Cheaches
Brandon Allen
All last meals have a price. I don’t mean the price of a man’s soul or the price of justice served, but a last meal can’t exceed $50. Normally there’s a last request as well. Many inmates use it for one last conjugal visit. A few times we’ve had a request to split their last meal with another inmate to whom they owed cigarettes, money, or god knows what else. We had a serial killer share his plate with a couple of homeless fellows once, this didn’t change the fact that he’d killed seven people.
I was in charge of fixing these meals. The one I remember most was that of a double-homicider named Joe Saul. Joe Saul was also known as “Bone” Saul. It sounded better if you said Saul with a slight southern accent.
Two days before a man is to be put to death, he’s supposed to give me a list. On this list is what he wants for his last meal. This was Saul’s list:
One Jar of Peaches
One Jar of Nacho Cheese
½ pound of BBQ
½ pound of crawfish
6 pack of Beer
2 bottles of Pepto Bismal
At the bottom of the list, on the line marked “other,” where most inmates put their last request, were three simple words: Split with Warden.
Normally we wouldn’t allow such a thing. But the warden actually got along with Saul, so he agreed to do it. He found Saul funny, about as funny as you could find a man on death row.
So I prepared and delivered the last meal. Before I made the delivery, I had to put everything into plastic bowls except the beer and Pepto. Those I left in their own bottles. When I arrived in the cell, Saul had been waiting for me. He was sitting on his cot.
“You got everything?” he asked. There were damp spots below his eyes.
“Yes. The warden should be coming in a little while.”
“Good.” Saul picked up the container of peaches. He tilted the container over the prison commode and poured out most of the juice. He sat the container back on the tray and picked up the cheese. He poured the nacho cheese onto the peaches. I was looking on in disgust; my gag reflex gave me a sharp, wretched pull.
“Homemade cheaches, just like mom used to make,” he said with a laugh.
“I can’t believe you’re going to eat that.”
“Oh yeah, they so good.”
The warden appeared at the door, the top of his head as slick and white as an ivory ball. A guard flanked his side. The guard rattled the key, opened the cell door, and let the warden inside.
The Warden sat down beside Saul.
“So what are we having there, Saul. “
“Barbeque and Crawfish with a side of cheaches.”
“What the heck are cheaches?”
“Cheese peaches.”
The warden nodded. Saul and the warden ate, and then they drank the beers. The cheaches were for dessert.
“Hey, you want to try one?” Saul asked me, holding up the bowl of cheaches.
My taste-buds and stomach were both saying no, but I ignored them. The cheaches weren’t bad—weren’t good, but weren’t bad. I wouldn’t eat them every day. The juicy peaches along with the bitter sharp cheese had a taste that was indescribable. Saul and the warden finished the cheaches. Saul looked satisfied; the warden looked as if he were about to vomit.
Saul motioned for me to hand the warden the bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
“You believe in reincarnation, Warden?” asked Saul.
The warden took a swig of the Bismol, then sighed contentedly. “Nah, I’m a Baptist.”
“Well, I do. You know what I’m coming back as?”
“What?”
“Your indigestion."
The warden drank another swig of Pepto-Bismol and then offered the bottle to Saul.”
Saul looked at the bottle and shook his head. “I’m not going to need it.”
The warden let out a hard, jagged laugh—one of tension and not of humor. Soon afterward, the warden and his guards left. I stayed to clean up the dishes.
“You know what man, I’m jealous,” said Saul.
“Jealous of what?”
“What do you think? But you know I guess I shouldn’t be jealous—I’m getting parole.” Saul was talking too fast.
“That’s one way of looking at it “
“I’m getting paroled from every prison I’ve ever been in, you know that?” Saul let out a laugh, one of humor not of tension. “I’ve been in prison as long as I can remember; there just ain’t always bars. It’s worse that way—when you can’t see the bars.”
“That makes sense,” I said, and it did.
This was the last “last meal” I ever fixed. Sometimes at night I lay awake in bed trying to see my own bars. I wish that I could, but I can’t.
