About 'us dept clock'|US State Dept: Israel "can't be found and may have moved"
Please let me hear your voice. I would really like to know what you think about this short story. Email if you feel up to it after reading this short story. This short story began as a 5 minute writing exercise while I was at Emerson college and 5 drafts later I am pretty proud of "The Undeliverer." Thanks for reading. The sun glared through my window giving the impression of warmth; however, the frost hazing the panels showed it was nothing but a fallacy. The leaves had finally fallen and those damn leafers from Florida or wherever had finally left. Soon the winds would pick up bringing the strong winter fronts and then my job would become even more difficult. Each and every winter, I told myself that I should move out of Hartford and the northeast altogether. Of course, I would get bogged down with an overabundance of life and gray. The gray of winter in the northeast sucks the life out of you and deflates your dreams. Compromising with myself that this would be the last winter, I got up out of my bed and wiped off the window. What lay before me was the ghetto of Connecticut. Every ghetto was pretty much the same. There were project building that had satellite dishes attached to the second story windows. Those hard on their luck individuals that lived in this area drove their Escalades and Mercedes. I, a burden of the state, drove a '94 VW Golf. All the cars dotted the streets along with cigarette butts and pot holes. Recently, a new park had been built to bring up our area; however, the park that lay across the street from my fifth floor window was littered with bums and the omnipresent drug dealer. It should've been a great view for me. The state spent $12 million to turn an old parking lot into a beautiful park with a pond, various fountain and sprinklers, benches and trees. One of the outlying fountains close to the street was hit by a car; the pond had been pissed in so much it took a tinge of yellow and half of the park went up in flames when a meth house on the park's northeast border had blown up. I'm sure the state would not dump any more money on the area; it was a lost cause and it wasn't an election year. All the buildings in the area had an old, historic feel to them, but it was all fake. There was no upkeep in the area and the constant wind blasts from the police and paramedic choppers sliced into the brick and stone. I stood looking out my only window at the art of unsightliness that lay before me and with the sudden glare of the sun topping the buildings I became aware. "Time to get ready for work," I murmured to myself but only because there was no one else in my studio apartment. I was involved with freelance work for various delivery companies. I was going to venture out to Glastonbury, a 20 minute drive from Hartford and a little bit of a nicer area. I headed to I-84 East and passed by the over packed bus stops. The start of the highway was delineated by passing over the Connecticut River. As so as I crossed the river, the highway took me along the river's edge the rest of the way. It was something that I would have found beautiful if I was just driving but I was heading to work. Nothing ever is quite as beautiful when you see it as a working drone. I wasn't sure exactly where the UPS Headquarters was in Glastonbury. I had only worked there a few times. So I took it by feel and when my id said turn left, I did, and there it was. "Incredible thing that subconscious," I said to myself again only because I was the only one there. I preferred to work alone. Upon arriving, I saw a delivery truck pulling from the headquarters onto the street I was heading down. Being the nice guy I am, I slowed down and let him go ahead and he turned right even though he had a red light. This didn't make the people behind me happy but co-workers have to help each other out as much as possible in a corporation like UPS. Screwing the employee is part of any huge company's policy. I turned on the radio and continued to drive. "Sing it Noel. As fast as a cannonball..." I trailed off realizing I wasn't drunk enough to sing. That was definitely one of the perks of my job. I had music. The pay was so variable. There was no healthcare coverage to speak of and with the invariable rate of pay I was always stressed, but I had tunes. The driver of the UPS truck in front of me was obviously a seasoned veteran of his job. He drove exuberantly slow and was headed out as far as possible to do his first delivery and made all the other delivery stops on the way back to the headquarters. He would wait at stop signs to make sure he had the fullest look at the cute girls' asses walking along the crosswalk and earning money at an hourly rate to do so. He knew what his job was. If he played it right, he could spend his whole day delivering just 10 packages. I hated this type of driver. I wanted to get things done fast. I wasn't paid hourly so I was content with getting on with my job as fast as possible. But nevertheless I kept after the slow UPS driver. I always thought that I should write down the slow drivers' license plate numbers so that I could keep track, but it was always a losing battle to lethargy. I pulled out a cigarette and rolled down my