I’m usually quite funny. However, most of my hilarity is improvised. The rest comes in daydreams and surreal circumstances. Let’s see if you can guess if this next part actually happened.

1 point per fictional part you call me on. I get 1 point for every wrong call you make. Simple, huh! Let the game begin!

============================

The contest

I was hoping for some sort of talent show. You know, some event outside the norm where I could really shine. However, it would seem that a talent show is just too complicated to be run in a Virginia prison. There was also something about it being too juvenile, and there was concern about turnout.

So administration decided to host a spelling bee instead.

The prize

The powers that be, it would seem, are not without their perceptions and shrewdness. The first place prize was posted in each pod, on a full-color poster, and was solely comprised of food. We’re not talking regular commissary either. The display was a veritable collection of late snack runs down the aisles of a 7-11. It had everything from Pringles to Pop Tarts. We stood around the picture like a bunch of eleven-year-olds staring at a centerfold.

“I’m gunna win DAT shit B.”

“Yeah. You’re my pick for front-runner, Niko.”

I said it so dryly that he mistook me as serious. With a short nod, Niko walked off to plan his victory meal.

The motivation

Just as Niko was moving off, Bald Bill walked up to me. Just for a frame of reference, his name isn’t some irony, like Tiny, Pinky or Peaches. Bill doesn’t have two hairs on his head to rub together. As far as the ironic Tiny, Pinky and Peaches… well, those convict characters appear in a later telling of “A Midsummer’s Fight”.

Yet as Bald Bill approached, a grin peeled its way across his face and grew into a thin, Cheshire smile. If I hadn’t already known Bill, I’d swear he was either going to eat me or sell me a craptastic car. As it was, however, Bill was just in one of his more humorous moods. Besides, I’d known Bald Bill for years. He’d never sell me a lemon.

“Sup, Berr.”

“Nuttin B. Sup?” I said, slightly suspicious.

“You know with all of your writing and reading skills, that food pack could be yours!”

I rolled my eyes with an exaggerated sigh, “Suuuure, Bill. There’s just one thing you’re forgetting. I’m a functional illiterate. I can barely write my name or a letter without spell check.”

Bill gave me a reassuring smile as he rested his hand on my shoulder.

“Naaaw, Berr. You got this, mang”.

Bill leaned toward so as not to be overheard before continuing. “I’m telling you,” he emphasized, “Do you really think they’re going to have a complicated list of words?” Bill paused for the words to sink in before moving on. “It’s been said that they won’t pick words beyond high school level. You got this”.

For emphasis Bald Bill clapped my back, sealing assurances like contractual obligations. Before I had time to reconsider, I was signing on the line as the next contestant in the Powhatan Spelling Bee.

The event

Days later we congregated in a large windowless room beneath the prison. The institutional paint on the walls reflected humming fluorescent bulbs barely a foot above our heads. I had a mildly claustrophobic reaction to add along with my performance anxiety. The excited conversations echoed in the empty room blending into white noise. I disappeared into it all and took a steadying breath. Actually, I took several before the crawling in my stomach ceased. Shortly thereafter our building manager, Ms. Watford walked in.

We settled into cheap plastic chairs with a semblance of order. The judges sat behind a foldout table with a large bowl of paper clippings and a tome of a dictionary. It was a massive book, eight inches thick while closed. If this book had been thrown, someone would have died. Watford introduced her judges and made the rules clear. The bee was on.

The first several contestants stood and gave their words without preamble. Watford called upon me.

The word

“Mr. Berryman, your word is penis”.

I stood dumbstruck. The crawling in my stomach threatened to claw its way free. I had to swallow it down and remember to breathe. Watford arched an impatient eyebrow.

“Would you like me to use it in a sentence, Mr. Berryman?”

I couldn’t believe my circumstances. A mixed heat filled my face scarlet. Was I really going to ask a woman, in prison, how to use penis, my penis, in a sentence? No, I thought not. I took a deep breath and spelled the word loudly.

“P – E – N – I – S”

There was snickering and muffled laughter. I thought, ‘of course, laugh it up you morons’. Ms. Watford silenced the room as she spoke stone-faced.

“Incorrect. The spelling is, P-I-A-N-I-S-T.”

I almost had a stroke and heart attack simultaneously. I practically melted into my chair where I tried to dissolve into an unseen substance. The worst part was yet to come, as I had to return to my living area where I was about to become very popular.