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The following story was a collaboration by three members of Storymasters during a meeting dedicated
to Table Topics. They were given a theme (the man in the striped pajamas), 5 minutes to craft their
story, and 5-7 minutes to deliver it. (Editor)

The Man in the Striped Pajamas

By Tylor Merritt, Joe Anthony, and Greta Hartman

Tracy Ray was a born grifter. It was said by his own
father, “he could con a rooster out of his feathers, and
would sell them back to him afterward.” However,
his natural propensity for extravagant lies couldn’t
keep him from landing in the harshest prison in the
southwest, where the sun tanned the men of the chain

gangs to the color of soil, and the flies were liable to
carry a prisoner away if he watched them too often.
During the hottest hour of the hottest day on the
hottest year on record, Tracy Ray was putting his back
into deepening a ditch along the highway. Men to
either side of him mopped sweat from their heads
and drank warm water from a ladle and bucket. Tracy,
sipping, one eyebrow characteristically arched, called
to the guard who was inspecting the line.
“Boss?”
“Yep.” The guard answered.

“Bucket’s drier than a powder house.”
“Well, fill ‘er up then.”
Tracy rattled his chains, holding up the cuffs for the guard. The hog put a boot into the ditch,

leaned forward with his keys, and made the worst mistake of his
career.
“Quick like a hare, Tracy.”
“Yes Boss.” Tracy said.
He made for the transport truck and opened the tap on the water
tank. The valve was rusty and squealed when he turned it. Tracy
barely opened the valve to allow a thin stream of water the width
of a flea’s tongue, and the patter of water in the empty bucket was

like a tiny drum beat. Tracy whistled. The men along the work line
smiled and started humming. And all the guards, who had been
watching Tracy, suddenly felt the call of nature.
Some of the guards looked into the dry brush wistfully, while others
excused themselves to find trees. They couldn’t very well take a
break all at once, so they stood in shifts listening to the stream of
water, and one by one the guards shifted uncomfortably, crossing
their legs and looking out at the prairie, cursing the coffee they’d drunk that morning. Tracy, who
had mastered the art of people-watching over the course of his grifting career, knew exactly
when each of them would turn to stare at the dry land on the horizon yet to be watered. It was
this same ability that let Tracy know when a good con was about to succeed, and his sense of the

situation that told him when he could make his break. (continued on page 20)

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