Alex pulled into a rest area and studied the map. Brunswick was way over on the opposite corner of the state, about as far as you could travel and still be in Georgia. And there was no direct route. But a germinating feeling told him he could make it. He could continue north until he reached the southern outskirts of Atlanta, go southeast on I-75 then due east on I-16 all the way to Savannah. For the last leg, he’d take I-95 south to Brunswick.
But before any of that he needed snacks, and he needed a bathroom. He found an open stall and let out a nerve-wracked storm of gas and diarrhea. When he was all done, he felt renewed. As if here, in this very time and location, was the passing of the Old Alex and the start of a new one. And this New Alex saw himself as responsible. People could count on him to do what was right. Getting Lester out of jail would be his first big mission.
At the vending machines he realized how little there was for the newly health-conscious. But he had to get something. For a total of eight dollars, he purchased a bottle of Gatorade, a bottle of water, two bags of trail mix and a granola bar. He plopped the items into the center console and started the engine.
THE ROUTE was simple enough, but the map hadn’t warned him that he was about to be bogged down by heavy traffic and a disorienting tangle of on and off ramps. He wasn’t even going into Atlanta, just the outer suburbs by the airport. Which proved to be interstate mayhem. As traffic slowed to a standstill, he cursed his navigational stupidity.
He thought of the congestion-free trip from Albany to Fort Lauderdale and how Lester had smartly routed them away from major cities. By taking I-81 instead of I-95, they had missed all of Metro New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, DC. If those cities were anything like Atlanta, the trip would have taken a week.
There was only half a mile before his exit and three lanes to cut across, but traffic had settled into walking speed, and the gaps between vehicles were almost nonexistent. A golf cart might squeeze through, not a Cadillac Deville. He flipped on his blinker, as if that mattered. In the midst of this mess, a passenger jet shot across his visual field—so close he could count the five lines on the US Airways logo flag.
Normally, in a situation like this, he would have imagined his father stepping in with navigational guidance. As Alex lunged into the space between two tractor trailers, he might’ve been tempted to bring his father in on the maneuver. The man’s skillful eyes would see the road through Alex’s eyes…and so on.
But the game lost its appeal on the day Alex met his father in the flesh. “It was stupid anyway,” he said to the truck in front of him. “I did all those things on my own. You were never there. Never!”
Something about talking out loud in the air-tight cabin of the car felt gratifying. Besides, it was practically his car. He could do whatever the hell he wanted. And he wanted to talk. Specifically, he wanted to talk to his father. “You son of a bitch,” he said. The words felt raw and true.
“You could’ve picked up the damn phone, you chicken shit. You could have visited too. But no, not you. You were too scared. You were too ashamed. You were too caught up in your own little life. You barely moved a muscle for me, except to write some letters…which I never got!”
At this point, he could have easily turned the anger toward his mother. But he decided to keep them separate—one battle at a time.
There must have been a dozen or so cars passing in the left lane. Some people looked at him, but Alex kept talking as if there was a Bluetooth in his ear. That was one of the great things about modern technology—you could talk to yourself and not appear crazy.
He felt an easing of stress as he broke away from the gridlock. Metro Atlanta faded into a bad memory. He went back to slamming his father. “I hope you made a big fancy breakfast,” he said. “I hope you waited and waited for me. I hope you stared at your diamond-studded watch and waited.”
A new feeling emerged unexpectedly from under the anger.
“You waited, just like I always waited.” It was too much to contain. “And I didn’t show up, just like you never showed up.” Tears streamed down his face.
“I hope you missed me,” he managed to say. Then his final words of truth: “Because I missed you.”
It occurred to him that it didn’t really matter that his father was gay. What mattered was the same thing that had always mattered. For all those years, the man was never there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
He had driven over seven hours, never budging beyond the posted speed limit, even though nearly every other vehicle on the road went faster. He wasn’t about to put himself at risk just to gain time. A billboard for the Brunswick Days Inn featured the word pool in its description. As he turned onto the Island Parkway in the direction of downtown, he visualized himself swimming among a throng of bikiniclad beauties, and that was all it took to sway him.
