I wished he would call me, but maybe it would be easier if we distanced ourselves from one another. I wasn’t going to visit him again unless he requested to see me, but I was going to write him back. Wilde’s letter made me happy and sad at the same time. Life was literally crazy as hell.
Ihad to take a break because my hand was beginning to cramp. After two weeks of being locked up, I got the idea to write a book. That wasn’t something that had ever crossed my mind in the free world, but I read one of my cellie’s books, and it was good, but it wasn’t realistic. I could tell it was written by a person that didn’t know about the streets for real. I’d never incriminate myself on some real tell-all shit, but I was going to write a fiction book about a ring of car thieves, and the storyline would be realistic because I knew the ins and outs of stealing cars. I had written four chapters so far, and I was proud of what I came up with. I was in the pod alone, and that was how I preferred it. Everyone else was watching TV or whatever else they did to pass the time, and I was in the pod writing.
“What you working on over there?”
I lifted my head and saw Leslie. Shorty was bad and had most of the straight black men in the jail on her clit, and that went for other officers as well as inmates. Leslie was brown skin, super thick, around 5’4, and she had the fullest dick sucking lips. Her hair was naturally curly, and she mostly wore it out. It came pasther ears. The women had to wear their hair a certain way, but hers wasn’t quite long enough for a ponytail. They couldn’t have super long shit hanging loose. It had to be in a ponytail or a bun.
Leslie had been subtly flirting with me from day one. In the county jail and prison, men often found a CO to latch onto so they could pass the time, get things smuggled in, potentially have sex, etc. I wasn’t on that type of time. I didn’t even want to imagine how long I might have to go without pussy. The thought literally made my heart hurt, but if I did end up bagging a CO, it would be down the line. I wasn’t interested in being all up in her face, even if I did break up with Wonder. Leslie wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted my freedom, and I wanted my girl.
“Got the bright idea to write a book,” I mumbled. I hadn’t told anyone else I was writing a book, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about her being the first to know.
“That’s what’s up. It’s good to see you being productive in here. Maybe I can read it?”
“We’ll see.”
I had never been the type to care what anyone thought about me or anything that I had going on, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to read it. If I was going to let anybody read it, it would be Wonder. How the hell was I supposed to cut off contact with her, but I was thinking about sending her chapters of a book that I’d written. I had no clue what I would even do with it for real. Like, just become a prison author or some shit? Self-publish and sell it to who? I was going to keep going, though. Even if nothing came from it. Writing gave me something to do and even though I was probably biased, I felt like the story was cold. I may have dropped out of school and been in the streets, but I was far from dumb, and I had an extensive vocabulary. With an editor, I knew my book would be like that. I just didn’t know the first thing about marketing and selling books. It would be a way to keep money in my account, though, without being a burden to people.
“You’ve only had one visit from a female. You single? Or, your friends jumped ship already ‘cus I know you had to have a few women out on the streets.”
I took my eyes off the paper in front of me and glanced over at Leslie. I studied her for a minute. Yeah, she was bad, and I knew if I got on her good side, I might get certain privileges, but she was close to getting cursed out. She was too deep off in my business, and I didn’t like that. She wasn’t a police officer, but she was still an authoritative figure.
“Me and my shorty are good.” I left it at that.
Once I got my time, I would be shipped off to a prison. I saw no need to start anything with Leslie. I wanted to be agitated and in a piss poor mood that I moved so sloppy and reckless and cost myself years on the street, but what was done was done. I hadn’t reached out to anyone except my grandmother. I hadn’t even called my mom. I knew I needed to call Misha, but I didn’t even want her to tell me what she was having. Lowkey, I was salty that she decided to keep a baby, and I was going to be in prison, worried about providing for a child when I couldn’t even be in his or her life.
I didn’t want her bringing a newborn or even a toddler to a germy prison filled with weirdos and pedophiles and shit. Frustrated, I scrubbed a hand down my face. How some people spent their entire life in and out of prison was beyond me. Jail was hell, and I was sure prison was worse. Everything that I took for granted in the free world, like being able to shit in peace, had me feeling some kind of way. I was going through weed withdrawals. The entire situation was wicked, and I had no one to blame but myself. Of course, I pled not guilty, but I had the murder weapon in my possession, and I was a black man. My lawyer would have to be better than Johnny Cochran to get me off.
“Oh okay.”
A male officer walked up and gave Leslie the side eye for being at the door of the pod, talking to me. I didn’t care for him because he was one of those lames that couldn’t get women or respect out in the streets, so he came to work and tried to flex his power on the inmates. He knew the ones with sense didn’t want new charges added, but he was also smart enough to know a crash out when he saw one. I’d die ‘bout my respect, and he could sense it, so he never tried me.
“Hunter, you have a visitor,” he stated in a gruff tone.
I didn’t have any clue who it was, but I hoped it wasn’t Wonder. I couldn’t stand to see her crying again. It almost made me cry, but I had to fight it. I didn’t cry when I got arrested, so to cry over a woman would have been insane, but I had to force the tears away. I’d seen women cry before, and I never cared. A female standing in front of me crying had the same effect on me as watching paint dry.
When I made it into the visitation room, I was directed to a booth near the back of the room. When I saw my mother, I had to resist the urge to shake my head. The whites of her eyes were so yellow, it looked like they were glowing. Her edges were so thin, she was practically bald, and she looked tired and weak. I knew whatever she had to tell me wasn’t good. I picked up the phone and spoke into it.
“What’s up ma?”
“Why haven’t you called me?”
My shoulders hiked into a shrug. “I haven’t reached out to a lot of people. I’m gonna be here for a minute. I have time to make my rounds.”
“But, I don’t have time. I have end stage liver disease. I’ve drank so much that I couldn’t stop drinking cold turkey, because it could have killed me. I spent four days in the hospital, and the doctor had to give me medication, so I wouldn’t have seizures.I haven’t had any alcohol in eight days, but if I don’t get a liver transplant, I’ll probably die in the next two years.”
I wasn’t sure how to feel about the news. My mother had never been the most hands on, but she was my mother, and I did love her. Of course, I didn’t want to hear her saying she was dying, but what could I do? She knew all those years of drinking was going to catch up with her one day, just like I knew all the dirt I did out in the streets would catch up with me.
“They gonna put you on a list or something?”
“Yeah, but you know how those things go. The lists are probably miles long. By the time they get to my name, I will have probably been dead for a while.” She shrugged as if it was no big deal.
I never knew what happened in my mother’s life to make her choose to sell her body. She could have literally been anything. My grandmother was a straight shooter with a sharp tongue, but I couldn’t see being raised by her as being so bad that it would make my mother choose to sell her body rather than going to college or getting a job. The drinking started as a result of her job choice, but her choosing to be a prostitute was a choice. I didn’t understand it.
“Your father came by the house and prayed for me.”
That got a snort out of me.
“A person doesn’t have to be perfect to pray.”
