THREE
Eli
There was some kind of ingrained, internal barrier as I took my belongings from the officer at the desk and moved toward the door.
The door that would lead me outside.
To freedom.
I actually stopped in my tracks and had to force my legs to keep moving forward.
The early fall air met me as I walked out the door wearing a beanie I had bought at commissary and clothes that I had traded with someone else inside, clothes that were baggy and nothing like I would normally wear - a dark blue button-up mechanic shirt with a white name tag belonging to the owner, Mitch, and a pair of huge wide-leg jeans that were eerily reminiscent of the JNCO phase I had luckily been slightly too old to indulge in when they were around. I left the shirt open, sporting a white wifebeater I'd never have been caught dead wearing as an outer garment before.
When I had looked at myself, I gave my reflection a nod.
They wouldn't recognize me, not from a distance, and they wouldn't be allowed to park right out front.
As I walked down the chain and barbed wire path that led to the road, there was an odd churning inside. I had been preparing for months, but it still felt surreal. I understood why so many people had a hard time staying out when it felt so strange to be free.
I spotted a black SUV with dark windows parked almost near the corner. I didn't have to see in to know it was them. Not my brothers, though. No. They would be waiting back at my parents' home. It was Mom and Pops.
I had expected - no matter how much I had prepared myself, steeled myself, cooled myself toward them - to feel a pang.
I was surprised to feel nothing but that hollow space in my chest where my heart should have been as I turned my back on them and made my way up to the waiting beat-up, rusted blue sedan that Bobby was driving.
He didn't bother to get out; he knew the deal.
I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge.
I dropped down into the white fake leather seat. Before I could even reach for my belt, he was peeling away.
"You need a decent fucking burger and a drink," he declared.
And, in a rush though I was to get to my new place, to get into clothes that didn't smell like someone else, to start rebuilding my life, well, I had to admit, I needed a fucking burger and a drink.
Thirty minutes later, my stomach almost bursting for the first time in six fucking years, Bobby and I were pulling into the cul-de-sac where the duplexes were located, all varying degrees of worn out. A couple six-packs of beer were sweating in the backseat.
"Home sweet home," he said, parking, and waving at the hunter green duplex with matching half-rotted front porches, chipped paint windows, and a shared crumbling path.
Work.
It needed some serious work.
I didn't need to live in a fancy place, but I wasn't going to sit in a house that was falling down around my feet either.
"I scoped it out for you. Two bedroom, one full bath. Kitchen is straight out of the seventies. The floors are shit. And the radiator likes it rough, but works after you go at it for a while. It's not bad. I've stayed in a lot worse. And that's me and Nat," he went on, getting out, and waving across the street at a slightly better-looking brown duplex. "I'll help you bring your shit in."
And he did.
Right inside the door.
Before handing me a burner I had requested, and the keys to my place. "Been in your place a few too many times. Know you need to settle back in alone. My number is in the phone. I'm across the street. Don't forget to call your parole officer." He moved to walk away, then turned back, whacking me on the shoulder. "Glad to see you out, man."
"You too," I agreed, giving him a nod.
With that, he was gone.
And I was truly alone for the first time in six years.
There was no such thing as alone in prison. Not even when I was between cellmates after Bobby left. Even then, I was in a fishbowl.
It was almost foreign after so long.
I turned, looking around the main area of the house. It was narrow, as all duplexes are, with a staircase leading up right inside the door. The small living room with windows that peeped out onto the porch ran beside the stairs and back toward the kitchen that, yep, was straight out of the seventies. And the ugly seventies with yellow cabinets, floral backsplashes, and faux wood linoleum on the floor.
With a head shake, I moved back out toward the living room, grabbing one of my bags to take up the stairs that creaked loudly enough for the neighbors to hear me each time I went up or down. Which, in turn, meant I would hear them as well. But, whatever, it was the price that came with freedom and detachment from the life that would make a shitty duplex a laughable concept.
I would fix it up.
I would make it home.
The upstairs was cursed with thick brown shag carpeting in every room except the bathroom that had small black and white tile, a shower stall that needed a serious bleaching, and a cracked mirror over the pedestal sink.
The spare bedroom was maybe eight by nine with a window looking right into the window to the next set of duplexes. But it was plenty big for the studio I had planned for it. It was certainly more than I was used to.
The master bedroom was maybe ten by ten with a decent set of windows overlooking a courtyard that it seemed all the duplexes on this side of the street shared, littered with bikes, plastic slides, skate boards, a plastic kiddie pool full of sand, and a push mower wrapped in tarp.
I made a mental note to hit the local home improvement store for flooring, cabinet solutions, and window treatment options when I went to buy a cot to hold me over until I could order furniture.
I'd never truly started over again.
