Fiction: Clean by Dan Dratz

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In a place infested by filth, rats and diseases, William’s cell was a haven of cleanliness. He didn’t let the general decay of the jail affect him. Each week he would save up and buy from the canteen cleaning supplies. He would take them back to his cell, and by the end of the week, the bottles would be empty and the cycle would continue.

William’s cellmate, Moss, had been dubitative at first. He didn’t understand why it mattered so much to William that the floor was clean. He enjoyed the idea of being in the one clean cell the jail had to offer, but he didn’t know why it was the case. William didn’t ask to share the expenses; all he asked was that Moss keep his side orderly and clean.

Moss was a heavy smoker. He would smoke all day, and ash wherever he pleased. William had asked him politely at first to ash in the toilet, but Moss would forget to do it.

“Moss, I’m going to ask you one more time; ash in the toilet. I don’t want to see ash on the floor.”

“Sure, Will, sure.” He was reading a magazine on his bed.

William, broom in hand, took the magazine away from him. “I’m serious. I won’t ask you again.”

“That’s perfect by me.”

“You get what I mean.”

William kept on cleaning the floor. Since the subject was on hand, Moss asked him why he cared so much for the wellness of the cell. “The whole building’s going down, I don’t see why we can’t go down with it.”

William ignored him. He didn’t feel like explaining to Moss anything. He wasn’t his first cellmate nor would he be the last. All he wanted was a clean place to sleep. He couldn’t stand the idea of resting in filth.

The people in the jail didn’t talk to William. He was a recidivist, and some compared him to wallpaper, a part of the building itself. He was here; he would always be here. As a joke, the wardens always put him back in the same cell. It didn’t seem to bother William. All he noticed when coming back was that the cell was filthy, and that it needed cleaning. People thought William loony. They didn’t bother him. It worked well for him; he didn’t want to talk to people. He would only talk to the prisoners who kept the library.

Other than cleaning, William liked to read. Sometimes, Moss would ask him what the books were about. William would answer him, but Moss didn’t understand the answers. A few times, while William was not in the cell, he tried to read his books. He knew how to read, just not William’s books.

Moss often wondered if William had a condition, a mental one. Something to explain his obsession. It wasn’t his first time in jail, either, but it was the first time he could see his reflection in the floor.

The day after he tried to ask William without success, Moss asked at lunch other prisoners if they knew anything about William. All they knew was that he was clean, collected, and didn’t want to speak to them. They didn’t mind; they didn’t want to talk to someone they thought crazy.

The next day Moss kept on flicking ash on the floor and William asked him to stop. It hadn’t even occurred to Moss that he was doing it. He tried to talk to William again. “It’s that important to you, huh?”

“Sure.” He was on the upper bunk, reading.

“You don’t talk much.”

He heard William turn the page. He didn’t know why it hurt him. All he knew was that it pained him to be unable to talk to William. He was well-liked by the other prisoners, as much as one can be well liked in jail. He found himself wishing William would like him. He tried the next few days to keep himself from dirtying up the cell. He hoped that would get a reaction from William, a congratulation, a word of encouragement. William just kept on reading.

One afternoon he confronted William. “You might not like me, but you could be polite.”

“I am polite.” William didn’t seem bothered. He didn’t realize how angry this made Moss, and if he did, he didn’t show sign of it. “I just don’t want to talk.”

“Is something wrong with you? Like, up in the head?”

“No.” The remark didn’t affect him.

Moss was growing more erratic. “You think you’re better than me?”

“No.”

A warden called Moss and told him he had visitors. He stared at William, who had turned his back to him. He breathed deeply and went out.

It was Moss’s family coming to see him. They talked to him about how the world outside, and what the kids did and how much everybody missed him, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He kept on thinking about William’s disinterest. He wondered if he had always been this way, or if the jail had made him that way. He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young either. He had been enough time inside for it to mess with his head.

Moss’s wife took his hands in hers. “Are you alright?”

He was looking away. He looked back at her. “I am.” She didn’t believe him. He smiled. “I am, really.”

“Is everything alright, here?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Your cell is still clean?”

He tried to laugh. “It is, it is.”

She tried to talk to him but he was already thinking of something else. Soon enough she had to leave and Moss was taken back to his cell. William wasn’t there and Moss felt relieved. He lied on his bed and lit a cigarette, making smoke rings while looking at the bed above him. His eyes closed, tried to rationalize, compartmentalize his thoughts, to see the silliness of his way. The cell was clean; it was all that mattered. It would be better to know why, though, he thought.

He got up and looked under William’s mattress. He hid his notebooks there. Moss respected intimacy. He opened one and tried to see the man’s thoughts. Page after page of a language he didn’t speak. It wasn’t even the same alphabet. He took a deep breath and he heard someone at the door. He figured William would beat him up for looking into its stuff, but it was just another prisoner asking him for a smoke. He saw Moss, his hand still under the mattress.

“You alright, man?”

Without turning he answered him. “What is it with you all, today? Of course I’m alright, I’m not the freak who cleans.”

The man drummed his finger on the stone, confused. “Sure, Moss, sure. I was just wondering.”

He left without cigarettes or goodbyes. Moss sat down on his bed and passed a hand over his face. He heard someone come into the room and drop a basket on the floor. It was William and his new supplies. Bleach and ammonia and soap. Moss had forgotten it was today that William bought the stuff.

He watched, breathing heavily, as William prepared the stuff and cleaned the wall. Without warning Moss leaped and threw William against the wall. He punched him in the ribs and in the jaw. William didn’t react to the pain and punched Moss in the throat, knocking the wind out of him. He got back up and lunged at William. Two wardens came in the cell as he was beating William’s face.

They took each an arm of Moss and dragged him away, yelling and mad. Some prisoners looked at him go, but most didn’t care. They were used to the yelling.

William slowly got up and spat blood in the sink. He put his finger in his mouth and felt teeth move. Without hesitation he tore it out and threw it away. He blinked a few times, then he put back in columns supplies that had fallen during the fight. He prepared the mixture, put the mop in the soapy water, and cleaned the blood off the floor.

Dan Dratz is a fiction writer and a screenwriter.