Content warning: death
Jerry watched a man get crushed. He watched a chicken run in circles as if it had no head. He watched a woman plead for her life. It felt like a dream. It wasn’t.
Jerry sits in a purple, puffy chair, so soft it feels like he’s in a very dense cloud. The stage lights above his head cast an uncomfortably warm glow, and he can feel the crease of his neck and forehead begin to sweat. He wears a baby blue button down and a crisp black tie. He adjusts the knot at his throat. His body pleads for oxygen and begs for shade. He feels hot and sticky. A girl with pink hair and a low-cut shirt crouches before him, and without any sort of greeting, begins to dab at his red cheeks with a makeup brush that spews powder.
“There you go,” she says. “That’s much better.”
“Thank you,” Jerry says. His words fall off his tongue rather than marching off and she whips around so fast he isn’t sure she heard him.
A man sits next to Jerry, he holds his chin high and wears an orange tux. His suit is smooth and looks like it’s made of velvet, and the girl with the pink hair rushes to him. She straightens his purple bowtie and dabs powder on his cheeks. The man doesn’t say a word, nor does he even pretend to acknowledge her.
There are a few others positioned in a semicircle with Jerry. Held back by copious amounts of spray, their hair is slicked to their skulls. Their cheeks are adorned with powder and blush, ironed ties and bowties hang around their necks. Suit jackets in green, blue, black, and white accentuate their broad shoulders. The room smells like plastic, paper, and sweat. It makes Jerry’s nose crinkle.
The stage bustles with noise and movement, and Jerry’s eyes can’t decide where to focus. The pink-haired girl trots from person to person in the semicircle. She pats powder on their faces and straightens their hair or pieces of their clothing with petite hands. Much of the stage disappears behind a giant, red curtain that reminds Jerry of theater, the opera, though he’s never been in person.
More people hustle onto the stage, they wear clothing in varying shades of gray and set up cameras and yell words at one another that Jerry can’t understand. The lighting fluctuates, colors dance briefly across the expanse of the stage before the steady, glaring beam of the original stage lights return.
A booming, low voice echoes from backstage. Jerry can’t make out what it says, but the pink-haired girl jumps up, her hands clasping makeup bags and a bottle of water, and she scurries into the wing of the stage.
The man walks with his shoulders back and his eyes slit, like he doesn’t need to look to see where he’s going. Each footfall from his shiny black shoes echo off the ceiling of the large room. He wears a shiny silver suit, and the lights reflect off it and shimmer across the floor. It looks like it is forged from metal or glass, closer resembling a suit of armor than fabric. The people seated beside Jerry smile in awe at his presence. Reluctantly, Jerry smiles with them.
The man adjusts his tie, which shines like a strip of glitter in his fingers. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the man says, though there are no women seated beside Jerry. “I’m your host this evening, Mr. Harry Crocket!” The men around Jerry whistle and holler and slap their hands together. Jerry gently claps his hands and smiles. He tries to match their excitement.
“Now please,” Mr. Harry Crocket says, “refrain from speaking until it is your turn to do so, or until I address you by name.” He smiles and flashes a crooked, white-toothed grin at the small, excited crowd before him. “Don’t worry, everyone will get a chance to speak tonight. Thank you, and we will begin shortly.”
The stage lights make it feel as if there’s a live flame on top of Jerry’s head. He wants to swipe at it, to ruffle his hair, but he knows the relief would be temporary.
Mr. Harry Crocket bounds across the stage as if he’s light as air. He bounces on his toes with his arms splayed like a ballerina. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Jerry’s face contorts into a full crescent of a smile which stays pasted there as if it’s cast in cement. “Thank you so much for joining us for today’s cases.” He twirls around and extends his arms towards Jerry and the other suited men. “Let’s get a big round of applause for our jury tonight!” Jerry watches a man in gray, with an expressionless face, flip a switch and trigger an automated audience to let out a cacophony of cheers and prerecorded excitement.
“Now the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Mr. Harry Crocket says. “Let’s meet our miscreants!”
Mr. Harry Crocket waves his hand, and the giant theater curtain retracts into the ceiling. One side of the stage houses a glass box. Its sides are left open, gaping holes in the glass, its edges lined with a glistening silver that resembles Mr. Harry Crocket’s suit. In front of the box sits a stand with a giant red button on top, a bulbous thing that glows a faint crimson. Beyond this, a massive crane-like contraption arcs above and across the stage like a reaching metal arm. The curling silver fingers of the arm point down and into the open top of the glass box. Beside the base of the metal appendage sits two massive wheels, which Jerry identifies as carnival prize wheels.
