Alibi II

by Teri Woods

  The seventh wasn’t far away, just around the corner. Actually the time passed so quickly, Nard wasn’t prepared to leave. He quickly finished packing his box as Merlin helped him. Two correctional officers came to the cell, looked in, and asked him if he was ready. Nard had promised to keep in touch with Merlin, but Merlin knew he’d probably never hear from him again. Nard followed them quietly, taking his last walk down the hall. I won’t miss it, not one bit. Good riddance! The correctional officers led Nard downstairs to the discharge unit. He was given his personal belongings and was allowed to change into the suit he had been wearing when he was sent to prison. They cashed a state-issued check for forty-three dollars, which was what they gave every inmate upon his release. And that was it, they were kicking him out.

  The time seemed like it had flown by, a long, hard bid, but he couldn’t believe that he had spent the last twenty years locked away. It’s all that bitch’s fault. And while the long, hard road of incarceration was now behind him, in his mind, he was still trapped in a cell.

  Transferred to the halfway house down in North Philly on Twelfth and Lehigh Avenue, he was led inside by his sheriff escorts.

  “Here you go, Ms. Gotling. I got another one for you,” said one of the sheriffs as he signed off on some paperwork, passed it to the woman standing before him, watched as she signed it, then turned and walked away.

  “Have a good one,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  A ruckus could be heard out in the hallway as Luis, one of the guys who worked at the halfway house, was arguing with a parolee.

  “It’s not my fault, man, what do you want me to do?”

  “You taking my stuff, that’s my stuff.”

  “Hey, Hector, calm down, he’s just doing his job. You know the rules. You got caught and you’re going back to jail,” said Ms. Gotling, tough as nails.

  Ms. Gotling was having Hector Gonzales arrested for violating his parole. Hector had been caught with a cell phone. This fool was talking to his girlfriend at one o’clock in the morning. His love for Maria Consquela would now cost him his freedom. Yup, back to jail for our buddy Hector, all because he couldn’t sleep and wanted to hear her voice.

  “Please, Ms. Gotling, please, please, I swear to God, please, just one more chance.”

  “No, you know the rules. Get him out of here,” she ordered the two sheriffs dressed in green uniforms who were there to escort Hector’s pleading ass right on back to jail.

  “Next!” she hollered, like a general leading in combat.

  “My name is Bernard Guess, I’ve been transferred fr—”

  Nard couldn’t get another word out before Ms. Gotling cut him off. “I know who you are; sit back down,” she commanded as she walked back into the intake office. Nard didn’t know who this woman thought she was talking to but he wasn’t going back to jail, so he sat down as he was told. Ms. Gotling ran him through the procedures at the halfway house and made it perfectly clear if he didn’t have a job in two weeks, he’d be going back to jail.

  “Do you understand, Mr. Guess?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Nard, being as polite as any gentleman could be.

  “That’s what they all say, and yet I have the sheriff’s number on speed dial waiting to escort all of you back upstate. I don’t understand it. You guys taste freedom and forget you’re still state property. I suggest you follow the house rules or you’ll be just like him, going back to where you came from. You catch my drift, Mr. Guess?”

  “Yeah, I catch it,” answered Nard, looking at Ms. Gotling and wondering why no one had found her naked body mangled, tied up, and locked away in a closet somewhere. Speed dial if you want to, bitch, see how this shit goes down.

  She called out for Luis, who was nursing a scratch on his arm from Hector Gonzales.

  “Would you take Mr. Guess here and show him his bed. He’s 3B.” She watched as Nard got up and walked out the door, following closely behind Luis.

  I’ll give him two months tops, she thought, betting with herself as she did with most inmates who came through the door.

  Nard would be sharing room B with three other guys. He was bed three. He sat down, testing out the mattress. It felt better than the hard metal bunk he was used to sleeping on. Actually, it was quite soft. He didn’t have much to unpack, but there was a tiny floor dresser with two drawers at the foot of the bed. Luis showed him the house. They ate and did their laundry in the basement. They were free to go from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. unless they had night work; then they would be given different schedules.

