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He leaned back against the wet brick. Taxis glided down State, floating on reflections of their taillights. Rain had driven the homeless out of the park next door, and they huddled together in doorways and under the El, smoking and staring. Across the street, Columbia students with backpacks and sandals sprinted through the rain, their laughter painfully young. Life went on.
There it was.
Life went on. Unless you found yourself in manacles one bright morning, aboard a school bus that had grilles welded over the windows and a police escort. A bus that took you past people heading for work or breakfast or home, normal people for whom you had ceased to exist. Because more than anything else, prison was exile. Both first-and secondhand knowledge told him that. Prison was waiting, routine. All the while slowly succumbing to a world where violence was the only noteworthy break in the endless march of identical days.
They’d come from the same place, but the moment Evan had pulled the trigger in the pawnshop, their paths had irrevocably split. Thinking of that brought on the old mixed-up feeling Da
Probably. And maybe that was part of what had driven him here. But standing under darkening skies, he realized there was more to it than guilt.
There was also fear.
In all the times he’d imagined seeing Evan, he’d pictured the Evan from the pawnshop, the one whose temper seared and burned and left him all too ready to pull the trigger. The one who’d gone crazy, lost his head and his humanity. But for all of that, in his calm moments, a buddy. A partner. A childhood friend who had always had his back.
But that’s not the way it worked. In all those fantasies, Da
Da
What would that do to someone?
10
Da
The retro clock on the wall seemed loud. Da
“What’s with the Heineken in the fridge?” Evan leaned back in his chair, rocking it up on two legs, the picture of comfort. There were three empty green bottles on the table already, a fourth well on its way.
“Karen’s.”
“Tastes like piss.”
Da
Evan shrugged. “Been a while since I’ve been able to enjoy cold beer. I’m still catching up. Of course,” his eyes now hard, “you’ve had plenty of time, haven’t you?”
Something tightened in Da
He turned away, went to the fridge. Grabbed a bottle for himself, thought of the cooler move, took another. Popped the caps and handed one to Evan as he sat down.
Evan finished the beer he’d been working on in one open-throated swallow. The black T-shirt he wore traced the lines of his muscles. The upper curves of a blue-black tattoo extended just past the collar. The design was ragged and messy. Ink from inside always was. Tricky to be precise with a straight pin and a ballpoint.
Da
Evan was stepping things up.
Which made cool all the more important. Cool was currency. Cool suggested a lack of fear, an equal footing. He raised the beer. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They clinked bottles, looking into each other’s eyes, neither acknowledging the tension. “Just like old times, huh? Two friends bullshitting over a beer.” Evan’s tone was jovial. “You know what it reminds me of?”
Da
“This con I knew in Stateville. Chico. Chico was a prison queer, shaved his chest and wore his jumpsuit half open. You remember the type? Suck your cock for two packs of smokes, or one pack of menthols. He belonged to Lupé, this big Norteño Mexican, but they had an understanding. Chico could work to keep himself in luxuries, long as he split the take.”
Evan paused, holding his beer by the neck, eyes still drilling into Da
“I’d been in a couple months when Chico got a new cellie, some eighteen-year-old transfer. Word round the yard said it was love, that Chico’d been hitting his knees for this new boy with no smokes required. Truth be told, Lupé might have tolerated that – he wasn’t a fag so much as a player – but Chico took it too far. Told Lupé they were through. He’s a changed woman, and not working anymore.”
Evan paused to take a sip of beer. “You know what? I’m coming around on this Heineken.”
Da
“Anyway, a couple days later, Chico and Boyfriend are in their cell splitting pruno when Lupé and his crew come for them. The pruno, that’s what reminded me. You know the stuff? Prison liquor. You steal fruit from the mess, mash it up with ketchup, some water. Put it in a bag to ferment for a couple weeks. The color of the mold on top depends on the fruit you use; sometimes it’s green, sometimes this sick orange. But if you skim that off, the liquid that’s left will get you fucked up. Shit’s worse than Mad Dog, though. It’ll give you a headache make you wish you were dead.” He smiled. “Nothing like the imported beer you’ve been drinking.”