Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  “You know how it is—no one gives a shit about any of us in here.”

  When I call Susan the next morning, she tells me it doesn’t look like anything is going to happen until Tuesday, but says she’ll come by for a visit before driving back to New York. I feel bad that this is the second time she’s come down to get me—and gone home alone.

  An hour later, I sit down in the booth opposite her and pick up the phone. “I hope you’ve got a joke for me,” I tell her, forcing a smile.

  “I never remember jokes,” she says, leaning her head on her hand. She looks like she hardly slept at all.

  “Well, here’s one for you then: What’s the difference between a Scotsman and a Rolling Stone?”

  “I don’t know. “

  “A Rolling Stone says, ‘Hey, you, get off of my cloud!’ A Scotsman says, ‘Hey McLeod, get off of my ewe!’ ”

  Susan laughs. “I was expecting something dirty or tasteless—did you hear that one from your dad?”

  “Yeah, but a long time ago. It’s sort of a classic.”

  “By the way, the guard on duty is the one who took you to the dentist. When I told him who I was here to visit, he snapped his fingers and said, ‘The Scottish guy? I really like him!’ He seems nice—I think he felt bad that you didn’t get released.”

  “Really? Tell him I said hi.”

  We chat for a bit longer—I think the guard gave us extra time. He nods at me when he walks over to Susan’s side of the window and says something I can’t hear.

  “I have to go,” she says. “It’s almost lunch, so the visiting area is closing.”

  “I love you,” I tell her, standing up while I’m still holding the phone.

  “I love you, too—but you’re a fucking pain in the ass, Graham MacIndoe.”

  “Yeah, but I’m worth it. You’ll see.”

  —

  THE HOLIDAY WEEKEND is the longest three days and four nights of my life. We have a light schedule—watching videos and going to a few meetings—but that’s almost worse than being busy. I’ve got too much time to worry that ICE filed some last-minute appeal. Being in this limbo totally sets me back—I can’t concentrate on the program, so I keep getting addressed for stupid shit. By Monday night, I’ve racked up a seventy-two-hour speaking ban.

  Luckily, it doesn’t kick in until later in the week, so I can still call Susan after dinner. All she’s managed to find out is the name of the ICE officer she’s supposed to call first thing Tuesday, so she tells me to try her again after 10:00 A.M. The next morning, I’m already dialing at 9:59. She says the ICE guy told her they were still deciding on Friday if they were going to appeal my case, but Armen told her that was bullshit—someone left early and didn’t bother to deal with my file.

  I’m still fuming when I get called down to process my release papers. The guy doesn’t apologize or explain what happened, barely looking at me. I’m tempted to tell him how fucked up it is that I got stuck here an extra four days, but I don’t want to rock the boat, so I just sign whatever he pushes in front of me.

  When I get back to the dorm, I say my goodbyes—again—and sit on the edge of my bunk, waiting. I’m half-expecting ICE will find some reason to hold me longer, but Walker tells me to relax, it’ll all be fine—then tries to wind me up by saying he’ll see me at dinner.

  “If I come back up here,” I tell him, “you’d better stay out of my way ’cause I’m not gonna be happy.”

  Once the call finally comes, I thank him for helping me get through the program and give him a slip of paper with Susan’s number. “I’ll let you know once I get a new cellphone,” I tell him. “But if you need to talk, you can call me here anytime.”

  “Take care, buddy,” he says. “You’d better stay out of trouble—you’re getting too old for this shit.”

  Before long I’m in a cell with a handful of other guys getting released. It feels weird to take off my prison uniform and put on the clothes I was arrested in—a grimy pair of jeans, a faded black T-shirt, and a baggy gray sweater someone at Rikers gave me. They smell like crack and the projects, mixed with the mustiness of dirty laundry that’s been sitting around for months. I wish I had something else to wear—it’s not a great look to impress Susan.

  When the ICE guys show up and load us into a van, I think there’s been a mistake—it’s the first time I’ve been transferred without handcuffs and chains. But then I realize I’m not a prisoner anymore, I’m actually free.

