swirling in the liquid.

_-- plunging his arm in icy water --_

He looks at his forearm. There are craters there, old puckered cigarette burns, healed. More than thirty.

_--time, Father --_

"You oughta show some civility," the black corrections officer at the cell door says loudly.

"I am being civil," Birkhead says, pushing thoughts of his father out of his mind. He glowers at the guard from under bushy eyebrows and balances the glass carefully on the rim on the stained metal sink.

The guard scowls but says nothing.

"I am sorry for you," says the chaplain softly, closing the Bible. "But if it's your decision not to pray . . .."

"No reason to," says Birkhead, "because I'm not taking the walk." He tilts his head at the door of the cell. His palms are very damp and he wipes them -- unobtrusively, he hopes -- on his trousers. "Stay'll come through, just like the first one."

"That was a different governor," says the guard, looking at his watch. "Now, y'know, I never seen no stay come in this late." He grins at Birkhead. It's the first time Birkhead has seen the man smile. There's a noticeable gap between the guard's front teeth.

The chaplain opens the Bible.

Birkhead waves his hand, dismissing the rite. "Still not my style, no matter what," he says. "Put it down as my last request. No send-off for the old soul."

He taps the glass. It topples into the sink and shatters. He frowns at the shards. There is something about the glass . . .. He tries to catch the memory but it eludes him.

Yeah, deja vu, sure. I been here before.

"I'm sorry for you," the chaplain says again, quickly. "May the Lord have mercy on you."

The black guard stands aside and taps a finger to the brim of his cap as the priest leaves the cell.

"Little late for that, Father!" Birkhead calls out. He laughs and says to the guard, "He can keep that blessing, right?"

"The man's just doin' his job. It's more'n you deserve."

Birkhead picks at his gray trousers. There are small balls of fuzz all over them, relics of the prison laundry. He can feel the laundry room's humidity, smell the sharp odor of hot cloth . . .. Sharp odor of hot cloth. My clothes with me in 'em, and soon. He grits his teeth.

The guard looks at his watch, then at Birkhead. "You ready?" he asks.

"I'm ready in your face. C'mon, I'm not worried. You guys won't even have time to strap me in before the phone rings."

He strides out into the tan-painted corridor of the death house so quickly that the guard has to hurry to catch up with him. His footsteps echo off the asphalt tiles and green-painted iron bars around him.

At the end of the hall the prison psychologist, a sturdy white-haired woman, waits at the door with two more guards.

"Join the cortege," Birkhead says to her. She nods at the first guard, saying nothing. The group enters the short hallway leading to the stark chamber housing the chair.

"How many are out there?" Birkhead asks, pausing at the dark blue-green door.

"Two, three thousand," says the black guard. "Give or take a hundred or so." He reaches past Birkhead's narrow shoulders and grasps the door handle. "Dunno how much TV audience you got."

Birkhead forces a chuckle as the door swings open. Light pours in -- the crew is ready, the cameras all in place. This one really is down to the wire. He licks his lips and squints against the glare of the klieg lights. "A good ten million," he says, looking into the guard's impassive face. "And standing room only in here."

He starts to walk through, but just then the guard's composure cracks. He grabs Birkhead by the arm and leans toward him.

"Hey!" says the psychologist, "leave him alone." But the guard ignores her and the other two guards who now move forward.

"Y'know, you make me wanna puke," the guard says. "It's one thing not to care about killin' that girl, but you don't even give a damn about yourself, do you?"

Birkhead shakes himself loose. "Honk off, pal. I caught her in bed with somebody I thought was my friend. I lost it. What would you have done? And if I didn't care about myself I wouldn'ta put in for a stay, would I?"

The chair is lit by a white spotlight. This is as close as Birkhead has ever come to it. Now, so near, he feels his nerve begin to give way. He knows his knees are going to buckle . . . and there's only one place to sit.

I'm not going to lose it here! Birkhead takes a deep breath and jams his hands into his pockets, willing his legs to keep him upright. He stares at the chair as if inspecting it.

The psychologist touches his arm, and Birkhead begins walking forward.

From around the back of the chair steps the executioner. The audience

falls silent.

The executioner is a small man wearing a suit of conservative cut. He looks like an accountant.

A boom mike swings low to catch his soft voice. "Time," he says to Birkhead, his eyes mild but very shiny.

"Not a bad job, huh?" Birkhead hears himself asking. "You ever talk about your day with the wife?" You're great, he says to himself -- You really are great! This is such a waste!

The mild eyes narrow. "Have . . . a seat."

The guards strap him in gently but firmly. He looks up and through the glare of the lights at the tiers of spectators rising up into dimness.

The chair has no padding. God, why should I have expected that? He has to bite back a bray of hysterical laughter.

Nothing is real any more. The lights, the cameras, the stage crew . . ..

All across the country, "they" are watching. He wants to rise, to shout defiance at them, but the executioner moves in and begins to secure the straps and suddenly the defiance evaporates.

Birkhead feels a peculiar lightheadedness. Sure, shave a guy's head, it's lighter, right? Cooler. I may need that, soon. He almost smiles, but then the executioner begins attaching the electrodes.

Only minutes now . . . when the hell is the governor going to --

A phone rings on one of the consoles outside the illuminated area. Birkhead twists toward the sound as much as he is able; the head clamp digs into his temples. He ignores the pain, straining to hear.

"The governor," he says hoarsely. "Got to be him, right?"

Someone replaces the receiver on its hook and walks out from around the console toward the chair.

It is Jay Chan, the producer. He seems barely out of his teens.

"That was him, wasn't it?" Birkhead flexes his arms against the wrist restraints. "So come on, let me up, let me out of this friggin' thing."

