August 17th, 2001

Augustus: So that's what it takes. Not that hard really. Just a few simple things you gotta face, overcome, and decide on. It's really quite simple. First, you have to stop stratifying people. Once you realize that it ain't what someone does, but who they are that counts, that's a big step. Then you figure out how you want to spend your days and nights. How to pass the time. That's all we've got, and it's so precious. No point wasting a single second. It'd be a shame to lie in your grave once all your time has expired and regret NOT having done what you wanted to do. Next, find a face. It don't gotta be beautiful, or perfect. It may not be what you expected it to look like at all. But as long as you look into that face and see something of what you value in humanity reflected back at you, it's good enough. Then you gotta work past the fear. Everybody's got it. Everyfuckingbody has some sort of fear that can absolutely cripple them. You don't have to vanquish it, just learn to live with it, find the courage to push past it. Next, you gotta be ready for the big one. LOVE. Yep, that's what it's all about, isn't it? All the goofy movies, all those sappy songs. It gets shoved down our throats everyday. But you gotta want it. And you gotta want all the things that come with it. And you gotta have a lot of it. Love yourself, love mankind, love whatever the fuck you want to. Just don't let all the disappointment make you bitter and got to the opposite end of the spectrum, or worse, become apathetic and lose the spectrum. Then you have to brace yourself and be brave. Every shitty day you have to wake up and think about the things you do and the kind of person you want to be. Cause once you find someone whose face holds grace to you, you gotta work and strive to make sure that your face is going to stay appealing to them. I'm not talking facials and shaving and shit like that, although that doesn't hurt. What I'm talking about is walking that line, between what's noble, and what isn't. It may not be easy, but you gotta summon the courage to do it anyhow. You're gonna have to be strong. Somehow, you have to summon the power and desire to know what the right thing is. And you have to come to accept what strength is. It's different for everyone. Certain things give different people a sense of power, a feeling of fulfillment. If you think you're weak because you've become attached to, dependent upon, another person, you'll never make it. But you can't be too dependent. You may have to be there for the other person to lean on; it's a two way street, there's a balance of power there. And you also gotta reconcile and put all these other things into order. But you have to find all these answers yourself. That's one thing you can't depend on someone else to do for you. You gotta have the power, strength, and courage to find your own balance. If you can do all that and find your rhythm, you're almost set. Only one little thing left to do then. Do one last check and determine that you are now who and where you want to be. No, don't call a travel agent and book a trip to Las Vegas because you think you'll be happier where it's warmer. I ain't talking geography here. I'm talking about either fighting all your genetic programming that says you're supposed to be like this, everything you've been taught telling you that this is the right way. If it is right to you, good. But if not, you have to make the decision of what's right.

So why bother with all this bullshit? What's the point? Because it isn't until you do all these things that you'll ever be truly at home. Not in a brick house with a white picket fence. Your own skin. Yourself, and whoever you may have decided has that face, and that nature that you love. That's why you're doing all this work. So that you can be at home with yourself, and the one you love.

He could never choose. Should he do what he felt, or what he thought? When his instincts and his conditioning finally did come into agreement, it was in a macabre bit of violence that took Adebisi's life. He loved and wanted to protect Beecher, that was his nature. He was taught to fight with force, so he picked up that knife and cut down another man to defend a loved one. But it was too late, the game clock had already wound to a close.

So now he rots away in this cell, exactly as his grandfather had before him. Maybe it's genetic. Maybe it's rearing, but the Alvarez tradition continues. But it also ends with him. Never to be released from this confinement for the brutal crime he committed, his bloodline is severed. His only baby died long ago, never to face the decisions he had to make, never to figure out what he did too late. Finally choosing love over pride, his beloved lies in a cold grave. He doesn't even get the respect that was bestowed upon the rest of the clan, because his deed was done in protection of another man. He has absolutely nothing. Most people think his mind is gone too. Hard to say. Maybe it's not gone, it's simply retreating and lost at a different time.

In between the deafening howls that he still occasionally unleashes another sound can often be heard leaking from his tiny cell. Gibberish to the few hacks that actually hear him, in a sing song voice, very quietly, but very clearly he can be heard reciting a rhyme. "St. Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes, country garden in the wind and the rain, wherever he goes the people all complain."

Occasionally, McManus stops by. He'll have the guards open the door, and he peers inside, not certain what he hopes to find. No matter where he looks first, he always ends up focusing on the same thing. He sees the large, dark, hollow eyes looking through him, and hears the meaningless rhyme. "Seaside washed in the suds and the foam, been so long he's got to calling it home." Sometimes Tim says a few words, inquires how he is, sometimes not. But he never stays too long, and he always feels the same when he leaves. He doesn't feel as though he visited a human being. Rather, to him, it always seems as though he's confronted ghosts.