window. The UPS driver followed suit; his bulking forearm grasping the butt and rapping against the side of the truck's door. We made our way to the northern part of Glastonbury and this was evident as the houses grew in size and the trees became more numerous. Autumn always look more beautiful in places these sort of places. Large houses of emerald green, barnyard red, aqua blue and midnight purple accented the leaves on their giant yards and fought the nothingness of the gray skies to come. It was almost enough to get you through the winter without realizing life could be better pretty much anywhere else in the world. I guess I can't speak for these people with their beautiful houses and 2.5 kids and Fido. But those, like me, are the reason why New York is the suicide capital of the United States and why Connecticut houses some of the worst drug habits. It is because there is nothing like the gray, cold winters of the northeast. Seasonal depression, coupled with those holidays are enough to bring the richest and happiest people to their knees and beg for death. That's why rich movie stars lived in California and why writers love to live in Connecticut and New Hampshire. Writer's love to be filled with sorrow and woe. I would suppose a writer would have trouble selling a book about everything being happy and living the suck itself makes it easy to get ideas to write about. In a rich area, mail delivery is the great equalizer; the rich, the poor, the young, and the old all receive mail from the same weary, fat, dirty workers of the various mail companies. There are so many of mailing companies UPS, FedEx, DHL, AirEX, Brown, Rose Courier and the local companies for each state and ... "All of these idiots drive like crap," I shouted at my steering wheel as the UPS driver ran through the changing yellow to red light. I booked it to keep up through the street crossing. I thought about all the different companies I freelanced with and UPS drivers had to be some of the worst. I eyeballed that sign on the back of this UPS truck urging people with the question 'How Is My Driving?'. I hoped someone called, I willed it every time someone was cut off by one of these vans. Finally, the UPS truck pulled in front of a house. It was a rather large white Victorian with pink trim. Bushes full of now dead, but once beautiful flowers jostling in the slight wind. Two giant sycamores made sure that the summer sun never beat down on the house's occupants as they had small gathering in their front yard with blush wine and Gin Gimlets. I drove past the UPS truck. I wondered if the occupants would be retired folks or have a housewife or maybe workers that would not be home at this time of day. The sun was nearing the middle of the sky and I guessed it was around 8 but my internal clock had lost a spring years ago. I looked down at my watch to see it was already 8:48. About a half a mile down the road I pulled a K-turn, which never really reminded me of a K-turn. More of a triangle than anything. As I drove back towards the house, I got a glimpse of the driver as he pulled away. White trash with extra long, curly hair and a gut that would have made it impossible for him to be a real mailman. I saw the package in wait on the doorstep. I sighed and pulled my car up to the curb and walked to the house with all the impudent strides of a working man who had just forgotten something. I passed over the beautiful and oddly still thriving lawn. The lawn looked as if it could handle a few sub zero nights without much loss. Arriving at the doorstep, I pick up the package and headed back to my car. The package was heavier than I thought it would have been. It was about 35 pounds and a 4 square feet in size. That's the thing with delivery companies. Unless someone pays extra for special delivery, couriers will just leave the package at your door. They will knock at your door, sometimes twice but that's it. The package is on it's own from there. Most people never realize they didn't get their package until days or even weeks later. Some people completely forget they ordered that stupid Elvis figurine. And for those who realize they have been screwed, lesson learned. Spend that extra money to make sure the package gets to its destination safely. Whenever I think about explaining how the system works to people, even though I haven't yet, I would say it was like a newspaper machine. It's 50 cents for one or all of them. Simple and easy, then sell the papers for 40 cents and it's all profit. I would say that I wasn't smart and just a user of inadequacies and a minor revolutionist of sorts. Another abuser and user of circumstances and an eventual speed bump along the way of change. I would always end it in my head with something like honor systems are failures or it's just another way to show off how American and opportunistic I was. Soon, my job will be obsolete because these couriers would think of a way to fight against undeliverers like me. Grocery store carriages were perfect for the picking for hobos and drunken college kids. Eventually, instead of buying new carriages or driving around with a truck around town to pick up the missing carriages, companies began using carriages that locked of after it left a certain radius of a store. Eventually, something