  Two guys hop out at the back of the prison and the rest of us get driven to the bus station in Harrisburg, sitting quietly with our stuff on our laps. Susan said the ICE officer she talked to promised they’d buy me a ticket back to New York, but when we get to the station the driver acts like that’s news to him.

  “You don’t have someone picking you up?” he asks.

  “No. I was meant to be released on Friday when my girlfriend came to get me, but she wasn’t allowed to leave me any money so whoever she talked to said you’d buy my ticket.”

  “Hold on,” he says. “What’s your name?” Then he checks something in the van, walks me over to the Greyhound window, pays for the ticket, and hands it to me—without saying another word.

  The bus station is one of those big old buildings with high ceilings and a waiting area with wooden benches. A homeless guy shuffles up to me and asks if I have a dollar to spare—I don’t. All I’ve got is some change in my pocket that somehow made it through the system, but I need it to call Susan. After I find a pay phone, I push some coins through the slot and dial her number.

  “There was no recording saying this is a call from prison!” she shouts.

  “Nope. I’m at the bus station.”

  “Did they buy you a ticket?”

  “The driver didn’t seem to want to, but eventually he did. The next bus to New York isn’t until seven thirty so I should get to Port Authority by eleven forty-five. Sorry it’s so late.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll meet you at whatever gate you pull into. So how does it feel, finally breathing fresh air?”

  “Pretty fucking cold—and I’m starving. I think I’ve got enough change left for a cup of coffee, but that’s it. It’s crazy that ICE just dumps us out on the street.”

  “Well, I’ll bring you a coat and you’ll be able to eat whatever you want in a few hours. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this—I’ll see you soon! Just don’t get arrested before you get here, okay?”

  “Why would I get arrested?”

  “Listen, I’ve just spent the past twenty-four hours trying to figure out how to get you back here without any money or ID, so I’m not being paranoid. Maria was the one who said it wasn’t safe for you to take the train.”

  I promise her I won’t do anything suspicious and assure her I’ll be on the bus when it arrives.

  I’ve got an hour to kill, so I wander over to a kiosk and buy a cup of coffee—which isn’t great, but it’s still better than the crap I’ve been drinking. Then I sit down on a bench and open one of the brown paper bags my stuff is in, pulling out a few letters to read. Thinking about what I’ve been through makes me feel like I’ve come out of some kind of time warp, still reeling from everything that’s happened to me. After a while, I put the letters away and just watch all the people passing by—checking out everyone’s clothes and wondering what music a guy with headphones is listening to, wishing I hadn’t given my radio away.

  When I hear the announcement for the New York bus, I jump up and get in line. I pause for a second after the driver checks my ticket, then move toward the back and choose a seat by a window. After sitting on hard metal stools and benches for months, even a Greyhound bus feels luxurious—a cushioned seat, a bathroom with a door that closes, and an overhead light I can turn on and off whenever I want.

  Once the bus pulls away from the station, the engine rumbling, I look around at people’s faces lit by the glow from their phones. It’s too dark to see much out the window, except for headlights coming at us, neon s
igns in the distance, and piles of snow along the road. After we turn onto the highway and the bus picks up speed, I sink into my seat. It finally feels like this whole fucking nightmare is over.

  —

  DRIVING THROUGH NEW Jersey as we approach Manhattan, I see the skyline lit up in the distance—the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, all the lights of Midtown bouncing across the river. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see this view again. I wish I had a camera, but I just watch all the buildings get bigger until the bus dips down into the Lincoln Tunnel.

  When we pull into the Port Authority Bus Terminal, people jump up, grab their bags, and crowd into the aisle. I just sit there waiting for the bus to empty, wanting to relish the moment before I get off. The smell of exhaust fumes hits me as I walk from the garage into the building, holding a paper bag under each arm. This isn’t quite how I pictured my homecoming, but at least I’m back in New York City. I look around for Susan—she’s not here.

  I’m standing in the dingy waiting area trying to get my bearings, sure this is where she said she’d meet me, then I see an escalator and wonder if she told me to go upstairs. When I get to the top, she’s about twenty feet in front of me, talking on the phone.