He turned off at Gloucester Street, and the motel was right there. He figured a hundred should cover it, so he locked the rest of the money in the glove box and made his way to the lobby.
A man behind the counter was talking on the phone. He had curly hair that was moussed in a meticulous way, and he wore a necktie showcasing a variety of sailboats. The man raised his chin toward Alex and whispered, “Just a minute.”
Alex felt for his wallet and checked to make sure his keys hadn’t fallen out of his pocket. The clerk hung up the phone. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” Alex said, “I’d like a room overlooking the pool, non-smoking.”
“Is it just for you?”
“Yeah, just me.”
“How many nights will you be staying with us?”
Alex felt as if he’d been thrown a trick question. It was Thursday, just after seven—no chance of getting started until tomorrow. If he couldn’t handle the situation in one day, he’d have to push it to next week. But he didn’t want to think about that. The clerk was waiting, fiddling with his fingers as if to exaggerate the delay. “I don’t really know, maybe two, maybe three.”
“Well, why don’t we say three? That way, we won’t give up your room if you need it. If you leave before then, just be sure to cancel any remaining nights or you’ll be charged.” He smiled brightly. “You wouldn’t want that.”
“Good point,” Alex said.
The clerk pecked away at his keyboard then asked, “You here for business or pleasure?”
Alex didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t categorize it as either, but he had to say something. “Sort of business, I guess.”
“Company name?”
“Uh, there’s really no company. It’s more like an important errand I’ve got to do.”
The clerk toned down his smile. “If what you’re planning on doing is illegal, we want no part of it here. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find lodging elsewhere.”
“No, it’s not illegal, I swear.”
“Well, then,” the man crossed his arms over his nautical tie, “mind telling me what it is?”
Alex hesitated for a moment. What kind of desk clerk probes into your personal business? It had to be a violation of motel etiquette. But as long as Alex got a room in the end, he didn’t mind talking. In fact, after all the hours on the road, it felt good to speak with another human being. “It’s my friend, Lester. I’ve gotta get him out of jail.”
“I see,” the clerk said, raising one eyebrow above the other. His face was open-book expressive. “And why does this Lester deserve to be sprung from jail?”
Alex’s response came without censor. “Because what he did was noble.”
“And how, may I ask, did Lester earn such nobility?”
Alex looked around the lobby. There wasn’t anybody else around. “All right,” he said, “he hit a cop who was bad. He did it to protect me.”
“Now this is getting interesting.” The clerk leaned forward against the counter. “Protect you from what?”
Alex explained about the cop’s girlfriend and that he hadn’t known the man was a cop. He gave the lobby another qu
ick scan. “The guy came out of nowhere and told me to move. I sort of stalled, I guess, so he shoved a peach cobbler in my face and called me a nigger lover.”
The clerk gave a look of disgust.
“That’s when Lester stepped in and whacked the guy with a stick.”
“Hooray for Lester,” shouted the clerk. “Your story makes sense. I just might have to find you a room.” He punched a few keys. “How does fifty-two dollars a night sound?”
“That’s fine.”
“And how will you be paying?”
“Cash.” Alex opened his wallet. “I got a hundred dollar bill right here.”
“Figures,” the clerk said, rolling his eyes. “We’ll need a credit card to handle any incidental charges, should they occur.”
“No,” Alex said. “I mean…I don’t have a credit card.”
The clerk shook his head and said, “Figures.” Then he looked out the lobby window. “Is that your Cadillac?”
“Yeah, I got it from Lester.”
The clerk raised both hands. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me anything more.”
“What about the room?”
There was a spell of silence. Alex’s hands were cold. He stuffed them into his pockets.
