his own daughter. I could go on and on, but you get the point. And I had to keep an eye on my backside, even while I was sleeping. The bastards put me away on nothing but one near-sighted eyewitness who couldn’t have seen a damn thing. At trial, he pointed his finger at me like he’d actually seen me commit the crime. I stared him down, but he must’ve felt safe up there on the stand. Shit. Like I said, there was no evidence, no loot, no proof. Nothing but my extensive resume. What’s fair about that? A long rap sheet always makes you the patsy. The cops and the courts take the easy way. They just haul you back in whenever somebody snatches an old lady’s purse or poisons somebody’s rat-mutt for yapping at midnight. The lawyers get paid, win or lose, so they don’t give a shit. Especially those lazy, fucking public defenders. I feel bad for all the innocent dupes that get put away like I was—for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll bet there’s plenty of ’em, too. Every thug and small time crook in prison swears he’s innocent. Maybe, just maybe, a few of them are.
Some people might call me a loser. I never saw it that way. The night before my ma’s man left for ’Nam, she asked him to give her something to remember him by. She probably wanted an engagement ring... nine months later she got me instead. She never heard from him again, never knew if he was killed in action or just another run-off asshole. But what the hell, it got me into this world, didn’t it?
It’s funny how things play out.
I lived for Gloria’s monthly visits. I could have set my watch on them, if I’d had one. That last time was a real corker. She sauntered in, her size-too-small dress clinging in all the right places. As she walked toward me, her hips churned like she was having sex. She sat down and picked up the phone so we could talk through the glass barrier. Her fingers slid up and down the receiver like she was playing with my poodle-dink. That wicked little wink told me she knew exactly what that was doing to me.
Damn, but she could tease.
“I miss you, baby,” Gloria whispered. Her voice was like a smoke-filled barroom at midnight, fuzzy and filled with promises of drunken, dirty sex. We small-talked, but I was focused on those full, moist lips that could send me straight to heaven—and getting my walking papers. I wanted to screw her until she couldn’t walk, just like in the old days.
Every visit Gloria’d tell me she was faithful—just waiting for the day I’d get out. I pretended I bought it, but I knew better. Gloria couldn’t spend one night in an empty bed. It was how she was made, but that’s what attracted me to her in the first place. She was eager and easy and I was willing and able. The down side was I knew she’d been out there straddling anything that was still breathing, but it don’t matter that much. Once I got out she’d be all mine, just like before. I’d see to that. I might have to rough her up some before she got the idea, but she’d learn all over again. The occasional gut-punch works wonders for fidelity.
“I’ve decided to sell my house and find us better digs,” she said, throwing me into panic mode.
“You can’t do that.”
Gloria looked startled. So I calmed my voice, and my heart-beat, before I continued.
“I get out in just over a month, Gloria.” Her puzzled expression told me I needed to think fast. “I’ve spent five years thinking about the day I can walk up to that house with you greeting me at the door. It’s what’s kept me going.” I hoped I was convincing. “Let me have that moment, baby. Then you can sell it.”
I’d guessed she bought my line, blind to the wheels turning behind those baby blues.
I always underestimated broads, even the dumb ones.
They always meant trouble.
But every time they get me in the sack I forget every lesson I’d ever learned. I think with my dick. It’s just my nature.
“Anything you say, baby,” she said.
And like I said, she was easy.
She rose to leave and leaned forward until her face touched the glass. She opened her mouth as if to kiss me, then ran her tongue up the length of the barrier as if it were my cock. The paper thin dress fabric between her and the glass wiped up the dampness as she rose. Wet spittle outlined one perfect nipple. Gloria could tease a man to torment. She turned, tossing her bottle-blonde hair as she wiggled that tight ass of hers toward the exit. Every guard and inmate within sight of her had a hard-on, but mine ached beyond belief.
* * * *
I stood outside the gates, the barbed wire fences and bad food behind me, fifty bucks in the pocket of my cheap prison-issue suit. I took a deep breath as I got onto the bus, inhaling the morning air and bus fumes. Simple things become precious when you don’t have them. Air, good eats, simple freedom. I hadn’t seen Gloria in a month and was heading straight for her house. She wasn’t the only loose end I’d left when the cops snatched me from her porch, threw me in the squad car, and drove me straight to hell.
The bus pulled into the train station, brakes screeching like a two-year-old brat in a shopping cart. I got off and bought a ticket to that shit-hole town in Nebraska where Gloria would greet me with open arms and an open door. She’d stir up a home cooked meal like some frenzied June Cleaver on crack. She was my ideal and my whore all wrapped into one steamy package. It was gonna be a long ride, so I picked up a magazine to see how the world had changed, had kept spinning while I’d rotted in limbo. It wasn’t fair. It was hard not to hold a grudge, so I held it tight against my heart. I nurtured it and let it grow like black mold on old cheese.
* * * *
The train sped through the darkness, a cold steel snake, it’s forlorn whistle cutting through the night like a sharp blade through soft flesh. The vibrations and jerks of wheel against track were hypnotic and sensual, taking me to those places every man goes who’s been alone too long. I placed the magazine discreetly across my lap. I ached for Gloria’s touch against my aching joint, erasing five years of fantasy stoked by imagination and memory—and my own hand. Hours later, I awoke to the moan of metal grinding against metal as the train pulled into the station. It was that eerie time of morning when darkness and day fight their battle of lights and shadows. The sun was hunkered down just below the horizon, a hungry cat ready to pounce. I never bought into that new day, new beginning crap. There was no such thing as a day that didn’t get fucked up. God, if there was a god, got off on playing practical jokes. He laughed a lot. They say laughter is good for your health, so if he’s up there he’s gonna be there for a long, long time.
Anyway, it was six a.m. in the boondocks—the beginning of my first full day of freedom. I was feeling optimistic, all things considered.
I walked through the station carrying my small brown bag and my magazine. They hand you back your stuff when you leave prison. I had my toothbrush and the prison-issued clothes on my back. I tossed the magazine to the floor and walked through the door to the dusty street. It was a three mile walk to Gloria’s place. In less than a mile the cheap shoes raised heel blisters and some stranger offered a lift as I limped along. He pulled his pickup to the shoulder. Lucky day. I stood at the end of Gloria’s driveway in no time.
Damn, I was excited. Good shit comes to he who waits, right?
The closer I got to the door the more I got that feeling, like worms with sharp teeth gnawing at my stomach lining. It felt familiar and I didn’t like it. The prison shrink called it panic attacks, but he’d never give me any happy pills to make it go away. On the outside some good “Irish” burning down my throat always helped some. As a kid, my mother called those knots my guilty conscience, but all she ever gave me for it was a