Brandon Allen
All last meals have a price. I don’t mean the price of a man’s soul or the price of justice served, but a last meal can’t exceed $50. Normally there’s a last request as well. Many inmates use it for one last conjugal visit. A few times we’ve had a request to split their last meal with another inmate to whom they owed cigarettes, money, or god knows what else. We had a serial killer share his plate with a couple of homeless fellows once, this didn’t change the fact that he’d killed seven people.
I was in charge of fixing these meals. The one I remember most was that of a double-homicider named Joe Saul. Joe Saul was also known as “Bone” Saul. It sounded better if you said Saul with a slight southern accent.
Two days before a man is to be put to death, he’s supposed to give me a list. On this list is what he wants for his last meal. This was Saul’s list:
One Jar of Peaches
One Jar of Nacho Cheese
½ pound of BBQ
½ pound of crawfish
6 pack of Beer
2 bottles of Pepto Bismal
At the bottom of the list, on the line marked “other,” where most inmates put their last request, were three simple words: Split with Warden.
Normally we wouldn’t allow such a thing. But the warden actually got along with Saul, so he agreed to do it. He found Saul funny, about as funny as you could find a man on death row.
So I prepared and delivered the last meal. Before I made the delivery, I had to put everything into plastic bowls except the beer and Pepto. Those I left in their own bottles. When I arrived in the cell, Saul had been waiting for me. He was sitting on his cot.
“You got everything?” he asked. There were damp spots below his eyes.
“Yes. The warden should be coming in a little while.”
“Good.” Saul picked up the container of peaches. He tilted the container over the prison commode and poured out most of the juice. He sat the container back on the tray and picked up the cheese. He poured the nacho cheese onto the peaches. I was looking on in disgust; my gag reflex gave me a sharp, wretched pull.
“Homemade cheaches, just like mom used to make,” he said with a laugh.
“I can’t believe you’re going to eat that.”
“Oh yeah, they so good.”
The warden appeared at the door, the top of his head as slick and white as an ivory ball. A guard flanked his side. The guard rattled the key, opened the cell door, and let the warden inside.
The Warden sat down beside Saul.
“So what are we having there, Saul. “
“Barbeque and Crawfish with a side of cheaches.”
“What the heck are cheaches?”
“Cheese peaches.”
The warden nodded. Saul and the warden ate, and then they drank the beers. The cheaches were for dessert.
“Hey, you want to try one?” Saul asked me, holding up the bowl of cheaches.
My taste-buds and stomach were both saying no, but I ignored them. The cheaches weren’t bad—weren’t good, but weren’t bad. I wouldn’t eat them every day. The juicy peaches along with the bitter sharp cheese had a taste that was indescribable. Saul and the warden finished the cheaches. Saul looked satisfied; the warden looked as if he were about to vomit.
Saul motioned for me to hand the warden the bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
“You believe in reincarnation, Warden?” asked Saul.
The warden took a swig of the Bismol, then sighed contentedly. “Nah, I’m a Baptist.”
“Well, I do. You know what I’m coming back as?”
“What?”
“Your indigestion."
The warden drank another swig of Pepto-Bismol and then offered the bottle to Saul.”
Saul looked at the bottle and shook his head. “I’m not going to need it.”
The warden let out a hard, jagged laugh—one of tension and not of humor. Soon afterward, the warden and his guards left. I stayed to clean up the dishes.
“You know what man, I’m jealous,” said Saul.
“Jealous of what?”
“What do you think? But you know I guess I shouldn’t be jealous—I’m getting parole.” Saul was talking too fast.
“That’s one way of looking at it “
“I’m getting paroled from every prison I’ve ever been in, you know that?” Saul let out a laugh, one of humor not of tension. “I’ve been in prison as long as I can remember; there just ain’t always bars. It’s worse that way—when you can’t see the bars.”
“That makes sense,” I said, and it did.
This was the last “last meal” I ever fixed. Sometimes at night I lay awake in bed trying to see my own bars. I wish that I could, but I can’t.