Glory Days

"I'm sorry. Is there anything else I can do for you?" The words were polite, but his eyes finished with "scum." He'd just told me that my bail would hold out till the attorney called the cops tomorrow and then I'd be "retained."

"No, I'm done." I lingered a moment, taking in the clerk's Kmart shirt, Kmart vest, Kmart shoes. "Thanks for being such a help." Sarcasm, my only salvation. The funny little man behind his desk did not understand sarcasm because he's stupid, so he smiled his condescending smile and mentally dismissed me by returning to his computer terminal. I was real adult about the whole thing and used my soft, quiet baby steps to walk out of the attorney's office. I did slam the door on the way out. Nobody's perfect.

I sat on the front steps of the office and watched people walk in and out. I wanted to call out, yell at them to run, not walk, to a different office. This guy will sell you out to make his own life easier, I wanted to shout at them. He'll take your bucks, no matter how little you have, and then he'll sell you out. I didn't say it, of course. There was a time when I would have said anything that popped into my head. I wanted to go back, be back in those days when I wouldn't have to deal with my own life, when someone else did the thinking for me and I was supposed to be "a loose cannon." It was fun, being that. I could dance on desktops and teachers would grow afraid, Principals would clear their throats and tell my mother he's "a loose cannon." At least three of them said that.

I put my head into the palm of my hands, looked down and the silverish concrete making sparkles in the sun, at my crisp, new tie dangling. I pulled at the collar of a very stiff white shirt. I'm not used to suits, bought this one for the great occasion; I was told by the mean-ass attorney to buy it, the one sitting in his pretty, rich, bought-by-poor-people's-blood office. I idly fantasized about blowing him away. I'd get one of those semi-automatics, the kind that's always in the news when some maniac starts blowing places and people to bits. The problem with me though, is that I am too damn nice. I don't really want to blow anyone away, and that made me madder than I already was. I stood up and stretched, cussing at the new shoes those idiots made me wear. The things pinched, but in some sort of tilted way I was glad to feel the pain. I suddenly understood those weirdos who slash their skin. A new kind of pain to take away the old. Not something I'd want to do a lot, but it helped for the moment.

I skipped down the stairs using the old sarcasm trick to make myself feel better. How do you tell your mother, who's coming to pick you up from your attorney's office, that you will most likely be seeing the inside of a jail cell for twenty to life? I'd had to tell her a lot in my life, but never something like that. Even loose cannons have their limits. I stuck my hands in my pockets and wandered farther and farther away from the doors of the office. I found a bench on the sidewalk down the street and sat.

A woman sat down beside me, and I turned to look at her because I didn't have anything better to do. She was youngish but not good looking, so I wasn't even tempted to start up any conversation. Then I thought about how long I'd have to wait to talk to a woman and I asked her for the time. Her voice wasn't sexy or anything, not even attractive. She was plain all over with flat brown hair, brown eyes that were small and dull, and she even had pasty, grayish skin, but she was a woman so I asked her where she was headed. She kind of backed away from me and said home. I almost told her I was waiting for my mom to tell her I'm headed for the slammer, but I was afraid she'd yell so I left it at that. I don't have fun anymore.

I sat back and stuck my hands in my pockets, letting my new suit jacket hang on me. I blew out some air, looked up at the really blue sky, and I remembered once when I was about thirteen. Tom Delance and I were walking to school one day when we decided there were better things to do. Tom's parents both worked, and we headed over to his house. Wouldn't you know his older sister and her friends thought of the same thing, so Tom and I sat outside on the other side of the fence and watched them sunbathe in the nude. Now that had been some fun. Tom works in a car lot now, and he's married and has three kids. I'll bet he doesn't have fun anymore, either. Two years ago I went with my girlfriend to the fair, and we had a blast behind the porta potties. I don't know why I thought about that. I didn't even like that girl anymore, couldn't stand being in the same room with her. I wondered how long I'd have to wait for that kind of blast, though.

