Make Us Laugh (Working Title)

Lonely Universe

         The iron gates of Winford prison creaked open, and for the first time in fifteen years, I realized freedom has a bitter taste.
Gusts of wind bit into my skin like pins and needles poking an open wound. I tugged at the collar of my coat sealing it tighter, my shoes kicked at weeds clung between the cracks of cement. I used to just tell jokes, but years has a way of hardening men. Chiseled by guilt and regret, the man that went in wasn't the man coming out.
         The city hadn’t changed, not in the way you'd expect. Buildings stretched to the horizon, towering with intimidation while asphalt expanded, gobbling the narrow roads as people hurried by, faces set with urgent determination. The brownstones and alleys were still there, an underworld tucked beneath the modern facades, and hushed little secrets. Yet, something was foul. The air choked, like combat boots stomping aspirations.
         The signs of decay were evident, eating at the city's soul. A cancer running stage four, the junkies bob and lean like mobile tombstones. Graffiti sprawled across the brick walls looked desperate. The homeless eyes more vacant. The storefronts were gutted, and windows smashed, as if anarchy spat in the face of gentrification. Destitution, a municipal animal caught in a trap, would rather gnaw off its own limb than face the truth.
         The sun rose higher into the sky as I wandered the streets, eyes scanning for a glimmer of neon promising check cashing services. The watering hole wasn’t much, dirty glasses and watery drinks, the place dense with stale smoke, terse conversations filled dark corners, men ripe of musk cologne. The type of place where you could flip a table and find roaches or work. But that isn’t my business any longer.
         The motel nestled in a rundown section of town off the highway. The reception area bore signs of neglect and time, faded wallpaper that once passed for pastel green and a dank, musty odor that punched of a funeral home. The clerk’s eyes jittered around the booth, both chasing some invisible fly individually. Sweat made his skin pasty and clammy, causing his shirt to cling to his body. His hands fidgeted with the papers on the desk, mumbling the nonsense from whispered lips. The loom, existing two places at once. He was on the stuff, eyes dilated saucers. He ran his fingers through thinning hair and gave a black toothed smile. Signs of recreations that developed a habit, had him pegged on sight, he smelled like corn beef and easy money. But that was the other me.
         “Most occupants pay an hourly rate.”
         “Don’t care.”
         “Maybe offer some female company.” He paused a beat, wetting his lips. “Male?”
         “Just the room.”
         “Suit yourself, cost still same.”
         The keys slid beneath smeared Plexiglass.
         The room was what I expected. Didn’t care, the shower worked. I twisted the knob until the room filled with steam, the shower ran until scalding, basin filled with filth. Scrubbed until the skin burned raw.
         I wrapped a towel around my waist, and another over my head. Outside my window the neon sign buzzed. Claws of red and blue shadows cast on the peeling wallpaper. I tossed and turned, the mattress creaking beneath me. Sleep eluded me that first night. I lay there, watching the off-balanced wobble of the ceiling. Counting the chittering bugs. The noise of the city did nothing to match the snores of inmates. I turned on the box. Flicked the clicker.
         Still nothing.
         I turned it off, slinking into silence.
         You’re losing it, get a grip.
         Once I made you laugh.
         That night, in the dark I drowned in memories. Broken animal. Things endured. Survival.
         Cracks formed in the dam, the years of pent-up humanity ran warm and welled my cheeks. Snot filled the back of my throat as emotions ruptured my chest, lungs on fire. Gasping salty breaths, I cried wet gruntle noises, just let it run. Unable to force it back, the guilt demanded attention. Minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell which. My body ached curled upon the floor in the dark. It was over, and for that I am thankful. Grappling with dissonance, the uncanny ideal of self.
         Mind, battered by years of solitary. Rebelling against the mundane? Or uncapable to readjust to the real world? I recalled mess hall stories. Ones not making it on the outside. Get careless. Slapped with bracelets before the ink a chance to dry. I toss again, the mattress reeks of sawdust and bleach. As the night slithered to dawn, the same questions spiraled. No answers. The only certainty, the world had changed. And so, had I.