Jerry glances to the other side of the stage and that’s where he sees them. The miscreants stand shoulder to shoulder. They each hold a small white sign in front of them. Jerry scans the row of placards: murderer, rapist, kidnapper, dealer, and thief. The signs hold only this tiny strip of information, written in crisp black letters. Jerry imagines that each piece of paper with its tiny inscription of ink must weigh as much as a planet.
They wear white dresses with long sleeves that hug their wrists, and airy bottoms that sway just above their ankles. Oversized theater masks cling to their heads and shield their low hanging faces.
Some of the masks have mouths that gape open in an expression of grief. Others have wide smiles that curl up high, eyes in tight wrinkles. One has a mouth as straight as a board, its eyes wide and round. Jerry scans the row of men and women. They look identical, except for their eyes which peer out, through tiny slits, from behind their masks.
“Now,” Mr. Harry Crocket says, “I believe our first juror is Mr. Daniels!” A cackling round of applause breaches the air. Mr. Daniels stands and gives a long, low bow to Mr. Harry Crocket and the cameras that strain their lenses at them.
“Thank you, Harry,” Mr. Daniels says. “Can I call you Harry?”
“Can you call me Harry?” the producer asks and turns to stare wide-eyed at the closest camera. “What’s your first name Mr. Daniels?” he asks.
“My name is Trent!”
“Well, Trent,” Mr. Harry Crocket says. “Let’s jump to a first name basis, and you can take me out for drinks after this thing. What do you say?”
Trent blushes and the prerecorded crowd goes wild. Harry laughs and places a firm grip on Trent’s shoulder. “I’m joking, I’m joking,” he insists. “Yes, by all means, call me Harry!”
Trent smiles. He chuckles to himself and points a finger at Harry, “You got me good!” he says.
“So, Trent,” Harry says, “I think the audience is dying to know…Who are you going to pick tonight?”
Trent doesn’t hesitate, he leans in close to Harry. He wraps an arm around his shoulder, and glares with smiling eyes into the camera. “I’m going to pick the murderer!” he says. His voice is heavy with excitement and a coating of something else Jerry can’t quite identify.
Jerry stays quiet, as do his fellow jury members, as Trent waltzes into the spotlight beside Harry. The stage lights grow hot, and Jerry’s cheeks tremble from holding a tight smile.
“Jerry Collins!” the producer blares through his microphone. “You are up next! How are you doing tonight?”
Jerry jumps up from his chair. His legs tremble, and he sways. He grabs his tie and straightens it. He can feel the eyes of the camera trained on him. His forehead glistens with sweat, and he tries to smile at Harry as if he’s a close friend.
“Eager, are we?” Harry asks. A smile spreads across his face as he eyes Jerry.
Jerry nervously chuckles, and straightens his tie once more. “It’s an honor to be able to serve on the jury sir,” he says.
“Well, we’re glad to have you!” Harry reaches a shimmering arm out towards the remaining miscreants. “Who strikes your fancy tonight Mr. Collins?”
Jerry turns his attention away from the cameras and looks at the remaining men and women standing on the back half of the stage. Jerry scans down the line. The kidnapper wears the mask of joy. Its white, plastic face, contorted into a smile so big and wide, looks uncomfortable. There’s a man beneath the mask. His knees wobble slightly as he stands.
The thief stands tall. Unlike the rest, her head is held high, her body perfectly still. She wears the mask of sadness, and tears as big as golf balls roll down the sides of the mask’s cheeks. Its frown, a stretched semicircle, looks like each corner of the mouth is being pulled down towards the earth by a heavy weight. Jerry can see bright, baby blue eyes juxtaposed beneath the eggshell white of the mask. Without thinking, with nerves as his impetus, Jerry blurts, “The thief.”
“The thief is next!” Harry says. “Bring them forward!” One of the helpers adorned in grey jumps at the sound of Harry’s command and grabs the thief by the shoulders.
Jerry watches as the thief is led across the stage to stand beside the first of the two massive wheels. “Jerry,” Harry demands. “You are up! What will become of this thief tonight? I know our audience is dying to know!”
Jerry approaches the wheel with reluctance. He walks across the stage with his head down, and his arms held at his sides. The wheel is almost two times as big as Jerry, and he cranes his neck to read the print. Sketched in an assortment of colors, large block-like letters break up the wheel into a thinly sliced pie. Jerry reads a few, his eyes strained under the harsh stage lights: pig, rat, pigeon, cow, chicken, goat.