  I walk toward her thinking I’ll surprise her, but just then she hangs up and turns around. I drop my bags and wrap my arms around her, whispering “thank you” in her ear. It’s been so long since I’ve held anyone like this I just cling to her. Her puffy down coat is the softest thing I’ve touched in ages and her hair tickles my nose. When I step back, I’m grinning, she’s grinning—a warm feeling surges through me. It’s hard to believe we actually made it to this point.

  “Sorry,” she says, putting her phone away. “My mom called to see if you got here, but the signal was shitty downstairs so I came up here.”

  “For a second I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

  “You know, I did think about clearing out your bank account and disappearing, but if I got caught I’m not sure I could handle being in prison.”

  “Trust me, neither did I.”

  She hands me my favorite green jacket—it smells like laundry soap when I put it on—then asks if I want to get a cab or walk for a bit.

  “Let’s walk,” I say. “But I might not make it too far. The furthest I’ve walked lately is across the dorm.”

  Out on Forty-second Street, it feels like everything is coming at me—crowds of people, street vendors shouting, the smell of food carts, billboards flashing, cars honking. It reminds me of how I felt the first time I went to Tokyo, especially once we get to Times Square. I feel like stopping random strangers and telling them I just got out of prison.

  “This is too much stimulation—even for me,” Susan says. “You must be totally overwhelmed.”

  “Yeah, maybe we should get a cab.”

  She raises her hand at the first free taxi that wheels down Broadway and we pile into the backseat, sitting close.

  “Do you want something to eat?” she asks. “I brought you an apple and that Kit-Kat you’ve been talking about.”

  “Not just yet,” I say, reaching over and holding her hand. “It’s a bit of a mind fuck that twenty-four hours ago I was asleep in a prison bunk, and now I’m speeding through Manhattan.”

  Susan gives me a funny look, nodding toward the driver.

  “What—am I not supposed to say I was in prison?”

  “You can say it…maybe just not so loudly,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Not everyone is going to be as accepting as me about that.”

  I’m sure the driver doesn’t care where I’ve been, but I change the subject and tell her how different Manhattan seems. Even though I haven’t been away that long, I hardly ever left Brooklyn before I got arrested, so it’s like I’m seeing a whole new city. Big glass buildings seem to rise up every few blocks.

  When we turn onto the Brooklyn Bridge, half my life comes rushing back—the excitement of moving to New York, Liam growing up, photo shoots, friends I haven’t seen in ages, the blur of addiction, and that brutal day I got picked up by ICE.

  “You okay?” Susan asks, nudging my shoulder.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking about all the times I’ve crossed this river, especially the last one.”

  It’s starting to hit me that I’m actually going to be staying with Susan—with nowhere to go if this doesn’t work out. I’m comforted by her closeness and really want to lean over and kiss her, but I don’t know if I should. It’s a strange sensation—feeling like we’ve been together for years, but also like we’re on a first date.

  Once we pull up to her building, I make a joke about only having fifteen cents left in my pocket while she pays the fare. After we climb the stairs to her apartment, I put my bags down and just stand there, not quite sure what to do with myself. I can hardly remember the last time I was here.

  “These are some of the things I picked up from Joe’s place,” she says, pointing to a pile of clothes lying on a chair. “And I bought you some new T-shirts and underwear—actually, when I went to York the first time. I wasn’t sure about the size but you can exchange them if they don’t fit.”

  “Thanks—I’m sure I’ll need to buy a whole new wardrobe. I’ve put on a few pounds while I was locked up.”

  “Well, you still look a lot better than the last time you were here.”

  “Is it alright if I use the bathroom? I wouldn’t mind cleaning up a bit.”

  “You don’t have to ask me,” Susan says. “I want you to feel at home—you can take a shower if you want.”

  In the bathroom, I hardly recognize myself in the mirror. Standing there looking at my reflection, I haven’t seen my face so clearly in months. My skin is a bit sallow and I’ve got less hair than I’d hoped for, but all in all, not too bad.

  Just as I turn on the shower, I hear Susan shout something about a toothbrush and a razor, which I spot sitting next to the sink. After cleaning my teeth, I shave with the new multi-blade razor she bought me. It feels brilliant gliding across my face.