“Listen,” the clerk said, “I’m putting my job on the line here. So you better be honorable. Pay me for three nights, straight up cash. Don’t break anything in the room, don’t steal any towels or anything else, and come here to use the phone.” He ran a key card through a slot. “My name’s Dale. I work two to ten. You need something, come to me.”
“Thanks,” Alex said, “I’ve got the rest of the money in the car.”
Dale rolled his eyes again and said, “Figures.”
AS PROMISED, Alex’s room was on the second floor overlooking the pool. But there was nothing but pale blue water, certainly no babes in bikinis. He opened the door and set his duffel bag on the king bed. Secured under his left arm was Selma’s gift. He couldn’t wait any longer. Now felt like the appropriate time.
He placed the rectangular box on the table and examined it for the first time. The purple matte wrapping paper had a couple of ripples on top, which must have been the police dog’s dried slobber. But it was still beautiful. A golden bow secured a little card. He tore it open and read:
Dear Alexander the Great,
Keep running after all your dreams. Love, Selma
He set aside the card and knew immediately what was inside the box—the only question was style and fit. He opened it. They were blue Nike Shox Turbos with spider web stripes and black swooshes. He checked the tongue: size twelve. She had done her research.
His heart felt big and warm as he laced up the new running shoes and slid them on. He hopped around the room to check the fit. They were perfect, could have been custom made for him. He’d have to find a place to give them a proper initiation.
He returned to the lobby and asked Dale about a good place to run.
“Use the track at Coffin Park,” Dale said, pointing out the window.
“That sounds morbid,” Alex said. Lester would have loved it.
“It’s not like that. You’ll be fine. But don’t stay after dark.” He went on to state the park’s policy of closing at dusk because that’s when drug dealers came out and the cops made their raids. He finished with a sharp-eyed stare. “Follow my advice or you may end up joining your friend.”
Alex ran weightlessly across the street and down the road that took him to the trail. He stopped and stretched at the entrance, checked the location of the setting sun and worked his way into a good pace.
NEXT MORNING, when he woke up much later than he wanted, he noticed an envelope at the threshold of the door. The return address was the Days Inn, but smack in the center was his name written in neat penmanship. He tore it open. The inside note had the same style writing. It was from Dale, instructing Alex that he would probably need a bail bondsman if he hoped to spring Lester. And Dale knew just the person. The note gave the bondsman’s name and driving directions to his office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There were no available parking spots at the Freedom Bonds storefront, so he parked the Cadillac next door, facing an old thrift shop called Another Man’s Treasure. It should’ve been called One Man’s Junk. There were aluminum pots and pans on display, hub caps and television sets that looked like they’d come from the days of pre-cable. Alex got out of the car and double-checked the locks.
He expected a crowd at Freedom Bonds, but when he pulled open the door to the clanging of bells there was no one inside. A moment later, he could hear ambiguous sounds, a toilet flush and then running water. Out came a stocky black man with a rolled-up magazine in his hand. He limped forward, causing Alex to look at the man’s elaborate knee brace.
“Appreciate your patience,” the man said as he sat behind a desk. “Nothing gets in the way of my morning constitutional. My wife says she could set the clocks to’em. And sometimes she calls, right in the middle, just to piss me off. Have a seat.”
Alex smiled as he lowered himself into a chair. It was a total TMI situation, but he didn’t mind. In fact, the story helped ease his nerves. He leaned forward and said, “I’m Alex. I was told by Dale at the Days Inn you could help.”
The man shook Alex’s hand and said, “Clyde Simms. I haven’t seen Dale Beekman in a couple of years. How’s he doing?”
“Fine, I guess,” Alex said. “He wears flashy ties.”
“That’s Dale—swings the other way, but a heck of a good guy. He and I went to high school together.”
Again, Alex had missed the sexual orientation cues, making him feel like an idiot all over again. It was possible that Clyde took Alex to be gay by association. So to help bolster his case, Alex said, “You look like Bo Jackson,” which in a way Clyde did.
