I had forgotten how I had ended up in this Parisian prison, but from the two cracked ribs on my right side, I figured I didn’t go quietly. The French were known for their brutal tactics and relentless questioning. Oh, the rude, condescending waiter is just the front they put on for hapless tourists, so they can go back to their friends and recount the tales of how the snooty foreigners ruined their trip to the old country. Beneath that scaly exoskeleton of bad service and callous disregard for common decency lies the cold, metallic heart of a ruthless overlord.
I spent some time in a similar dive in Laos, for getting on the wrong side of a police captain in a card game. The keeper of the inmates there, a close friend of the captain, was a decaying version of a man. His right shoulder had obviously been broken long ago, and never healed properly, causing his right side to hang grotesquely lower than the other. He walked with his left side forward, vainly trying to hide the injury. He hunched over so much that it was impossible to tell how tall he might have been, were it not for a skewed spine. His posture made every step seem as if he were lunging forward, just to be pushed on by the slipping of his foot across the floor, one more time. If he put that much effort into walking to you, it was for a purpose. His gray, natty hair hid his face and ceased somewhere near his waist. What little I did see of his face was a mess of boils and pustules, decorating the drool hanging from his few black teeth. This was the picture I had of the man who was to keep me company in my Parisian Palace.
That is why my heart skipped and my breath got lodged in the back of my throat when my jailor paid me my first visit. I turned on my captor and saw a man who could have passed for my high school guidance counselor. This man on the other side of the door, this man who stood between pain and freedom…looked like someone who had turned me down for a car loan.
As I sized him up, I could see the two-piece suit and briefcase congeal around him. Here was this middle aged gentleman, who under other circumstances might have given me an audit, served me with a subpoena, or given a power-point presentation–anything except make my life a living hell…well, those were bad examples….
As I waited for the inevitable, I wondered why all my previous captors had been horribly ugly mongrels, monsters who weren’t fit to harvest head lice, despite their own abundant supply. Was there some jailer placement agency that found these wretches their positions of power? Why couldn’t they be mild mannered people? Sure, they’d be taking me to the edge where life blurs into death, but they could be a little easier on the eyes while doing so. Presentation goes a long way. I’d be more likely to eat gravel if the man giving it to me reminded me of my dentist, rather than someone trying to tear up my insides by feeding me gravel. It’s just poor form.
And how did this stereotype perpetuate itself? It’s not as if such a disfigured man strikes the fear of death into his prisoners. He just kind of makes you feel bad for him, and then there’s the time lost. Somebody that messed up just slows things down, dragging himself from one prisoner to the next, taking his sweet time while favoring his gimp leg. Someone so twisted and mangled would be more frightening as the Human Resources coordinator, hobbling around the office with the latest benefits memo. Then, you know he would want to stop and talk to you, so forget about anyone else stopping by while the grotesque office gnome stands in your cubicle.
Meanwhile, the rather plain looking jail warden would strike fear into his charges with his hither-come-the-average-guy look. He has more of an aura of unadulterated boredom, making your time in captivity creep by. He is the man I would like to see wielding a mallet above my head. It gives me the satisfaction of knowing that my jailors have put some thought into breaking both my mind and my spirit. That is, after all, what we are all looking for. A pleasant, somewhat deceptive, face–who won’t hesitate to gut us like the fish we are.