Life, Lies, and the Little Things

by Brandon Mason

“How easy it is to be an island. How simple it is to be a stranger. How thoughtless it is to remain.”

  There are few things, in all that I have encountered, more depressing than the visitation call rooms of jails. One might reconsider the significance of the previous statement at a later point, once all is said. Compared to most people visiting, I doubt I was justified in my anger and self-pity, but back then I honestly didn’t really bother myself with giving a fuck about anyone else. I sat down, and immediately noticed the chair’s corner had been broken off, causing a decently sharp edge to drive into my hamstring. I imagined a gang-banger, who was getting the vibe that his old street soldier was going to talk, losing his shit and launching the chair at the glass. Grabbing the phone, still damp from its last use, I took a long look at Jordan and saw something I hadn’t seen in a long time, maybe ever.

  “Damn man, you look like shit.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “O.K. I get it. It’s no time for jokes. But what the hell happened, J?”

  For a few more moments, he sat silently, still not looking me in the eyes.

  “Yo, you gotta level with me. No one’s told me shit!”

  “You know what, I don’t know what the fuck happened! But I’m pretty damn sure it wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t have to get some fucked up, antsy ass look-out off the street!”

  “How could you put this on me? You know I was in school. I told you I couldn’t be there!”

  “Oh no, I get it. You’re too busying playing circus monkey, tryna be somebody you’re not, just to please a bunch of self-righteous assholes who don’t give a shit about you! So go ahead and explain to me why that’s more important than looking out for the only blood you’ve got left on this planet.”

  I knew I couldn’t answer.

  “Fuck it man. I’m already over it. But this place is killing me. Now makes last time seem like the Holiday Inn. I swear one day they’ll just get tired of this and turn it into a goddamn zoo. All they’d have to do is change the food … a little. Really though, I’ve gotta get outta here.”

  I leaned in close to the glass, as if that actually did anything. “You can’t talk like that, man! You know it’d never wor—”

  “You losing it? I’m talking bail, you idiot! They probably won’t even give me a fair chance to get out for another month.”

  “Shit. How much?”

  “Fifteen…”

  He looked away when he said it and I couldn’t help but look away when I heard it.

  By the time we made eye contact again, there was nothing else that needed to be said. We both understood. Jordan continued anyways.

  “Bro, I know what you’re thinking, but just remember, you’re not eighteen for another three weeks. And if you don’t want child protective services up your ass, people coming around our place seeing all kinds a shit they don’t need to, trying tell you what you need like a damn dog, you gotta know what’s good.”

  My mind was so ready to fire back with a dramatic monologue about how I’d warned him, how I’d changed, what I’d learned, how things were finally looking up for me for the first time since mom left, and how I couldn’t risk losing that because people like us only got but a few chances, if any, to break the fucking brutal cycle. But all that came out was, “I’ll see you on the other side by Monday.”

  Walking out, I had a mouth full of sand. The roof of my mouth felt uncomfortably desiccated and grainy. It was still textured and awkwardly rough against my damp tongue. In trying to fuse the two, I created the elusive point where the desert meets the ocean.

  “I cannot decide whether life is a desert or an ocean. A desert seems barren, and for the most part is. In all directions, there is often nothing but infinite sand. One can chose which direction to go, but it all appears to be the same, even though each direction could lead to someplace completely different. Few survive. Those that do are the wretched and hardened, who have developed some obscene ability to keep them alive. Occasionally, some form of comfort will appear and give hope. Once identified as a mirage, it becomes the source of even greater anguish and hopelessness. Even when water is found, the thirst is never truly quenched. Days are scorching and unbearable. Nights are cold and void of consolation. Most search for an escape. Some wander aimlessly. They all find the same way out. The ocean, too, seems barren. In all directions, there is nothing but infinite water. We all fight to keep our heads above the surface, while all value lies below it. The deeper one dives, the more there is to be found, to a certain extent. One can only go so deep without assistance. Other aids and enablers must be used to reach further depths. At a certain depth, everything becomes indistinct. It is unclear whether or not the deepest depths are even worth exploring, or if they can be returned from. These depths are still vastly unknown and unexplored. We know only that there is more yet to be found than we have found already. Some endlessly tread, just above the surface, content to simply survive. Some dive down as far as their body allows, and then return to the surface for air. Few dive and become so consumed by the depth that they go beyond the point of no return. Since an attempt to again reach the surface is futile, they continue downward. They are never seen again. Do they die or find something more? Or both? Is life a desert or an ocean?” - W

  The bus ride back from the county jail was a fittingly long one, for all of us. Zoning out to some Django Reinhardt was my typical “never tell anyone about” coping mechanism, but all I did for those forty-five minutes was convince myself I didn’t have a choice. As long I didn’t have a choice, as long as I made myself the victim, who could blame me? All things considered there were only a few options, realistic options, none of them legal. All I had to do was come up with fifteen grand in a couple of days. When I finally realized what I had to do I knew I’d regret it. Regret was fairly low on my hierarchy of concerns back then. Damn was I foolish for that. I had to convince myself of a few other things as well, before I took any action. The only noteworthy of those being that, in all probability, no one would ever know I did it. The final straw had to have been that I hadn’t heard from Waldin since the night at his apartment and it seemed that our relationship had begun to languish.

  It was an undoubtedly odd experience breaking into the place I had spent countless hours, breaking not a single rule, besides, of course, getting a little loud with my playing every now and then. I couldn’t have been the first person who thought about stealing those laptops, since the library had managed to get the city to give funding for them, claiming the current technology was limiting the children’s development. It honestly wasn’t too hard of a job; I had been pretty good with locks since Jordan taught me back when we never actually had a key to any place we stayed. I had seen Waldin type in the security code enough times on those nights when we closed the place down. I almost impressed myself with the swiftness and precision I moved with; couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, in and out. Made sure to set off the alarm on the way out so no one got suspicious.

  Pushing a shopping cart filled with boxes and bags through the back alleys of the Southeast Side at 3 A.M was a lot less suspicious than one might think. Getting them out of my hands as quickly as possible was the hardest part of the whole equation. Luckily, Jordan knew all the local pawn shop owners, and one call from J’s brother was all it took for an early morning drop off. Not that pawn shops were usually known for their moral discrimination, but when it came to high end electronics, they’d take them off of a freshly dead body.

  Chapter 10