“Give her a spin,” says Harry.
The prerecorded audience begins to chant in a monotone and staccato drone, “Spin the wheel! Spin the wheel!” Jerry hears his fellow Jury chant as well, “Spin the wheel!” With shaking hands, Jerry spins the massive wheel. It’s easier than he thought it would be, and he cranks it back as hard as he can before letting it go. It ticks and shakes as it spins and spins, a blur of color. Spin the wheel!
The wheel creeks to a halt, and sputters dismally to a stop on chicken. “Chicken!” Jerry hears the crowd coo. “To the box!” Harry says. Jerry stays in place. He looks at the thief. Her blue eyes are wide beneath the mask, and they dart from side to side.
“Right this way,” Harry says. “Let’s see where we’re sending this thief!”
Harry’s beckoning hands escort Jerry to a smaller wheel near the base of the metal arm. This wheel is less colorful, painted with shades of green, blue, and brown. Each tiny triangle has a state printed on it in black, lurching bends: Tennessee, Main, Connecticut, Hawaii.
Jerry grabs the wheel, and Harry cues the audience to be silent with a swift movement of his index finger to his lips.
“No!” a voice says.
Jerry turns to see the thief, maskless, her arms outstretched. She clasps the mask like a weapon. She has a thin pointed nose, a pale face that sprouts fresh wrinkles, and dark brown hair pulled into a bun near the base of her skull. Her eyes are like ice, and they burrow into Jerry.
“This is a mistake,” she says. “I have children! I can’t be without my children.” She corrects herself, “My children can’t be without me. They need me! I didn’t do it!”
She looks at Jerry, she pleads with her baby blue eyes, but he offers her nothing.
“Alright!” Harry says. “What an exciting night! No need to worry, this has happened before!” he assures the audience with a smile. Jerry watches Harry turn from the cameras, he glares at one of the men in gray, and angrily mouths, “grab her.”
The man reaches for her, and she screams, “No!” Spit flies from her mouth, and Jerry watches it barely miss the man’s face. The woman jumps towards the red button atop its shiny metal pedestal and presses it. The man lurches for her, and she kicks him backwards, into the glistening, glass box.
Jerry watches the box erupt with light. Its edges burst to life as they reflect the glow from within in a cast of colorful swirls. The wide eyes of the Jury reflect the glow like tiny television screens, as they sit in their cushy chairs, their faces frozen.
A large brown chicken emerges from the box. It chirps a high ominous cry, and darts across the stage.
“Get her!” Harry wails. His voice cracks. The microphone shrieks. The members of the jury yell and jump into their chairs. The chicken circles them and fills the air with a chortling of high-pitched whines, and desperate howls.
Another man in gray races from the stage wings and darts at the woman. She shrieks, “I didn’t do it! I’m not a thief!” She runs past Harry and hides behind the largest wheel. The man sprints at her, and she kicks the wheel free of its base, and sends it flying across the stage. The man jumps out of the way as the wheel glides towards the jury in a flash of color. Jerry watches the men scatter, their ties thrash back and forth over their shoulders as they run.
Jerry doesn’t hear a sound as the wheel falls and crushes Trent Daniels. Trent does not cry out. His tiny body disappears, and acts as a cushion for the massive wheel.
Jerry looks upwards into the stage lights. Viscous and sticky, his sweat oozes over his lips. The stage lights dance in it. His face shines like it, too, is made of glass. He closes his eyes, and the air erupts with voices, and shrieks from the chicken. Someone must have bumped the audio station because the audience, frozen in time, chants, “Spin the wheel, spin the wheel, spin the wheel!”
Jerry watches three men in gray tackle the woman to the floor. She screams and cries. She thrashes her arms and legs. The chicken darts into the wing of the stage, it shrieks, and a man in gray prances after it with beckoning fingers.
The woman is forced into the glass box, her head bumping its shiny, silver edge as she is shoved inside.
“My children!” She pleads. “Please tell them I’m sorry.” Her voice is minute, drowned out by the chicken’s screams and the drone of the crowd, “Spin the wheel, spin the wheel, spin the wheel!” Harry’s arm is draped across Jerry’s shoulders. It is heavy, warm, and his fingers curl over his collar bone. Jerry’s smile, almost as big as the one etched upon the kidnapper’s mask, curls towards the sky. Jerry presses the button, and it descends effortlessly beneath his palm.