  “Make sure you’re back every night at seven o’clock or she’ll send you back to jail, my friend. Trust me, I see it every day,” said Luis, giving Nard the best advice he could think of.

  In the social room there was plenty of seating, televisions, tables, and chairs, and it was where everyone gathered. Off to the side there was a telephone and a pen and pad.

  “Always a line for the phone, I can’t never make a call when I need to. Shit, I might as well sign my name, too,” said a guy standing behind Nard who was waiting to sign the phone sign-in sheet. “How you feeling, brother, my name is Quinny, but everybody calls me Quinny Day. You just get here, brother?”

  “Yeah, today,” Nard said, shaking the guy’s hand and welcoming the introduction.

  “Well, I can tell you now, Ms. Gotling, that bitch, is on some straight bullshit. All she do is lock niggas back up every day for nothing. I think she must get some kind of extra bonus in her paycheck or something ’cause don’t nobody make it out this motherfucker. I got two more months left, and trust me, you got to stay one step ahead of Ms. Gotling or she’ll get ya.”

  “Two months?”

  “Yeah, state can’t hold you in this motherfucker but for six. I done did four and I’m telling you that bitch right there be trying to set me up every chance she can get. But she can’t get me,” he whispered as Ms. Gotling walked around the corner. “You looking mighty lovely today, Ms. Gotling, is that a new hairdo?”

  “Don’t worry about how I look, you just worry about yourself,” Ms. Gotling snapped as she walked past them and down the long hallway.

  “Bitch,” he whispered as he watched her. “Who’s fucking her? Who is fucking this bitch? That’s all I want to know? ’Cause that’s one evil white woman and whoever he is, he need his ass kicked, for real,” said Quinny Day, smiling as he passed the pen back to Nard. Nard looked down the sheet. There were at least fifteen names before his.

  “Don’t worry, people be signing but they don’t stick around. It won’t take that long, old head,” joked Quinny Day.

  Old head, who’s he calling old head? Nard wondered if he really was looking that old.

  It was no wonder Hector was going back to jail. If this is what you had to go through to make a call, Nard understood why the guy got caught with a cell phone.

  “Why don’t they get more than one phone?”

  “Then niggas wouldn’t need to sneak on cell phones. Shit is a trap to lock you back up, that’s all,” said Quinny Day, giving Nard the science and the math to the bullshit they were up against.

  The two sat in the “social room,” as Ms. Gotling called it, waiting for the phone. Nard wanted to call home and let his mother know where he had been transferred to. Now that he was back in the city, it was nothing but a train and a bus ride to get back home. He’d be over tomorrow after he followed through on his job search. Ms. Gotling already had three job interviews lined up for him. So he was hopeful, really hopeful.

  “You stick with me, old head, I’ll tell you what to do to get out this halfway house. You’ll be home in no time.”

  “She said if I don’t get a job, I’d be back in jail in two weeks,” Nard said, wondering what he was going to do.

  “Yeah, and how you gonna get a job? You think they just gonna give you one? You better get down with ShopRite. At least that bitch can’t send you back to jail,” said Quinny, shaking his head as if he knew he was right.

  �
�Packaging groceries?”

  “Yeah, you can go in there tomorrow and be working the same day.”

  “Bagging groceries?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “’Cause, I ain’t doing that bullshit. You must be crazy.”

  “Okay, well, I take it with your Harvard degree and long history of work experience, you’ll be working for a Fortune 500 company in no time, huh?” asked Quinny in all seriousness. “Old head, you better stop playing with these white folks out here and go get you a job at ShopRite. It’s right down the street, you can walk to work. It’s either that or street sweeping. And shit, it’s cold outside, what you gonna do?”

  Nard couldn’t believe those were his only two choices, packing up groceries for tips or sweeping the streets with one of those street-sweeping machines.

  “There has to be better jobs out there than that,” he said, looking at Quinny Day like he was crazy.