Bars

         My first day on the job, and I already felt the weight of judgment. The factory stench of grease mingled with the acrid taste of liberty, the warehouse a different kind of confinement. I was out, but why did it feel like the fingers slipped around my neck? Bars replaced by machines. COs by a shouting boss. The muffled noises of a chow line transitioned to stations lined with razor eyes. One thing remained constant. Glances of a clear declaration: He doesn’t belong here.
         I tried to drown out the whispers, the judgment, but it was a melody I couldn't shake.
         The factory was an old creaky beast. All steel and grime, belching out a smoker’s cough. What they made never crossed my mind. Some part or gadget that fastened something. Here’s where I was assigned. The foreman, a bullish man with an uncanny resemblance to a hog, had a way of letting me know any chance he could.
         “Convict,” he'd said, grumbling the word out like a piece of rotten meat. A bruiser of a man. In his youth, he took a punch or two; now he looked haggard with a beer swollen gut. His voice cut through the din, terse as a saw cutting through wood. “You're late.” The spittle welled in the corners of his lips.
         “I know,” I muttered. Eyes darting away from his glare, realizing any excuse wouldn’t be adequate.
         “I know what?”
         “I know, sir.”
         I grunted, taking my place by the conveyor belt. It was work, meaningless and monotonous. Each box packed with reminders of something I'd never have. The tongues loosened around noon. Speculations of my past muted by protective earwear. The conversations wildfire, audible only underwater. Rank of accusation and assumption.
         The workday wore on. Scribbles on paper, meaningless numbers, hollow tasks. By the time the shift ended, my back ached, feet hurt, and my soul felt ten shades darker than my flesh. A glance in the bathroom mirror showed a stranger's face, lined with the scars of battles lost.
         After a ten-hour shift, he pulled me aside. Thick fingers digging into my arm. “Convict,” he growled. “Slacking off at the pisser. If I see you daydreaming again, you're out. Fifty more spooks ready to take your place.”
         “I…”
         “Something to say?” His mouth foul and musty, rotten cigars and gum disease. He stepped towards me, I’ve a good few inches on him so the little man had to show his bark.
         “No,” I said. My knuckles primed.
         “No. No what?”
         “No, sir.”
         “What ya standing for? Work to be done. Sooner ya finished, sooner I can find more.”
         The faintest contempt rang in his voice, but I made sure not to show it. I made sure to show nothing. Especially to wise guys like the foreman.
         “Just like your corner of Heaven. Or Hell. Make the play fella. But try n’ hide anything from me.” He thumbed his broken blood vessel nose. “This ain’t jus’ for sniffing pussy. I got a nose for stuff. Hear me?”
         “Yes, sir.”
         “Good. There’s a thousand more of your kind that leap to be in your place.” The hyena sneer broke the stumble of triple chins. “I own you, boy,” he whipped. “Now, skedaddle. Back to work.”
         After work, I had to meet my parole officer. She waited for me, not off on the best foot. A woman who had the warmth of a snowstorm. Her office was a sterile room rank of old coffee and indifference. Cramped, filled with dust mites and poor career choices. Again, I’m reduced to a number.
         From the leaning tower of folders, she slid mine across the cluttered desk. Her hands worked through the chaos of files, papers, pens, and emptied mugs on her desk, searching for her glasses while yapping into the phone. The person on the other end getting the business.
         I lightly cleared my throat, not to offend the tiger in the cage.
         She looked at me and rolled her eyes making a yacking gesture with her hand.
         I see the glasses by the mound of different colored folders. I hand them over and she gives me what I assume passes as a smile.
         Hanging up the call, her eyeballs sized me up. “You look like shit,” she began, tone dripping with restrained admonishment. “I need you to keep it together. This ain’t the Luxor.”
         “Am trying,” I said. Voice cracked dry. “But it feels like... I'm still in there.” I glanced at her, eyes searching for some sliver of empathy.
         None.
         “You need to move past it,” she said. Her boot strap mentality impersonal. “Not everyone gets this chance. Two strikes. Tsk-tsk. A third and you’re…” She mocked a swing.
         “Sure thing.”
         “Sorry, where was I?” Not looking up from her mountain of paperwork. “You need to keep your job and permanent residence.” She pinned her glasses to her head, fearful of displacing them again. “You got the keys to you place, right?”
         “Yeah, chef’s kiss.”
         “See, it’s that attitude that plopped your ass in that chair. You should be grateful. Try acting like it.”
         Her hair looked like it nested birds. Filled with pens and clips, like an extra pair of hands. She rattled off the terms of my parole. A monotonous drone that pounded into my head. A Rolodex of opportunities to get myself pinched.
         What part of freedom was free?
         We talked about rules, restrictions, and the tightrope I was to walk. Her eyes spoke volumes. Another checkbox ticked. Another she would violate right back before her five o’clock cocktails with Muffy. All the same to her. Lop it off and call it a day. Anything to avoid the spread. Society of treat the symptoms, avoid the root cause. It’s capitalism, no money to be made here. Systems spawn systems.
         “Uhm, you can go now…” She motioned to the door.
         Before I was out, she was on the phone again.