Not completely.
Anytime I had moved, from my parents' to my first apartment, from my first to my second, second to third, I had always had shit with me, the little stuff you compile over time that you need. Cleaning supplies, towels, sheets. Life stuff.
I shot Bobby a text asking to borrow his car until I got around to getting one for myself. I couldn't even fucking shower and wash off the penn because I didn't even have any goddamned soap.
Three hours later, my apartment had more bags and supplies than actual floorspace.
Once I got my bearings, things like withdrawing money from my bank as I waited for up-to-date cards to get sent to me, like shopping, like unpacking, like cleaning with actual supplies, yeah, it all came back as easily as you might expect, no matter how much time had passed.
By the time mid-afternoon passed, I had a clean enough place, a spot to sleep on, some food in the fridge, three beers in me, and a sense of self-satisfaction I hadn't experienced in far too long.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, tossing the clothes I would never wear again, showering, and changing into the new digs I picked up at the store.
Then I paced.
Like I did in prison.
Like a caged animal.
It took an almost embarrassingly long time to realize I didn't have to pace, that I could just... go for a walk. I could get back whenever I wanted.
So I called my parole officer, grabbed my keys and wallet, and headed out, waving a hand to Bobby who I was pretending not to notice was handing out pot to a couple of kids who were likely still in high school.
Not my business.
I learned that motto in prison.
It was something you had to roll around your head a dozen times a day, no matter what crazy shit was going on around you.
Not my business.
I had no real plan in mind, maybe just a walk up the street and back, just clearing my head, just trying to keep focused.
But then I saw it.
She's Bean Around.
I swear to shit, I literally stopped dead in my tracks, making the guy who was walking behind me ram into my shoulder with a muttered curse.
See, I tried.
To stop writing her when she wrote me. To put an end to that connection.
Not because I didn't want it.
I wanted it too much.
That was the problem.
When I found myself going out into the common room when it was time for mail, finding myself disappointed each time there was nothing, even though that was generally the pattern - a few months between each letter, though there were times when it was more frequent.
When I found myself reading and re-reading her sometimes several page-long letters about the prison shows she was watching, or the new places popping up in Navesink Bank, or whatever new trouble Coop was getting himself into that week, and fucking smiling at myself all alone in my bunk, yeah, I knew I needed to get it together.
I couldn't be creating connections with some chick who didn't understand what a monster I could be.
I couldn't drag a seemingly good woman down with me.
That wasn't in my cards.
Why she was even contacting me was beyond me. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and warm. She should have been out there getting worshipped by some normal man, not sitting and penning letters to a fucking criminal.
Maybe it was just Coop.
Maybe it was a way for her to get her kicks, learning about the ins and outs of prison without actually having to experience it herself.
Maybe she felt a weird connection because she watched me get arrested.
Who knew.
Whatever it was, it probably wasn't healthy for her.
And it definitely wasn't good for me.
It was making me think things, giving me hopes for a life I knew I couldn't have anymore.
And on Christmas, after I sent off the letter, and got into my bunk, and thought about those fucking finger vibes, my cock got a mind of its own for the first time in a long goddamn time.
That, well, yeah, was that.
She wrote me back, but I had decided by then to cut ties.
It was better for the both of us.
Even if I had to steel myself and plant my feet every single fucking mail day.
But slowly, over time, like I had needed to do with the roots that planted much, much deeper - my family - I had been able to phase it out, to put it on a shelf, to refuse to think about it.
Until I saw that fucking sign, man.
It all came rushing back.
And I knew I had to.
I fucking had to.
I hadn't even consciously made the decision to go in before my legs were already carrying me in that direction.
Hot salted caramel coffee.
She had called it a 'food... you-know-what' because, obviously, the woman had done some research about the content allowed in letters, and was worried the word 'foodgasm' might raise a red flag. She was careful about that. If the word she was using was a curse, she put stars in it. She never used staples or paperclips. She never sent any images that were suggestive in any way.
She had sat down and brought up her computer, and went to Google and fucking looked up how she was allowed to correspond with someone in prison.
It made no sense.
But she did it.
And, even though I had been determined to do my time in my detached, cold way for the good of myself and everyone around me, I had looked forward to it; I had taken a small bit of comfort in the contact.
Which was why I cut it off.
I shut it down.
I pretended to forget.
Until I saw that sign.
I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee in six fucking years. And given my old addiction to it, there was no way I was passing up a foodgasm even if flavored coffee wasn't usually my thing.
I walked up to the door, not sure what I was expecting despite getting a detailed letter about it. Autumn had claimed that the inside changed as often as one of the women who owned it changed her hair.
Before I even moved inside, I could hear the music, loud and thrashing, some kind of post-hardcore slash NU metal band I wasn't familiar with. And, apparently, it was about dismembering corpses.
