7:30
Inspection
Sit, facing front window.
Give number when asked.
Number? What number?
My cell number, C-1-24, has been handwritten on the cover of the R&M.
That can’t be what they’re talking about, can it?
A hand towel hanging on the edge of the washbasin also has “C-1-24” written on it with a black marker.
Maybe that is what they’re talking about. I must be C-1-24.
From the far end of the cell block I can hear the guards approaching. Not able to see diddlysquat, I press my face against the bars of the window to try to catch what’s going on.
“Cell Sixteen!” a guard calls out, his voice growing louder as he makes his way up the cell block.
“Ho!”
“Cell Seventeen!”
“Eight-nine-eight.”
“Ho!”
“Cell Eighteen.”
No reply.
“Cell Eighteen!” the guard now yells.
I could be mistaken, but I think the inmate in Cell Eighteen just burped at the guard. Muted giggles rippling up through the whole cell block confirm my suspicion.
“Cell Number Eighteen!”
“FIVE-OH-SEVEN!” the inmate roars back.
More laughter.
Unruffled, the guard carries on down the cell block, calling out, “Cell Nineteen.”
The number is screamed back: “EIGHT-SEVEN-THREE!!”
As the guards near my cell it occurs to me that, one, my neighbors are such maladjusted and unpleasant bastards that you really can’t feel sorry for them being locked up, and, two, I don’t know what my own number is.
No mistake about it, I am in cell C-1-24: Block C, First Floor, Cell 24. The number is written on the cover of Regulations and Morals, the pillowcase, the towels, the . . .
“Cell Twenty!” the guard calls out, coming ever closer.
“Two-one-five!”
I pull the yellow basket out from under the desk and start rifling through the few papers I was allowed to take in: Guidelines for Americans Arrested in Japan from the Consulate, my lawyer’s business card, the receipt for my personal belongings, and so on.
“Cell Twenty-three!”
“One-four-one!”
“Cell Twenty-four!” The guards are now standing before my cell. I turn towards the window. It’s so low and narrow, all I can see are the wisteria emblems on their belt buckles.
“Your number!” he hollers.
“M-m-my number?” I gulp.
“Yes, state your number!”
“I, uh . . . I, um, I don’t . . . know what it is.”
“Rokuban!”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Rokuban!”
Rokuban (六番)? Number Six? You gotta be kidding. How come I only get one lousy digit when all the others have three?
“You’re Rokuban, okay? When we say, ‘Cell Number Twenty-four’, you have to say, ‘Rokuban’. Got it?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
“Cell Number Twenty-four!” he bellows. The voice of this guard just kills me.
“Rokuban,” I reply, lowering my head meekly.
And with a throaty “Ho!” from the other guard that must mean Hai, the two of them continue on.
Sure enough, a quick look at the receipt for my personal belongings shows a “Six” scribbled in the upper left-hand corner.
You’d think that a number like six would have been retired by now.
“Cell number Twenty-five . . .” the guard calls out as he moves on to the next cell. “Ho! Cell number Twenty-six . . . Ho!”