My Cardboard Balcony

Six O'Clock by Belinda Roddie Father had a shaky grip on the pickle jar, and when he dropped it, the brine exploded in a big, brown-yellow fountain. I tried to clean up the glass, but he wouldn't let me because I was barefoot and he was wearing boots. Upstairs, my sister was having sex with an older man who had celebrated his birthday yesterday with her in Berkeley. They had gone to a Thai restaurant and made fun of the waitress's hair and accent. And no one talked about my brother, who lay near catatonic on the couch with the TV bellowing, a bag of potato chips on the floor and a large capsule of painkillers in the crook of his arm.

The flood of words was like watching a spurt of ink or oil splashing out of the prisoner's mouth. He was flailing his arms, screeching, eyes bulging outward and threatening to erupt from his eroding sockets. I could see the outline of his jaw in his gaunt face, how it creaked when he talked. "I'm an innocent man, and I will say that until I die in a ditch!" he screamed as the guards dragged him away from clawing at my new uniform.