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What You Don't Know
The boy finally pled guilty, was given credit for time served, was told to stay away from the victim, was given a bunch of hours doing community service, was told he must re-enroll in highschool, and was assigned a probation officer. During his time in he would call collect from the jail to any number he had memorized, including that of the victim, and beg for help. Everyone had heard it all before and began to let their machines screen calls. The recordings on the machine were prefaced by a pre-recorded message from the parish prison that indentified the call as coming from the prison and allowed a blank in which the inmate could say his name. The boy was always one to think outside the box and having grown up around it enough to know how people are when being bugged by inmates he took advantage of the blank to say more than his name. Instead of saying like most this is Bill Bill Bill, or John John John, or Jeff Jeff Jeff, he would say who he was and then threaten to kill his 2-year-old nephew. This was the type of frustratingly hurtful outburst he had previously in his 17 years saved for quiet moments with a cherished cousin or niece, perhaps having them in a clinch, or after letting their heads come up from under the water. There have been bestselling books written about winning through intimidation. The boy was the anti-poster child for such a book. He redefined the concept. He disallowed any positive connotation for such gibberish. Though if you met the kid you'd be drawn to him. You would even come to trust him. He knows more about trust than you do. And you get the feeling he knows more about everything, without being able to quote a single line. He is the challenge that amounts to everyday facing that everything you know is wrong. And he is free.
God Frowns
I was on my way to dinner at the home of a former girlfriend, carrying a tabloid of some repute which was however printed on cheap paper with cheaper ink. I hoped to spy the object of a crush, the roommate of this former girlfriend. It was a hot, sultry, summer day, and I sweated profusely as I walked the distance, switching the paper from one hand to the other. I would occasionally wipe the sweat from my brow.
How lucky am I to be greeted at the door by the object of my crush, whom upon inspecting me, somewhat rudely I thought, burst out laughing? God, was she pretty. It seems the cheap ink from the cheap paper had melted onto my sweaty hands, and everytime I had wiped my brow it had made a black streak across my face. She offered me a paper towel before retreating, with snickers, to finish her preparations for that evening's date. At one point she came out rubbing baby oil along the length of her thin arms and I could of cried. A German fellow from her economics class had asked her out and as he had no transportation of his own, would be paying for her bus fare, as well as her dinner. So it was all about confidence I was being prompted to learn that night.
Later, long after the night of her laughter, I heard she married a man who mistreated her. It was, at best, unreliable information, and I chose to disbelieve it. Later still, I heard of this man, or the one after him, I really don't know, who, walking the walk of the big dog through the developing development of his design, was pissed on from above by an unaware construction worker. God smiled. The worker was fired.