would change what I do. Arriving back at my car, I opened the box with my trusty exacto-knife and gave the box a quick scan. I always made sure there were no animal needs or contacts because both were impossible to resell. The pet products were resealed and dropped back at the door step to pay homage to a dark time in my past and the contacts were swiftly thrown away. The utter lack of embracing one's deficiencies enraged me. My second felony, nearly 8 years ago now, was from a bar fight that began with me calling someone four eyes and getting my ass kicked along the way before I finally ended it by taking a pool cue to the guy's face and breaking his glasses and causing the glass to gash his eyes. I told him he should be who he is. Prozac made every human the same, not "Calvin Kline" underwear. As I stood over him as he lay bleeding, I shouted at him and the gathering crowd, "Everyone has some sort of imbalance and impediment and drugs make us a derivative of who we are and have made us emotionless." Upon arrest, I sat in the holding cell, and returning to lucidity but all I could think about was that ten years prior no one had ADD, but later 1 in 3 had it. I thought about the children then having a reason to misbehave, they and the parents could blame it on ADD. I remembered growing up and being beaten silly by my parents if I misbehaved and that overarching threat kept me in line. Now, I think about the overuse of Viagra. Viagra is a quick and easy resell and that just enrages me even more. I want to scream at my clients, "Our wangular deficiencies make us better loves in other reaches of our sexuality. If all men had working penises than the rich and good looking would only be getting richer." It's impotence and alcohol that allow the average guy to get laid. Snapping back into currently reality, I pushed through the bubble wrap of the inner box. It was full of DVDs. And then I was on my way. Next stop was Joe's Video Emporium which bought, sold and rented out DVDs. Every shrink wrapped new release I got $8 and all other unopened movies yielded me $4. Whatever Joe didn't want went straight onto Amazon.com. Today's yield made $150 from Joe's. As I arrived home, I flattened the box and placed it on top of the pile and opened my closet and threw the bubble wrap in. Tools to be used when I sold products online. I turned on my stereo. Even though I lacked everything else in home utilities, I had an awesome radio system. I could never bring myself to sell stereo parts when I began undelivering. I made a collection. My parole officer told me that, "Every ex-con needs a hobby. A mind filled with hobbies is not filled with rage and schemes." Every time he had said this to me over the last three years I had wanted to question him with, theoretically of course, what if my hobby was smacking around the mentally disabled or challenged or whatever. But I understood what he was saying behind that always red or brownish tie. I was a smart guy, went to a damn good college. Eleven o'clock. Still sober and growing more sober every moment thinking about work. I stopped at Finley's and ordered two shots and a brewski. Still sober. 11:11, make a wish. I peed in a urinal. Right above the urinal there was a sign in black ink which read "Life suck and then you die." True that. Still sober. I sat down and repeated my order. Some game was on. I kind of watch it but mostly watch people. The idiots and their self-delusional drivel. Bush did this; Obama did that, they would say. Drugs are bad, they killed my uncle someone would say and pound his beer. The Yankees have a really great chance next year. It was all the same. I ordered another brewski. I woke up. It was 5:12 AM, the worst time to wake up. I had to debate whether I should go back to sleep for the next 48 minutes or get up. Before I could debate any further a shrill squeal followed by a loud smash of metal on metal gave me my answer. Car crashes are the urban alarm clock. "Hey, you retard. Don't you know how to drive, you moron." There was no snooze button for the urban alarm clock. I jumped out of bed and headed for my window and opened it. I leaned and gasped at the cool air breaching my lungs as I focused on the seen below me. A large, red Pontiac was sitting in the middle of the intersection with its front crushed in. It was turned 45 degrees intersecting the double yellow lines. A small Ford was about 15 feet away pushed straight into a sidewalk and a pole saying, "No Parking Anytime." I thought the state would make an exception at this point. It looked like the Ford didn't stop at his stop sight and the Pontiac, lacking a stop sign, blew through the intersection and t-boned the Ford. The Ford lay at the foot of my building with a crushed right side and tire rolling free from the tyranny of all wheel drive. Within minutes 10 black guys ranging from 4 to 45 years old came to survey the situation and give their own take. The talk was muffled and all at once making it impossible for me to discern. The guy from the Pontiac was out of his car sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette and lightly talking on into his phone. He was a white collared worker. The other guy from the Ford was still in his car. I couldn't see if he was really hurt or even moving other