  Once I’m in the shower, I use every product Susan has—shampoo, conditioner, cleansers, gels, and soap that smells like lemon. The hot water spills all over me as I scrub and exfoliate until I’ve washed away all the dregs of prison. When I get out, my body is tingling and the fresh clothes feel soft on my skin.

  Susan makes some tea, we sit down on her couch, and just talk for a while—about her family and her trip to Michigan, how excited I am to see Liam, and how tough it was thinking about what would happen if I got deported. By 2 A.M. I can barely keep my eyes open. I keep yawning and Susan looks totally knackered.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s way past my bedtime,” I tell her. “I’m used to lights-out at eleven.”

  “Yeah, this is pretty late for me, too.”

  I don’t quite know how to bring up this topic—it’s a bit awkward—but I finally ask, “So where am I sleeping?”

  Susan smiles and looks at me for a minute, like she’s enjoying drawing this out. “Well, since you just got out of prison it doesn’t feel right making you sleep on the couch….”

  “I don’t want you to give up your bed.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that,” she says, giving me a flirty look. “But you can sleep with me if you want.”

  So I do—and after that night, I never leave.

  I WISH I could say everything was brilliant after I got out of prison, but the truth is, picking up the pieces of my life and putting them back together was a lot harder than I expected. Then again, I wasn’t sure what to expect after I got off that bus. No one really prepares you to be thrown back into the real world—and I was only locked up for nine months. But with the years of addiction, I felt like I’d lost almost a decade of my life.

  For the first few days, all I wanted to do was sleep. I’ve always been an early riser but Susan would nudge me at 10 or 11 A.M. and say I should probably get up. Once I did, I didn’t know what to do with myself—I didn’t even feel like opening my laptop. It
meant facing all those unread emails and the past I wanted to put behind me, and I wasn’t ready to deal with decisions like buying a new phone. Just about the only thing I wanted to do was eat.

  The first time I went to the store by myself, I wandered the aisles staring at all the choices—cheese, ice cream, cereal, fruit, fancy chocolate bars, different types of coffee. I had no idea how long I walked around thinking, I can have any of this whenever I want. By the time I got home, I could tell Susan was anxious—I’d been gone for almost an hour. She said she didn’t think I’d run off to the projects to buy drugs, but I could tell it was going to take a while for her to trust me.

  I get why, but I was never really tempted to use—not even when I ran into a dealer and he pressed two bags of dope into my hand, telling me, “You know where to find me.” He took off before I could give them back, so I just stood there for a minute with those familiar glassine bags in my palm—then I dropped them in a trash can, hoping no one saw me. I knew in my heart I was done.

  I’d go to AA meetings and people would talk about how they thought about drinking or using every day, but that was the furthest thing from my mind. Maybe the reason I needed drugs was gone—I didn’t feel that crushing emptiness anymore, I wasn’t depressed and lonely. And Walker was right: I was getting too old for that shit. But mostly, I wanted to show everybody that I could put that life behind me, especially Liam.

  The first time I saw him, about a week after I got out, I was so nervous I was having heart palpitations on my way to meet him. He was walking toward me with this big grin on his face, taller and with shorter hair than I remembered. I was trying not to cry as I hugged him. I thought I wouldn’t know what to say, but it all just tumbled out as we walked. I could tell he was holding back a bit—it took a while for things to feel normal—but every time I tried to apologize he’d cut me off, which was really humbling. He was trying so hard to make it easy on me, the worst thing I could do was let him down.

  With my friends it was tough in a different way. I wasn’t sure what rumors they’d heard, so I was hesitant to reach out at first. Then one night I was out with Susan and saw someone I’d known for almost twenty years—she was with her son, and I was too embarrassed to say hi. When I told Susan, she said I was being ridiculous so I caught up to them, shouting my friend’s name. She turned around and gave me a big hug, saying she’d heard I’d had a rough time. I didn’t tell her everything right then, but we made plans to get together and eventually it all came out. That was sort of a turning point for me—I realized I had to be honest about what I’d been through.