McManus has tried his best. Not for lack of will, or thought has he failed so greatly. He doesn't understand though. He can only do so much. He can't force his will on the men. He can't change their nature, or undo a lifetime's worth of teaching. But as he unlocks the door to his house and disgustedly drops his keys on the counter, basic facts are of no consolation to him.

All he wanted to do was help. Ortolani, Post, Markstrom, Keane, Mershaw, Dobbins, and Groves last year. He helped all of them to an early grave. Six more men dead in the aftermath of the brutal riots, and that still didn't squelch the violence or the killing. Who has he helped, he wonders, as he kicks off his shoes and sits down in his favorite chair. His bones ache, his mind is fatigued.

Who has he helped? What good has he done? Jake Rodzinski, Joey Bianchi, Vern Schillinger, Simon Adebisi, and now Tobias Beecher. It could have been him, he allows himself to think. Beecher could have been anyone. "There but for the grace of God, go I."

A man came into that world, a world that McManus wanted to use to help reform, help give hope. What was Beecher given? He was raped, and mutilated, he lost his mind, and just when he finally seemed to find some comfort, he lost his life. "He could be me."

As Tim kicks back the recliner, its softness offers his body comfort. But there is nothing that can ease his mind. At the end of the day, when all is done, he still has to come here, sit in this chair, be utterly alone, and battle his own demons. He prefers to be at work, surrounded by others, kept busy, his mind occupied. He dreads coming to this empty house and wrestling with his conscience. Tim McManus has no relief, no escape, no place of comfort. His house is just that, a house. It is not a home.

Kellerman stops by McManus' office on his way out with a request which is granted. He wants to be reminded. He wants to see for himself. He's heard the stories, but you can't really trust yard gossip.

As the large iron door clatters open, he peers inside and barely recognizes what he sees. The once formidable and sculpted frame is now soft and thin, no hint of pride or vanity left in his physical form.

"Alvarez," he says meekly, stepping inside the cell, immediately feeling the walls crushing in upon him. "I brought you something, can I sit down for a second?"

Nodding once, the dark man looks up him, then quickly averts his gaze.

"How are you? Doin ok in here?"

"St. Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes," is the only reply that tumbles out of Miguel's mouth.

"Uh huh. Yeah. Um, look, I thought you might want this," he says as he fishes in his pocket, producing something in his fist. Sitting down heavily on the bunk next to the other man, he extends his hand, revealing a silver cross.

Alvarez inspects it intently, then reaches a shaky hand out to grasp it. Lifting it closely to his face, he licks it, then looks questioningly back to Kellerman.

"He uh, felt bad right away. He went back and fished it out of the trash when you weren't looking. He kept it under his pillow, then I took it, didn't want the hacks to get it."

Huddling down over it, Alvarez seems to lose all awareness that Kellerman is there, he just stares at the shiny object in his hand and rocks back and forth, then begins his chant again, "Seaside washed in the suds and the foam."

"Uh, ok, man. I gotta go," Kellerman says gently, reaching out a hand, patting his friend on the head. He then leans close, and whispers a secret in his ear. "You did ok, man. You tried. You were just trying to protect him." With that, he stands up and turns to go out the door.

Frantically, loudly, Alvarez says goodbye, "Been so long he's got to calling it home!"

"Yeah, home," Kellerman says, and walks out the door. As the large iron door clatters shut behind him, he hears the legendary rumored howling begin. Tales don't do it justice, he thinks, as he walks down the hall, evading the guttural protests. He stops briefly, listening to the wail, marking a place in his memory for it.

He knows for sure. When things get hard, or he wants to quit, he'll remember that sound. He'll use it not to feel melancholy or sad, but to give himself and Lewis strength. It's a sound he never wants to hear either of them make. It is his warning.

Squinting to protect his eyes from the bright sunlight, he sees the car at the curb. He showed up. Just like he said he would. He's been there. For two years, he's waited, and now he's here, good as his word.

It wasn't easy, and it wasn't quick. But now, the rewards are here. Meldrick is here to take Mike home.

Augustus: Yeah, who cares who lives or dies in prison? We read the names in the morning paper and they mean nothing to us. The truth is we don't wanna put a face on 'em. We don't wanna know who they really are, cause then it might hit too close to home. And home is what it's all about, right? Making a home no matter where you are. No matter who you are. At the end of the day, everybody wants somewhere to rest, somewhere to lay their bones, even if it's in a place called Oz. Like Dorothy says when she wakes up back in her own bed at Aunt Em's, "There's no place like home." There's no fuckin place like home.