than the occasional arm twitch outside his broken or rolled down window. A local, finally convinced about the situation, went up to the possibly messed up driver and said with the most dignity he could possibly have mustered, "Man, I saw the whole thing. You're gonna get paid." I smiled and retreated from the window to get ready from work. The pilot light was still out so I decided to forgo the cold shower. Breakfast was Cheerios with only slightly turned milk. I got in my Golf and sped past the wreck that now had an ambulance on the scene and even more onlookers. It was a short day at work. I went to Waterbury. I never tried to hit the same area more than once a month to make sure no suspicions were raised. All I got was some crappy 14K gold necklace from QVC and that took me 6 stops. I didn't have time to stick around to find anything better. I had a meeting with my parole officer. I hated my parole officer: John Ngi. I didn't hate him because of what he represented, that sure as hell made me dislike him, but I thoroughly hated this man. He thought he was a priest with all his righteous crap about paying my dues with God. He though he was a politician and told me I had repay my dept to society. And, worst of all, he thought I owed him something because he was fixing me as if I was a child in grade school that was sent to time out for pegging a little girl in the back of the head with a spit ball. He was hell bent on making me better by knocking me down. John's office was not to expected. There was no couch to lie on so I could console my inner child or to just get comfortable. There was no desk just two cheaply made fold-out chairs. He was us to see eye to eye as if we were friends. It was very minimalistic especially considering his office was a floor below some large tech firm. The type where the CEO is 22 years old and a billionaire. John was young than me, which I'm sure fueled my animosity. He was Chinese but was, for all intensive purposes, American. No accent and I doubt he knew any Cantonese or Mandarin. He was a Twinkie. I sat twenty minutes waiting for John to get back from lunch and we did the small talk thing for about 10 minutes. How's life? Angry outbursts? "You kill anyone this week?" he asked with a chuckle but than stopped and stared a me waiting for an answer. I only scoffed. After a few seconds he realized I was going to say anything else so he moved on. "So how's the job search going?" the idiot asked and wrote something down before I could answer. I guess he finally found a four-letter word for 'no life'. "I'm still looking," I said with indignity. "You need to find one soon, you know?" "I'm still looking." "The government isn't going to pay you to be alive forever without giving back." "I'm still looking," I finally said this one with enough behind it to get his eyes to rise up and look into mine. "Okay...keep up the good work Steven and have a good day." I left with no handshakes or nods. He was the new way the state fixed criminals. Every time I saw him, it reminded me of jail and what I had done to land me there. The state had parole officers as that constant reminder until convicts blew their heads off. My first felony nearly 9 years ago when I was 23, was fueled by cocaine and 'shrooms; a bad mix. I was too uppity to sit still and I was seeing to much wild crap to be able to function normally while walking. So I was venturing though a park and I saw a football. Just a football standing on its end perfectly, propped up by a stand and ready to get kicked. I eyed it. It was just sitting there among the trees or people whichever they were. I stopped. I stared down the temptress. Propped up at a 75 degree angle with the stripes pointing away from me. Perfection. And then I did it, not realizing I was doing it until I was 10 steps ahead of myself. And with a loud squawk the ball flew and then it sprouted wings. It flew even further than I could have imagined. It was beautiful. I fell to my knees and bowed unaware that I was not doing it under my own power. Then a swift kick to my back and a face full of dirt. Punting pigeons was a felony and being as high as possible didn't help my case. I didn't really like to think about my third felony. It made me feel as if I was a bad person. It made me feel that if there were a heaven, I wouldn't be welcome. I acted as if it was a dream but mostly I tried not to think about it but it was enough to land me in jail for 8 to 10 or 6 years with good behavior and 5 years with John Ngi. After taking a quick nap, I went to Finley's. It was going to be a good night; one of my only true friends had just gotten back from a trip to New York. Jade understood me. She saw and liked the facade I was trying to put on for the world to see. She was one of the few people that understood me or even tried. I arrived before Jade did but before our drink came, I heard the gentle ticking of her stick. She stopped in the middle of the bar about 15 feet from me and concisely and delicately said, "Steven." I proceeded to her and she heard me coming and grabbed for my forearms. We headed back to our table and I pulled the chair for her, being as gentlemanly as I could. It was great timing. The waitress came back with my BVD and her Lemon Drop. Jade only drank drinks with fruit in