Sin

         Stepping out on the the street, the city's gritty atmosphere sticking closer than my shadow. Like a slap in the face, reminding me of the life ditched. Lust, wrath, greed, the past tuggin’ at me. The fast world of crime, shimmering new toys and designer suits, recycled for calloused hands and swollen feet. The final blow? Utterly broke. Parole fees bled me dry. Frustration ate at my guts, the hive of fire ants insatiable.
         My new cell is a cramped apartment boxed in by paper-thin walls and jutting angles. Renovated with ghosts of choices gone awry. The ruckus of arguing neighbors, incessantly crying babies, and peculiar smells both herbal and edible permeate, a modus operandi of life inches beyond my reach.
         As I sit on the edge of the bed, alienation feels like heavyweight blows into my chest. Grinding at a job that means nothing, whispers and hisses behind my back, and POs juggling fate, it feels like the world’s got a Bingo card to shove me back inside. The disease of doubt contagious.
         In another life, I was the guy under the bright lights of the marquee. Now, the curtain dropped, left standing in the middle of a land without walls—free. But where is freedom? I could see the sky, breathe air without the stank of sweat, hopelessness, and desperation, yet prison scented my nostrils. Reentry leaves a particular rawness on my tongue. The hard-won victory. A ceaseless struggle for promised second chance. Treasure not so willing to trade.
         I found myself at the window, watching the night creep in, the city's harsh lights painting a portrait of a world I didn't belong to anymore. My reflection was a ghost, a man trapped in a new kind of prison. Craving something significant, seeking comfort to envelop me, whispering assurances everything eventually falls into place.
         Closing my eyes, the memories of prison merge with the present, the sounds of gates locking, the feel of cold steel, the taste of stale bread. It was all still there, tattooed into my soul. A brand I could never shake. The past and the present collided indistinguishable, freedom was mine, yet she’s an elusive mate for the alter.
         My eyes screamed in wide O’s. Heart and lungs tremor hyperactive function. My skin wet, sheets slick with sweat. Panick attacks. Blink once, the humid stench of mold, the fists of men, the taste of iron and pain. Blink twice, the apartment still the same. I sat up and headed to the window. The city stretched out before me. Indifferent and cold. A world trying to put me right back inside.
         Bars and honks. Gates and shouts. Two worlds, both conspiring, both relentless. The overwhelming control of that dark passenger, familiar friend looking back from the reflection. But amidst the dark, there was a spark, a tiny flicker.
         A longing. For something more. Something that transcended the confines of both past and present. Inklings of redemption, of hope, of a life beyond bars and judgment.
         In the distance, a neon sign flickered: “Open Mic Night.” An old haunt, remnant of life before bars, before judgment. A place where my voice mattered. Where stories bridged gaps. Where souls connected over laughs. An alternate version of myself. Just maybe, that was the key to breaking the cycle.