Excerpt of Mistaken Enemy by Dennis A. Nehamen

1) No, what almost every male likely considers their most vital organ had passed its last rigor mortis exam quite some time before —it had not officially been declared deceased, however, until one awful morning when a fantasy crept past the guards and snuck into my cell. What must have been an apparition was a hip cat who immediately aroused my jealousy because he was happy: I saw him as the epitome of a free spirit. He had a shaggy beard and long brown hair protruding from a green knit cap. He was wearing old jeans fraying at the cuffs, with lots of holes and a piss-yellow t-shirt that heralded him a beatnik.

His upper garment plucked my heart like a sour musical note, bountifully proclaiming “ALL IS COOL” in bright pink across the front.

He was smiling gleefully but must have traded his guitar for the Hustler magazine he was holding in his hand. He was a bighearted dude, opening the centerfold to show it to me. It was a dead ringer for Bahlya…and I threw up.

2) I tried to repeat what I’d shared with her prior to that day about my background, but as I spoke I started hearing sounds, trampoline pounding vibrations atop my words, repetitions of my name tumbling, bouncing, and flipping, timed perfectly as Bahlya had spoken it…Zaci, Zaci, Zaci. Zaci, Zaci, Zaci, over and over.

But her mouth never moved. The portrait of her sorrow remains embossed in my permanent memory, ready to be revealed on short notice— as I’m doing presently, reclaiming a memento from the past, a sound recording cherished—for it was not of accusation but absolution. She was expressing full exoneration from any doubt she might have had in my regard, making a plea as I heard her call out my name, Zaci, Zaci, Zaci.

Jivin had taken the liberty of familiarity with me; much like a conductor tends a member of his orchestra. Bahlya climaxed to this intimacy out of desperation; there was no need to respond.