their names. "So," she said after sipping her drink, "how have you been the past couple of weeks?" "Good," I shot back. "Just good?" "Great, now the you're back. I missed you." "Oh, that's sweet...yeah, the trip was good and it looks like my mother might have another year but maybe not... They've said she's only had months to live for the last 8 years now so maybe they finally jinxed her," Jade smiled through the morbidness. Jade and I had been through quite a bit. She probably was the only one that got me because she spent time in jail too. Of course not in the same jail, sexual frustration is the true loss in jail. She had John Ngi as her parole officer too, and I met her one time when she was leaving the building. It was my second time meeting with John and I still thought I had to dress up in a buttoned shirt and tie. She ran right into me. I stood not realizing that I should say something. This was the first human contact I had had since I had gotten out. After a beat, she apologized profusely and said that someone had stolen her stick. I remember laughing and shaking my head thinking what would be the use of stealing that. She asked me if I worked upstairs. I thought about those cubicle dwellers at the tech firm and I said, "Kind of." So through odd meetings we became pretty good friends. I told her that I was ex-con and I remember the frown on her face when I told her and I remember her meekly saying she was too. Meeting at Finley's a couple of times a week became our ritual. We would talk about nothing, just everything in our lives which was nothing to everyone else. We would blast John. We had a cool thing going. Jade and a friend had gone to jail for conning a Massachusetts billionaire into buying tornado insurance. Everything was great until a tornado touched down ruining his garage and Jaguar inside it. The only bad part of our friendship was the other people. I saw people. The people saw her. Some smiled. Those who saw her wearing sunglasses inside or at night and put two and two together. Those people thought I was helping her. Others knew the truth and I saw them look at her beautiful, naive face. And I saw them look at my ugly face. At least I could make faces at the righteous without Jade knowing. We had a few drinks and caught up on this and that and told stories of our past crimes, mostly about the ones where we weren't caught. It blew my mind what she had done even with her disability. She once robbed a man at gunpoint. If the victim knew she was blind I wonder if it would've changed anything. Guns scare people no matter what. Not only was she blind but she was also far too attractive to be in crime. She could have settled down with any rich man she wanted but I guess the blind do not know what they have and what they could get. I had always thought that her parents were horrible for giving her the name Jade. It was like naming a deaf kid, Echo. Jade would never truly understand the true beauty of her name. She would never know what she and the beautiful crystal had in common. I covered the tab after we had our fill and she swore that she would get next time. I hoped she'd forget the promise. We never asked each other about money. As cons, or ex-cons, that was something you didn't ask. You were either doing something illegal or worse yet working as a bagger at a grocery store. "So you gonna give me a ride home, stud?" she said to me grinning. "I think it would be better if you drove, Jade. I'm pretty wrecked," I retorted. "Steven, I'm blind and drunk," she said candidly. "Well, maybe we are better off." She smiled discerningly and off we went. I dropped her off and when I arrived home and climbed into my cot, I was still smiling. I thought about the next day. I would receive my money from the state, just in time to get new work shoes. The $550 a month covered my rent, electricity, some work expenses and some food. The rest of the money I made from undelivering went for more food, drinks, smokes and gas. Working two or three days a week I would usually make $300. The best thing I ever undelivered was an Egyptian golden egg. It was hard to find a buyer; however, I ended up finding a jewelry store more than willing to take it. It was worth a cool $1,500 to me and multitudes more to them. Another time there was a promising heavy box that I was sure was some expensive electronics that ended up being floor tiling. I gave it back but in hindsight I think I should've redone my bathroom. Electronics were the most prevalent things to find and also the easiest to sell. A decent DVD player would fetch me gas money for a month. Every time I would go out, when I started devising plans to undeliver, I thought for sure I would get caught; however, after a year and a half the fear had become diluted. Cops wouldn't think much of me picking up a box. Maybe I was grabbing the box to deliver it somewhere else. I would always wear a sort of deliverer cloths. The only thing I feared was a person opening the door when I was retrieving the package. I woke up a bit late. My mood had plunged from the night before. Alcohol was the only thing that could make a lonely ex-con, living in the ghetto with no life prospects, content. With this waking moment, as all others, I asked myself what I was doing. I never had a good