The Mysterious Incarceration of Art Pencel

I felt the cold air rush into the room as a door slammed. My eyes snapped open, “Where in Hades am I?”

I scanned the room. “I’m in a prison cell!”

The twin size bed that I awakened in fit snugly against the wall from the head to the foot. On the opposite wall, mounted toward the inside corner, was a stainless steel sink. Next to the sink, a stainless steel toilet bolted to the floor.

From my lying position, I eyed the only entrance or exit from the cell. A metal door with a narrow, wire meshed window eight inches wide and eighteen inches tall. The room had no other windows.

I had seen cells like this one on TV. Forget Sing Sing, Dannemora, or San Quentin with their heavy metal caged doors. This state of the art facility held me in eight-foot by six-foot room encased from the outside world.

I shook off the haziness from whatever drugs they used to sedate me. “How did I get in these clothes?”

I sat up and kicked my feet over the edge of the bed. Rubbing my temples, I tried to clear the fog to force my brain to work.

I had seen an episode or two of Orange Is the New Black and recognized standard-issue prison attire. The orange jumpsuit a perfect fit; my intuition told me that the stringless canvas shoes on the floor would fit also.

What I didn’t know is why or how I got here. You might think, “You must have committed a crime and deserve imprisonment.”

“But I cannot remember.”

A voice came from a speaker built into the wall high above the door. The loud voice startled me. “Mr. Arthur Pencel, glad to see you awake. I hope the accommodations suit you well. On your blog, you complained about the need for solitude. Now, you have it.”

The tinny crackling and rattling of the voice grated my nerves. You would think that a state-of-the-art facility would have a quality intercommunication system.

My OCD kicked in, and I noticed the loose metal plate over the speaker. The installer did not screw the cover tight enough. The plate rattled every time the audio came over the speaker.

By my assessment, even if I pushed my bed in front of the door and stood on my tippy toes, I still could not reach the speaker. Besides, I am sure the tools to tighten down the cover are not available to me.

Note: Mention loose speaker cover to the proprietors.

“MISTER PENCEL, I am speaking to you!”

I assumed the establishment bugged this room and hid cameras to keep a watch on me. My first impulse was to give the speaker the finger then thought that I better not. I needed information about why and how I ended up here. So a little compliance was in order.

“Sorry, I am a little groggy. Sir, who are you and what am I doing here? Someone made a mistake. I don’t belong here.”

The speaker crackled again. “Mr. Pencel — or may I call you Arthur or Art? You violated Pineal Code 29A — hence this incarceration. You and I have plenty of time to discuss your infractions. The self-induced coma you suffered dehydrated you, and you need to drink and eat.”

Opaque blinds automatically shut. No longer could I view outside my window.

Immediately, I tensed. When I was five, a friend locked me in a large trunk. Since then, I suffer from Claustrophobia.

Then a mechanical slot opened at the bottom of the door. A tray slid through the slot.

I grabbed the tray and set it on my lap. On it, an empty metal cup and a plate with s single biscuit.

The annoying voice came over the intercom, “Art, The water is filtered water from the sink. You may drink it.”

I took a bite from the biscuit. Course and desert dry, it clung to my throat like the creatures from Aliens. I nearly choked trying to swallow the darn thing.

“Ahem, ahem, ahem, AHEM!”

Almost choking to death, I threw down the tray and ran to the sink to fill the cup with water. The water tasted like copper tubing. But the nasty liquid accomplished the job and chased the creature down my throat.

“While you eat, listen. I am Synaptic Action Protocol 22B. “Most call me SAP. I am your sole outlet to the world. So, let us become friends. The more you cooperate and learn, the faster you will reunite with the outside.”

“Nooooo! My connection to the world is with an AI voice over an intercom system?”

“Ahem. Excuse me. My throat is a little sore from the biscuit. Ahem, Ahem, ahem.”

Refilling the cup again, Art downed the water. His throat clear he took a deep breath. “Do I get yard time or anything? Is this solitary confinement?”

SAP responded, “That is up to you whether you choose solitary confinement or a connection with others. For now, rest. I will return in six hours.”

The room went dark. Though fatigued, I could not sleep. One hour, two hours, three hours, four hours, I finally fell asleep.

LED lights came on. The lights bright enough to turn a vampire to ashes. Ear-bleeding loud music followed the bright lights.

I recognized the song, Sandman by Metallica. SAP has a sick sense of humor.

“Good morning, Art. You have one hour to exercise, clean up, and eat. Then we start your reeducation program. If you would like, I will project a beginner’s Yoga video on the wall?”

“Yoga sounds good right now. The Yoga might help calm me.”

After my thirty-minute Yoga practice, I washed in the sink. Then I choked down another biscuit with water.

I murmured to myself, “How cliche’, rations of bread and water.”

Sixty minutes on the nose, SAP chimed in over the intercom.

“Please sit down and relax. Do you have any questions as we begin?”

I raised my hand like a Kindergartener, “Yes, why am I here?”

The metal plate over the speaker vibrated as SAP sighed over the system. “We spoke of this yesterday. You violated Pineal Code 29A.”

“I don’t know what that means. Can you explain it to me?”

“Art, you have fretted the curator’s rejection for so long that your creativity and intuition have shut down. You are in the Writer’s Block — your self-Imposed imprisonment within your mind.”

Art placed his face in his hands. “This is all in my head.”

Art lifted his head, opened his Mac Book Pro, then wrote and wrote and wrote some more.

A bestseller later, Art still writes.