I noticed the woman being joined by an old man with thin white hair and some sort of hump on his back. He stood off to the side and looked a little nervous. I wondered if it showed in my face that I was a con, real this time, not stupid juvie shit, but maybe I was being paranoid. He waved a little when he saw me staring, the kind of wave that says, I hope he doesn't want my wallet. I considered. I was already headed for the big house, what could it hurt? I didn't do it because I'm lame and I never have fun, anymore. I'm only nineteen, but right then I felt about eighty-five. I slumped, I couldn't help it. I was starting to get really depressed. I started thinking about all the things I'd never get to do again for a long time, like feelig the breeze on my face or flicking a fly off my shoe, at least not at a public bus stop. I wouldn't be sneering at people's fear because I'd be in the slammer. Whoever wasn't afraid of me would be one of me. For some reason I started thinking about food and what kind they might serve in prison. I'll bet they don't serve McDonald's cheeseburgers or Domino's pizza. I was seriously starting to wallow and feel sorry for myself and I hate that, so I went back to my memories.

When I was sixteen I went for my driver's license, went with Tom and Donald Bennett, and we all got our licenses in Tom's old gray ford. After Tom dropped me off I went walking and found this beat-up Pontiac to buy. It took every cent I'd been saving since I was twelve, but man, I was proud of that car. Now the memories aren't so good anymore, but I couldn't stop them, sitting at that bus stop waiting to tell my mom I'm going to prison, they just kept snowballing. My dad hated that Pontiac, used to kick at it and yell at me for getting it. He was always jealous of anything I got. I couldn't think about it anymore because my head starts to hurt when I think about him.

So I sat and made my mind a blank slate. I used to do that when I was a kid; I'd make my mind blank so that it wouldn't hold anything, like it had been coated with oil and everything that hit it slid right on down to the ground. It worked when my mom and dad were going at it or when teachers tried to "be my friend." God, I hated that. I'd blank my mind and they'd think I was retarded, but they left me alone. Which was what I wanted. But getting left alone would get old sometimes, and I'd dance on desktops. Then they didn't just think I was retarded. They thought I was a retarded freak. Wouldn't they be proud, those teachers and counselors and principals who told me I was a "loose cannon." By going to prison I was probably making all their ideas about me come true. The bus pulled up, spitting gray/black exhaust with a hiss. The woman and the old man got on and the bus driver stared at me, waiting to see if I was going to board. I started thinking about life on the run. I'd have to dye my hair, I have Howdie Doodie hair. I'd have to wear makeup to hide my freckles and dark overcoats with hats pulled down over my face. I shook my head at him.

So here I sit. I'm in prison, the big house. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. You hear so many stories about the sex stuff but I haven't seen it, at least not yet. I've only been here three weeks, so who knows. The mean-ass attorney visited me right after I got here, and he wanted me to sign a bunch of paperwork, and like a good little soldier I did what he wanted. At least I don't have to see that ratty little office man. I work in the laundry and it's hot and sticky, which I really, really hate, but I also get to visit the library and read any book I want. That's cool. I'm thinking about taking some college courses as soon as I get my GED, because I could get out of laundry if I do. How sad is life when being in prison doesn't seem so bad?

I know everyone here says they "didn't do it," but I really didn't. If I'd wanted to rape anyone, it sure wouldn't have been that huge bimbo on Seventh Street. They found her bobbing like a beach ball in the harbor and I didn't think anything of it, at first. I knew who she was because she lived two blocks from my mom. Some woman picked me out of a lineup and the attorney, that mean-ass one, said I should cop a plea because no one would believe I was at home watching "Law and Order" with my mom, not with my record. I told him I was trying to start over, that I have a new girlfriend and a job and I don't run with that anymore, but he didn't care. I wish lawyers and judges were the way they are on TV but they're not. No one cares that I didn't do it, they're just happy they have somebody to finger so they could get on with it. But I figure if I do my twenty and come out of it with a degree or something that'll make it worth my time, right? "That which does not kill us only serves to make us stronger." My mom says that over and over whenever she visits me. I hope like hell she knows what she's talking about. She should, she was married to my dad for years, until he croaked, and he was a bastard. So she should know. Right?