No one sitting at one of the dozen or so tables scattered inside seemed the least bit phased by the choice of song or the ear-splitting volume. And as I walked up near the counter, I saw a sign claiming that they would not change the music or turn it down because it was the only thing keeping them from slapping rude customers.
My lips curved up as I stepped in front of a woman with a mass of wavy and curly red hair around her pale face complete with a light smattering of freckles and almost see-through light blue eyes. Tall and thin, she still managed to make her simple jeans and She's Bean Around black tank look like the sexiest outfit a woman could wear. There was just something in the air about her.
There's this redhead named Gala (yes, like the apple) who kind of has this sweet, innocent face, but is a complete shameless flirt who every man goes completely gaga for.
That was Autumn's description. And it was accurate.
"Rough day, huh?" I asked, motioning toward the speakers in the ceiling.
"Some out of town suit came up to the counter on his cell phone then had the nerve to tell me - not the person on the phone - to wait a minute. The call went on for five minutes, then without apologizing, he called me 'toots,' and demanded I just give him a shot."
"Did you throw it at him?" I asked, smiling a little at her level of anger. But, having worked in the service industry when I bartended at Chaz's when I was younger, I knew that it was never just one rude customer. It was a slew of them in varying degrees of awful that led to a mood such as hers.
"Oh, I gave him his stupid shot, but didn't inform him like I normally would that there is more caffeine in a medium coffee than there is in a shot of espresso and that if he wanted the biggest bang for his buck, getting a medium with a shot or two is what was going to get you going and keep you going all day. You know two-hundred-eighty grams of caffeine versus just the eighty in an espresso. But whatever, dude, peter out at noon and need another shot. Not my problem you suck at life. So what do you want?"
I laughed at that, charmed by her somewhat prickly greeting, and how she managed to talk to me like I was a regular she bitched with every day and not a complete stranger.
"I need two medium hot salted caramels. With a shot each," I added, giving her a smirk.
Yeah, two.
Because I was out of my fucking mind, that's why.
It was the only possible explanation.
"Salted caramel, huh?" another woman asked, coming out from a door that led into the back.
She was every bit the complete opposite of her business partner, aside from them both being tall. Where Gala was thin, this woman had more curves than any one woman had a right to. Gala's skin was pale; this woman was maybe Puerto Rican or Dominican with her medium skin-tone. She had full lips, sleepily sexy dark eyes, and dyed gray hair with light purple ends.
Jazzy, she was called.
"I didn't have you pegged for a flavor guy. Usually, those are the suits."
"Or the indie kids," Gala chimed in.
"Usually it's just black. But a... friend suggested the salted caramel, so I am giving it a try."
"Oh, a friend, huh?" Gala asked as Jazzy went to pour the coffees. "I'm going to take a wild guess that this friend is a girl. I mean, look at you."
It had been so fucking long since I had seen a woman at all - save for the one or two working as corrections officers at the prison - that I almost didn't even grasp at first what she was doing. She was flirting with me.
You'd think after six years inside, that fucking would have been the first thing on my mind, but somehow, it fell back in importance behind a slew of other pressing matters.
"At least tell me she's not just a pretty face," Gala implored.
She was that, a pretty face.
Gorgeous.
Fucking beautiful.
But she was much, much more than that.
"She's not just a pretty face."
"Then I will contain my heartbreak," Gala offered as she handed me my coffee.
"That's six," Jazzy said as I reached for my wallet.
I handed her a ten, nodding toward the two separate tip jars. "Put me in for Freeman," I said, choosing him over Christopher Walken to narrate my life.
"What, no cow bells?" Gala asked as she threw the extra money in the jar. "Enjoy your coffee," she offered, going over to the music, lowering it a few decibels, and changing it to something more classic rock.
I guess I helped wash away the memory of the under-caffeinated suit.
And the reality of what I was doing didn't actually hit me until I turned away from the counter.
What the fuck was I thinking, ordering an extra coffee?
I had no right to seek her out on the outside.
Hell, I had been the one to stop communication in the first place, to think it was best to create a disconnect.
Why then, was I turning out of the coffeeshop and moving down the street that would lead to a side street that would lead to Navesink Bank's only sex store?
I mean, chances were, she had just taken the picture of Coop there by happenstance. It was pointless to go there.
But I refused to be the kind of freak who would show up at her house. That was a whole other level of creepy.
As I made my turn down the street toward the storefront, I figured there was no harm, right?
If I went there and it was just a sex store, fine.
That was a sign.
It was done.
But if I went there and saw her there by chance...
That was its own sign as well, wasn't it?
A sign of what, I wasn't sure.
But I guess I was going to find out.