answer. So I got up and got ready for work. I decided that I didn't want to venture out far and Hartford would be where I was going to hunt. I drove around for about half an hour in no real direction, turning left here and right there until I came upon a FedEx truck. I followed the driver and the first delivery went off without a hitch. The house's occupant was a older reclusive type. After grabbing the package hastily, he spied to the right and left outside his house and with a quick gesture retreated and slammed his door shut. The elderly never really received anything worth picking up anyways. When the truck made its next stop, I parked across the street and waited. The thin FedEx driver got out of his truck and headed towards a two story home. FedEx had horrible uniforms. Puke green and white mixed with bright purple. I pulled out a cigarette. The courier gave the house two rings and mechanically placed the box directly to the right of the door and he was off. I finished my cigarette and then went to work. I rushed across the bustling street and kept walking briskly when I got to the apartments yard. Upon grabbing my pay and shaking it a bit to get a conceptualization, I heard something. A squeaking sound of impending doom. The front door slowly opened and revealed a plump elderly woman. I sat as dumbfounded as a deer trapped in the imaginary lock of headlights. My jaw dropped and the woman smiled. I placed the box down. My eyes never left hers. She looked like a sweet woman that was getting her monthly diabetes supplies. She said, "Thank you, young man. I'm sorry it took me so long to get down here. Old age and all." "Uhm," I said. "D-do you need help upstairs with this." I grasped for what to do next. "That would be lovely, honey," said the sweetly tempered voice. I did as I should and brought up the box to her kitchen where she proclaimed anywhere is fine. "Tea, sweetie," she asked with the most genuine congeniality. Still enamored by the situation I accepted. "Make yourself at home," she said as she went to her stove. I walked into the living room and stood staring. The walls were darted with signed Red Sox jerseys behind glass. Signed baseballs were boxed in clear plastic and on every level surface. "My husband is a bit of a fan, you could say," said the woman as she popped up behind me holding my tea out to me. I sat in silence in an older Victorian chair across from her as she sat gently sipping while sitting on her leather sofa. Below our feet, a beautifully remastered Persian rug. "So do you like what you do?" the woman finally said breaking the silence. I blinked and stared at my tea which was cooling fast, "Not really. I just do it to pay the bills. Do what I have to do, you know." So we sat and drank tea together. Rose and I. Not where I was expecting to end up that day, in a mark's house. She told stories about the years she's lived and worked in Hartford when it was nice. She had a few cats that all seemed content with staying in their corners away from me and I was content with that. After some time, Rose asked if I would like something to eat. "No, but thanks very much," I said. "Oh, sorry. You probably have to get back to work, I'm sorry to keep you hostage up here. Thank you so much for your help, sweetie," she said in a concerned voice. Realizing I hadn't made any money today I abruptly stood up and handed her the tea cup as she stood. I stayed in place for a minute. "I should be going. Time is money and this job doesn't pay nearly enough. Not even close." She looked down at her feet and smiled through her loneliness and blurted out, "Well, before you go take my husbands card. He owns a convenience store and just lost a manager to one of those damned big companies." I thanked her and took the card and left. I sighed as I reached my car and shook my head and sighed again. I drove around for a bit longer but was unable to find another truck or opportunity. So I headed home. After a shower and shaving, I went over to Finley's and ordered a brewski and a melon ball for Jade. The bar was oddly barren except for a few fat bikers with their tattoos and sun reddened skin hulking from their cut off leather jackets. I sat and listened to their conversations about v-this, horsepower-that. When I looked down at my watch I noticed Jade was 48 minutes late. Quite unlike her I thought to myself. I gulped down her drink and leaned back in my chair and stared out the bar's window at the passersby. They flowed through each other in a constant celerity. Unaware and for all intensive purposes each just passing by another obstacle blindly. Constant and flowing. My hypnotic state was broken when one of the bikers put some Lynyrd Skynyd on the jut box. I went outside to have a smoke. Upon arriving in the parking lot next to the bar, I shouted with firm proclamation, "It finally happened." My car had been stolen. I had always said that if anyone wanted to spend the time to steal my car than they were more than welcome to it. I put my head in my hands and smiled. "What a day," I said bleakly to myself. I was done for the day mentally. I pulled out a cigarette and began hoofing it home. The walk wasn't that bad. I was still semi-warm from the drinks and the air was thin enough. The gray hadn't overtaken me quite yet