  “There is, but ain’t nobody giving them to you, old head. You must’ve done bumped your head. You’re a felon, you ain’t never getting no good job. So, to get out this halfway house, you gonna have to pay six months of dues, but trust me, it’ll be worth it. These motherfuckers out here ain’t got shit for you, but ShopRite,” said Quinny Day, as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. “Let me know, I can get you an application from my boss and bring it home to you. I been there for the past four months, old head, bagging my groceries, minding my business, and I come sit in here every night and watch the news, Law & Order Special Victims Unit, and Ms. Gotling locking somebody back up, every night, but it ain’t me. I’m just telling you, six months, you can do it, man.”

  The next day, Nard took the list of places Ms. Gotling told him that he was to go. Nothing was how he remembered it. He realized how the movement of the streets echoed on, far past his reach. Jail had somehow warped him from the movement of time and even though the streets were still there, Broad Street, Germantown Avenue, Lehigh Avenue, Susquehanna, Dauphin, they didn’t look the way he remembered them. Faces of strangers even looked odd to him at first, everybody was Muslim now, no more dope games. It was a different game, a different pace, and Nard felt just a little out of place. Identifying himself was harder when he looked in the mirror real good for the first time. Bright light showed the speckling of gray strands here and there on his face. While he at least could say he had kept himself in shape, his shell had truly aged. Prison had wearied and worried him, and he could see it now, really see it when he looked in the mirror at the reflection of his face. It was even worse for him when he looked outside at all that was around him. Everything had changed from what he remembered from twenty years ago. Even watching the people walk down the street was different. The way they dressed was different. Nobody had Jheri curls anymore; he saw not a one. But best believe the women were now wearing weaves, and the ones that weren’t wearing weaves were garbed and covered. The ghetto looked harder, with rows of dilapidated buildings. His halfway house was a few blocks from Broad on Lehigh, but closer to Germantown, and it was torn down. There were a lot of abandoned buildings and a lot of people strung out on drugs, like crack, heroin, and pills. Syrup was still a big seller in the city, as was “wet.” Nard saw the way the hustle was going down and how the young kids were deep in the gangs, but not the gangs he knew of. These were the new-school Bloods and new-school Crips. Nard was back on his Streets 101 classes every time he stepped out of the door.

  He thought of the look on his mother’s face when she opened the door and saw him, a free man for the first time in twenty years. Her smile spread wide and the same open arms she always had for him found themselves finally holding her son.

  “He’s here, my baby’s home,” she yelled, as everyone jumped from around the corners into the foyer and yelled, “Welcome home,” in unison, as if they had been practicing all day.

  It was the nicest homecoming anyone could have asked for. Everybody was there, Beverly, Tyrone, Donna, her new man, Carl, and her three foster kids. Of course Uncle Ray Ray was there, his son Chris, and even Maeleen and Rev were there.

  “Mia, this is my dad,” said Dayanna, hugging Nard as her girlfriend extended her hand. “Hi, Mr. Guess,” she said, as Beverly watched the girls. They were both attractive, both bright, and both boy crazy. Beverly remembered her obscure teenage days and raging hormones. Now, nothing was obscure, wearing jeans and UGG boots and tight thermal long-sleeved shirts, the girls sat down in the corner and began their usual “club house” gossip. It was here at home that Nard began to feel comfortable with familiarity. It was also here that Nard found out about Crystal, that she had gone on to have three more crack babies, and how bad she was still strung out on drugs. After all these years, Nard couldn’t believe she was still getting high. He still yearned to see her, though, crackhead or not. After dinner, Nard had to get going, he had a seven o’clock curfew and he couldn’t be late. He knew the rules.

  Beverly and Tyrone stood at the door, as people filed out behind one another. “It’s cold out here,” said Beverly, closing the door behind Rev and Maeleen.

  “Close the door!” snapped Uncle Ray.

  “I am, Uncle Ray Ray, just settle down,” said Beverly to her sixty-six-year-old uncle, who was driving her more and more crazy the older he got.

  “You want a blanket, Uncle Ray?” asked Tyrone, holding a crocheted baby blue blanket that Beverly had picked up at a yard sale out in Lancaster County for three dollars.

