I get up and look around. Whitey is sitting at a table doin something, and I sit next to him. He’s reading some magazine.
“Where did you get that pen?” I ask him. “We’re not allowed to have pens in here.”
“You afraid I’m gonna hurt ya?” he asks.
My chair scrapes against the chair floor as I rise.
“Easy son,” he says.
Whitey tells me I need more balance in my life. He takes a new piece of paper, looks at the magazine and starts drawin a bunch of lines with numbers. Then he tells me to circle the numbers according to how strong I think I am spiritually, mentally, physically, will power, in my love life and a bunch of other shit.
“Do it without thinking and be completely honest,” he says.
When I’m done, I look over at Whitey’s paper. His circle is perfect. My circle isn’t a circle at all.
“You want your pen back,” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says without looking up.
Then he looks up.
When sees my face and how I’m holding the pen in my hand, Whitey tries to make a move. But he’s way too slow.
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