"It was the warden," says Chan softly. "Your stay was denied. I'm sorry. Godspeed."

"G, godspeed!" Birkhead stares at Chan's retreating back. "No-oo!"

His heart thumps painfully in his chest. Oh sweet Jesus it's really happening!

The executioner makes a final adjustment to something behind the chair, then steps back. He turns to face the crowd and bows his head.

Someone in the audience coughs.

The house lights dim, and the stage lights come up, green fading into yellow into red. A spatter of applause ripples through the crowd. Birkhead's hands grip the chair's arms in convulsive anticipation.

Am I going to feel this?

The executioner throws the switch -- -- the lights flare WHITE. Even as the power rips through him, Birkhead hears the roaring approval of the audience. His fried nerve endings unravel and sensation scrambles, blurs, whirls off . . . blackness . . ..

Part of the beauty of the designer drug Birkhead uses is that the sub-lethal electric shock breaks down its molecular structure, cancelling the memory-overlay effect. It gives him a thundering hangover, but that only lasts for a few minutes.

He smacks his lips and rubs his eyes as the nausea fades.

"How are you feeling?" asks the doctor. "What's your middle name?"

"Rotten, but I like it, thanks. Peter. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Okay? Up, down, color, charm, strange --"

"Okay, okay," says the doctor. "That's it, boys." He and the other medicos begin packing up their gear.

"Wayne," says Birkhead, looking around.

The actor playing the black prison guard saunters over. "What's up?" he asks.

"That bit where you said I made you want to puke," says Birkhead. He pushes himself up from the chair.

"Yeah, hey, look, I'm sorry about that," says Wayne. "It just came to me. I felt my character would react --"

"I'd like to leave it in," says Birkhead. "Depending on audience reaction."

"You liked it?"

"Yeah. It had that ring to it. Thanks."

Wayne grins. "Nothin' to it, Sid."

The set's PA speakers click on. "Like to see the tape, Sid?" asks a tech in the control booth.

"Yeah," says Birkhead. "I'll be right up." He turns to the floor manager. "Hey, where's Chan?"

"Hold on." The floor manager murmurs into his headset.

Chan approaches from where he's been going over the blocking for the next performance with the actors.

"Yo, Birkie -- what's up?" he asks.

"Two things," says Birkhead. "First of all, get me a new shrink. This one's just collecting her check. I need someone who can get into what I'm trying to do here."

"Come on, Sid, she's only got that one line," says Chan.

"I don't care, she isn't putting anything into it."

"I'll get someone to work with her this afternoon. She'll be better. What's the second thing?"

"Some moron put a glass in my cell instead of a metal cup," says Birkhead. "I could have used it to cut my wrists. They don't have glasses on Death Row. I think it sent a ripple through my conditioning . . . I know I felt something weird when I saw it. I'm paying you guys for better detailing than that."

"Whup, mea damn culpa," says Chan. "Sorry about the slip-up. I'll have Props lose the glass and get a cup next time."

A fortyish woman, plump, dressed in black and carrying a palm computer, wanders out of the wings.

"Ms. Arant," murmurs Birkhead in acknowledgment.

"Sidney," says the monocled critic, inclining her head. "Thanks so for inviting me." She pokes a long-nailed finger at her keypad and glances archly at Birkhead.

"I sense an airy dismissal here," says Birkhead, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Sidney, you're leaving us all behind," says Arant. "Your orchestration of effects and memory overlays takes my breath away. I just wonder if we're seeing enough tension between you as a scapegoat and you as the architect of your own fate."

"There's no lack of irony in the piece," says Birkhead.

"Along these dark ways, irony isn't enough," says Arant. "Anyone living on the Lower East Side knows that. And we're your peers, Sidney."

Birkhead snorts. "Ms. Arant, I live here because after I get done paying the techs and the other performers I can't afford to live anywhere else. You surf in the 90's. So give me a break."

As she lifts a finger and starts to respond, he looks up at the control booth, frowning.

She falters.

"Cut it there," he calls.

"Right," says the tech's voice on the PA.

"What's wrong?" Arant asks.

"This sucks. It goes on too long. It's me, not you. I'm not ringing with this. Doctor Austin?"

"Right here," says the medic, unfolding his length up from the video pit, where he's been watching on a monitor.

"I want an overlay for this part, too. I can't find my way through it if I'm aware she's not a real critic."

"Ummm . . . that's not something I'd advise," the doctor says.

Jay Chan approaches. "Why not reconsider your position on scripts?" he asks. "Just this one part of it . . .."

"The dynamic is all wrong," says Birkhead. "There's the whole male-female thing along with the fluctuating subordinate relationship. Let's extend the overlay and tailor it."

Austin is shaking his head. "I'd have to design something which wouldn't degrade through the shock. But then I couldn't guarantee how long it would take to wear off. It would be risky -- and expensive."

"Cut the part, then," Chan says. The actress looks petulant but says nothing. "Maybe it throws the piece off."

Birkhead sighs. "Dammit," he says, "I never was any good at endings." He walks away, muttering.

The doctor snorts a soft laugh, watching him go.

"Amazing," says Chan. "You're absolutely sure his braincoat won't come off before the actual performance? There's no way he'll remember it's your piece and not his?"

"I'd stake my career-change on it. The overlays are good for another two weeks."

"In that case," says Chan, "we'll be able to sell as many of these scenarios as you can develop. Public television is back in business, Doctor -- thanks to you."

"Setting up for Scene Four -- girlfriend in the restaurant," calls the floor manager.

"I do love the media," says Doctor Austin, grinning.

-----

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