  “I might as well, she’s trying to freeze me in here. She knows I’m old,” said Uncle Ray, glad Tyrone was around. Tyrone placed the blanket on Uncle Ray and covered his feet, tucking the blanket under them just like his mother used to do for him as a child.

  “There you go, Uncle Ray, you should warm up now.”

  Beverly walked into the family room where her uncle was watching television and sat down on the sofa.

  “I’m going to take a shower and lie down, I got work in the morning,” said Tyrone, leaving the two of them alone together as Beverly waved him on.

  “Nard seems different, don’t he, Uncle Ray?”

  Uncle Ray Ray had aged over the years. He had his ups and downs with his gout and had to watch his diet. He needed glasses now, and Beverly kept telling him that he had to get a hearing aid, but other than moving a little slower, he was still good to go.

  “What you expect, twenty years, anybody would be different. That boy did hard time, shit, they kept him in the damn hole half the time he was locked up. He knocked one guy’s eye out his head and damn near ate some other guy’s ear.” Uncle Ray stopped for a moment and looked at his niece in all seriousness. “He’s changed, I just ain’t figured out what it is he’s changed into.”

  Money, Money, Money

  Every single person from human resources with whom he interviewed said the same thing.

  “I’m sorry, you just don’t have enough experience.”

  They had a hundred and one reasons not to hire him. If they didn’t say he didn’t have enough experience, they said that the position was filled already or the position was already taken, and of course they all finished with the same last line, “But, we’ll keep your application on file and call you if something opens up.”

  He had heard only rejection at his ill-fated attempts to find gainful employment. He was running out of options, and before he lost his freedom again, he decided it would be best to mosey down to ShopRite and fill out an application.

  Sitting at the table, he watched the store’s manager scribbling notes as he glanced at Nard, then his application.

  “You can start immediately?” the manager, Mr. Henley, asked.

  “Yeah, right now if you want me to,” said Nard, not having much to do.

  “No, come in tomorrow. You have to be here at eleven o’clock every night. Can you do that, eleven to seven?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Nard, as if pulling an all-nighter was a walk in the park.

  “Um, excuse me, sir. How much does the job pay?” Nard asked
wondering what kind of money he’d be making.

  “Six dollars and fifty cents per hour,” said Mr. Henley, as if a man could survive on that.

  Nard quietly counted in his head. And if that wasn’t enough, he heard Mr. Henley in the distance speaking to the assistant manager as he was leaving.

  “I hired a new stockboy. He starts tomorrow.”

  It was a fact, Nard was ShopRite’s newest stockboy. Fortunately for him, he had to work the night shift, which was even better. He could work all night and be in an empty halfway house sleeping all day and talking on the phone. The lines in the phone room weren’t as long during the day as they were in the evening when everyone was around. A ShopRite stockboy, I can’t believe these white folks got me doing this bullshit. And he really couldn’t. It was unfathomable, to say the least. But, what choice did he have? None! So stocking shelves at ShopRite became his livelihood. He was able to build a tight little ShopRite stash with most of the money he made. If not for Dayanna, who claimed she needed child support, he would have been all right. She had a hundred and one excuses for why she really needed the money, too, from her hair to her nails. She requested money to go to the movies, or the mall, and was seemingly needy regarding everything she yapped about out of her twenty-year-old mouth. He worked faithfully every night, five nights a week, in that wretched grocery store. He at times seemed tormented by his past. And while he had now been home for over three months, he hadn’t found anyone to spend his time with. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t trying, either. Every Friday when he got paid, he’d hit the local bar in the neighborhood, sometimes he’d venture down South Street for a few hours before curfew. He was always polite to the ladies, always offered to buy them a drink, tried basic conversation, but not being the most attractive man on the planet, and with a night job at ShopRite, no car, no dough, and residing in a halfway house after spending half of his life in prison wasn’t exactly getting him any closer to a one-night stand or a relationship. Actually, no one seemed interested in him past casual conversation, and only two women had given him real numbers, but every time he called them, they were busy.