By Jason Liu
Infuriated at his father, he slammed the door and swaggered onto the street. He was in rags and starving, starving because he had been laid off for a week now from the only job he ever found—a factory job where he placed tin cans that fell imperfectly into the conveyor belt back into the middle. Incomprehensibly menial as it was, he maintained to himself that he was, if anything, lucky to even be employed. Johnson’s roll of the die gave him no advantages in the competition of life. He lived in a neighborhood where illegal businesses outnumbered legal businesses, possessing less than a high school diploma, having no connections, and having no work experience: he was no better matched to a comfortable life than a campfire to a storm. Even what he did find—the factory job—was promptly snatched away by the vicissitudes of free-market competition; a “relocation to a cheaper state,” to be exact. Now, with himself and his sick mother to feed and care for, he found his father, that coward who hid himself and his alcohol while shirking all his responsibilities, and begged for some currency. Although disappointed, as expected, he unleashed a primal scream and kicked and shoved his way through the air back onto the street. Out in the distance, his eyes found a scarf, and then a man in a cashmere coat sporting polished oxfords. As the man came closer, he became aware of Johnson, who stared back. He saw a slight glint in the man’s eyes and a slight raise in the eyebrows. It was enough for him to imagine a concealed disdain, a condescension at his poor sight. Passing him, Johnson deliberately knocked him with his shoulder. He was successful.
“Hey! What d’you think you’re doing?
Johnson pivoted and lunged at him in a flash.
They kept brawling until the police arrived. Each had been shoved into their own car, their knuckles crimson and bruises spotting their bodies.
|
… Hours later, slumped in jail, Johnson was told by a civil attorney that his trial for assault and battery was in two weeks and that he was looking at two to five years in jail. This is the end, he thought. All his efforts in trying to remain straight are just gone, just vaporized in that outburst where he felt like his soul was in the grip of a demon, one nurtured by the compounding years of resentment and injustice, and triggered by that last straw, that pathetic father. Two years or five years; it doesn’t matter. Once in the system, once it is in his record, he is a dead and wasted man—if he even makes it out alive. No business, even the lowest of factories, will want a criminal on their team. No parent will want a criminal near their children. Cursed justice! Hammered down by misfortune from the outset, the greatest hand the mighty nation extends is not relief and succor but a push into bottomless misery. The State thunders retribution in return for the abject lot he was given. For Johnson, spending his days under Judgement, he saw no justice. |
… Hours later, slumped in jail, Johnson was told by a civil servant that his charge of assault and battery would land him in the rehabilitative facilities for two to five years minimum, plus additional time if needed. This is the beginning, she told him. This is the beginning of rehabilitation designed to provide proper guidance against crime. It will give you proper job training and therapy. We understand all the disadvantages you’ve been dealt with. We understand your life has not been fair. We understand what lay beneath that ugly outburst, that foul symptom. To us, you are and have been, in a way, sick. The horrid conditions of your life have fermented an illness inside you that swelled up and burst. We are taking you away because we are trying to protect others from your actions as if we were putting you in quarantine for a disease. We believe in protecting others while helping you regain a healthy mindset and giving you the right opportunities so that you can lead a normal life. Rather than punish you for what you were given, for us, helping you and protecting others is justice. |
Photo Credits: artmajeur.com