“Ha!” Clyde said. “You trying to butter me up.”
“No, really.”
“Well, truth is, I played DT at Georgia.” He locked his hands over his chest and leaned back. “All-SEC two years in a row.”
Alex had no idea what the man was talking about, but knew enough to be mightily impressed. “Wow,” he said. “That’s awesome.”
“It was a lot of fun until I damn near split my knee apart playing up at Syracuse. There was a seam in that ridiculous Astroturf, I tell you.” He reached down toward the hardware surrounding his right knee. “I’ll live with that till the day I die.”
“That totally sucks,” Alex said, considering this enough bad karma to scratch Syracuse off his list of college options.
Clyde leaned forward over his desk. “So tell me, what brings you here?”
Alex explained that he and Lester, an elderly black man, had been traveling from Albany and stopped in Brunswick. Then he gave full account of Lester’s offense at the truck stop and of his own involvement. He told how Lester was taken away in a K-9 van and was now incarcerated here. He finished by saying, “I can’t let him stay in jail. I’ve gotta get him out.”
Clyde took a couple of notes then said, “First thing you’ll need to do is go to the county courthouse and see the clerk. If Lester’s as old as you say, he’ll get a more expedient hearing. They might even lump his arraignment in with his bail hearing. If he came in yesterday, he could see the judge as early as today. Whenever it is, get there on time. It’ll be quick.”
Alex gave a half-understanding nod.
“If they set bail, we’re in business. The bond to spring him is fifteen percent. Since Lester’s from New York, there’s also a five hundred dollar out-of-state fee. If he’s held without bail, we’re screwed.” Clyde tore out the sheet of paper he’d been writing on. “Let me know how it goes.” Then he explained where the courthouse was, and he handed Alex a business card.
“Thanks,” Alex said. On his way out he looked at Clyde’s card, which made him smile. There were the words: FREEDOM BONDS in boldface. Just below, it said, Not your average oxymoron. He stuffed the card into his pocket and walked the four
blocks to the county courthouse.
The brick building was centered on a square of lawn filled with bushes and moss-draped trees. The inside entrance featured a security checkpoint. A uniformed guard asked Alex where he was headed. Figuring there was no reason to lie, Alex said, “I need to find out when my friend sees the judge.”
The guard pointed to a windowed office. “Pam will take care of you.”
A line of three people stood in front of Alex, which gave him time to settle his nerves and frame his question. The woman they were all waiting to see had a high-pitched Southern voice, blonde pageboy haircut and perhaps the biggest set of breasts Alex had ever seen. Her cleavage, from what he could see of it, was longer than most butt cracks. His first thought was that she could store a sandwich under those things and forget it was there. His second thought smacked of an entirely new philosophy—it was that some breasts were actually too big.
He was next in line and could now read her name badge: Pamela Blizzard in fancy italics. Then it was his turn. She said, “What can I do for you, hon?”
Alex stepped forward. “I need to find out when my friend gets arraigned.” The word arraigned sounded sophisticated coming out of his sixteen-year-old mouth, and it took his mind away from Pamela’s breasts.
“What’s your friend’s name?” She looked down at a computer monitor.
“Lester Bray. He was brought to jail yesterday.”
“Name sounds familiar.” She clicked her mouse. “Isn’t he that old man who hit Randy Burgess at Mega Fuel?”
“Sounds right,” Alex said. The whole scene at the truck stop flashed before him.
Pamela softened her voice. “Between you and me, Randy’s an awful man, dates a friend of mine, treats her just awful. I was actually glad to hear he’d been hurt.”
“It was my fault,” Alex said. “I started it.”
“Well, I’m sure he did something to get you riled up.” She smiled at Alex then looked back at her screen.
Just like that, he got an erection. It occurred to him that Pamela’s breasts might not be too big after all. “I found it,” she said. “You better hurry. Started five minutes ago.” She placed a floor-plan on the counter and pointed. “Right here, Courtroom Four.”
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