and something felt oddly fine. I wasn't drunk enough to be happy; however, I was nevertheless content. My car had been stolen and my friend blew me off. But something was different. I retraced my day through my head with the clip clopping of my boots on the sidewalk. I put my hands in my pocket to warm them up a bit as I thought. My left hand clasped on a square piece of paper and upon pulling it out a smile traced my face. It read CEO John Davis of J & W Convenience. I thought to myself, what did I have to lose? I smiled and stared down at my feet stepping in perfect unison. It was weird what things I didn't have to worry about. Breathing, it comes natural and only when I want to be aware of it am I aware of it. I thought about the sweet old woman that would have reminded me of my grandmother had I ever met either of them. J & W would be too small to do a background check on new employees. My thoughts were soon rocked by a shrill screeching of tire and flashing lights. My con instincts kicked in and I ran. Not in any direction specifically. It's hard to follow an idiot who has no real idea where he is going. I darted along the street, through an apartment complex, over a fence, along a pool, over another fence and...wall. I woke up several minutes later in a daze and in cuffs in the back of a police car. "So do you have anything to tell us, Steven," said the stocky detective named Abrahms. He was wearing a vertically stripped shirt with a horizontally striped tie. I wanted to tell him that he looked like a freaking optical illusion. Instead, I sat looking at his bulging belly that juggled with each step he made as he circled and preyed upon me. The other detective who never gave me his name stood pressed back up against one of the rooms corners with his legs crossed and staring at his feet and occasionally sighing. "You know if you confess to what we are going to pin you with anyways, it would definitely look good on your part." I sat in silence, trying to dig my boots into the concrete floors. They knew I was doing something illegal, every ex-con is, in one fashion or another. An ex-con is only an ex-con because they hadn't been caught doing something wrong. It was just a matter of digging. "We have Jade," said the detective from the corner. His eyes stayed transfixed to his toes. Abrahms bent over the table and got into my face. His spit ricocheting off my forehead as he belched, "We have Jade." He smiled and I blinked. The gates opened. I had nothing to lose so I told him everything. I told him about stealing and the black market sales, everything. I wasn't leaving this room as a free man. "Jade had no part in what I do. She is just a friend. I mean, she's blind. How would she really be able to be part of what I do?" I punctuated the waterfall of information with slamming my cuffed hands on the table in front of me. When I was done Abrahms and the other detective just stared at me with their mouths opened and, peculiarly, Abrahms had nothing to say. His partner whispered something in his ear and his mouth closed and his eyes closed for a beat. Then Abrahms shouted, "What about the robbery at the 7/11, smartass." "What?" I said. "Yeah, we found Jade and your car about half a mile away wrapped around a pole. We know you were involved." I just stared at one than the other but hoping my stares wouldn't be perceived as guilt. "You know, Jade, yeah, she's not looking too good right now up in Hartford Hospital. She is going back to jail if she survives and you don't think she's not going to try and pin this on you too. We'll bargain with her." "Jade is blind," I said in a meek but concise voice. "Yeah, great. Not the best choice for a getaway driver then, huh, numb nuts," Abrahms said and snorted and began to laugh. That bitch. I told the cops I needed a cigarette and this was countered with perturbed stares at each other. "Don't you know how bad those things are for you," said the dry, cool detective. I leaned back into the chair and sighed. I looked around the room. It was the typical examination rooms of the cop shows. There were bright, yellow incandescent lights. In front of me was a crappy fold-away, false-wood table. It reminded me of the lunch tables in elementary school. I sat at the end exemplifying the last interview. This was my last strike. There was that dark false glass to one side of the room. I wondered if I was important enough to have onlookers in the next room. Abrahms moved closer and grasped the table opposite to me and stared into my eyes that were not staring into his. I looked to the two-way glass. His bald spot looked like a bright star at the top of his head. He was like a human Christmas tree except a whole lot less freaking jolly than would be expected. So Jade had played me like I was an idiot. What did she think she was getting out of me? Abrahms getting enraged by my lack of answering his useless question picked up his half of the table and dropped it with overt celerity. I slowly looked at him. "Why do you smoke, jerk off?" he said mouthing each syllable as much as an ex-New Yorker could do. I sighed with mental and physical exhaustion and with the tears welling I said, "I like being able to control how fast I am going to die." |
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