by Demi Vice
“Hey, Jack?” Fight’s voice, frail and shy. Nothing like him.
I punched his ass through the mattress, but he didn’t make a sound.
“Whaddya want?”
There were a few seconds of silence before he uttered, “How’d it go?”
I gave his back a solid punch, knocking a heavy breath from his lungs.
“Michael's still a bitch but at least he’s good at it, I chuckled.
Of course, I didn't tell Fidget about my new place, the money, or my crimes, aside from the reason I was in here. It was hard to keep that a secret in prison. People were naturally curious—I, being the most curious cat of them all, loved to poke around for the reasons why other cons were here.
Fidget said nothing.
I punched him again, this time lighter.
I knew the kid was going to miss me, but shit, it’s not like I wasn't going to see him again. I would have the decency to visit him at least once a year and send him some cash. But, if we were realistic, over the years, I would forget about Fidget. I’d have my own life to worry about, and Fidget would have his…in prison. Sadly, that's what's going to happen. We're going to lose touch. People say they’ll visit you and keep contact, but typically, humans are selfish fuckers. In the end, we want to deal with only our life. Our own shit.
“Hey, Jack,” he said again in the same monotone. Hopping off the top bunk, Fidget leaned on the wall. His jumper was unzipped at his waist showing off his white tank top and slender, toned arms. With my help, Fidget had been trying to bulk up, but he was still a slim thing. Still a kid.
I swear, in another lifetime Fidget could’ve been a model for one of those preppy clothing stores that tried to intoxicate you with their cologne when you walked past them. Like I said, he looked innocent with his wavy blonde hair, big black-brown eyes, and face made to be printed in magazines and plastered on billboards.
Fidget played with his rock, encasing it in his grip. “Can I ask you something?”
“No, I will not tuck you in and give you a bedtime story.” I rolled my head to the side to meet his deadpan glare.
“I’m serious, Jack.” He ran his nail into the rock so hard that his finger turned ghost white.
“Okay. Ask.”
“Can you find my sister?”
I sat up, elbows on my knees. “Sister? You have a sister?”
He nodded. “Last time I heard she was looking for a place in Birch Park on Lavador Street on top of some Polish bakery. Mazowski? Kowalski? Lisowski? I don’t remember.” He bit the inside of his bottom lip as he did when he was nervous.
“That’s it? You just want me to find her?” I grumbled, my eyebrows on two different planes, one up one down.
He shook his head.
Fidget looked odd. His expression so dead I thought someone pulled the ‘off’ switch on him. He loved to talk, but he rarely spoke about his family members. I knew he had a deadbeat dad and druggie mom and aunt, but other than that. Nothing.
Well, except for that one time.
The first-week Fidget got here; he got drunk on some prison hooch and let his guard down. He told me about one of his most fucked up memories. The kind of memories everyone had but kept in a locked vault, ready to be repressed until we could convince ourselves it was a dream—a nightmare.
That was the most serious Fidget ever got. Mostly he talked about his comic books, kitchen recipes he wanted to try when he got out, or about the stupid shit he did with his friends.
“No, I need you to give her this.” Fidget grabbed an envelope from under his pillow and handed it to me. It was wrinkled and white and addressed to TINKS. All caps.
I shrugged, taking the envelope, but not knowing how to respond. Fidget's my favorite cellmate, but, hounding down his sister to give her a letter? Not like I haven’t done this before, but I got that feeling in my gut. That same one, I got when I took a job.
I rubbed the back of my neck and let out a heavy sigh. Before I could answer Fidget said, “Listen, Jack, you’re going to get it easy after you get out. But me?” He shook his head. “The only thing I have left is my sister. I wanna know she’s okay. I want her to know that I know, and everything is fine. That it really is fine, and we need to talk.”
Know?
Know what?
I examined the sealed envelope. A little more curious about the favor I’d agreed to do. “Find her and give her this?” I slapped the letter in my hand.
“Yeah, she’ll wanna talk to me after she reads it.”
“Okay. Sure, I can do that, Fidget.”
“Promise?” He pleaded, giving me the biggest brown puppy dog eyes I’d ever seen him pull.
“Yeah, promise.”
“Just one more thing, don’t call her TINKS. That’s my thing.”
I shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”
Fidget crawled back into his bunk and got into fetal position, choking the rock in his fist as it hung off the cot. His body as stiff as could be.
Give her the letter?
I could do that.
Fidget fell into a deep slumber, his breaths steady and hush. He was right. I was getting it easy, and he was going to have nothing. No money. No education. No family.
I focused on Fidget’s all caps handwriting.
TINKS.
Punching his paper-thin mattress, I woke Fidget up. He jumped midair, dropping his rock. Before it hit the ground, I caught it. I petted the stone, rubbing my thumb against the smooth surface.
“What’s the girl's name?”
Fidget dropped his head down. Eyes sleepy and glossy, wavy blonde locks a mess, and a dopey smile slapped his face.
“Ahri. Ahrianna Lore.”
“She hot?” I bit my lip, my words coated with one thought. Sex.
“She looks like me, Jack.”
I hummed. “A girl version of Fidget…I can get down with that. You're fucking gorgeous.” I playfully slapped his face before he rolled his eyes and disappeared back his bunk.
“Good luck with that.” He scoffed.
“I’m taking that as your permission to fuck your sister, Fidget.”
AHRI
“Okay, great. Come to Diablo’s Bar on Lavador Street tomorrow. Six o’clock sharp. Ask for Ahri.” I chewed on my bottom lip while Felicia tried to get my attention with a thumbs up or down, figuring out where I stood. “Okay, see ya.”
I flipped my phone close.
“So, good news or bad news?”
“Hopefully good news. The guy wants to see the apartment tomorrow. God, I really need Wazowski to get off my ass and get that commission check.”
Shit. I was so excited I forgot to ask for the guy’s name. Whatever. I’ll just tell Gomez to keep an eye out for a man looking for me.
“Wazowski can suck it.” Felicia began her rant. “You work two jobs, and you go to school. All that fucker does is bake bread and pastries four times a week and makes enough to live on the north side of Chicago.”
I didn’t understand why this bothered Felicia so much. She lived with her parents in a decent neighborhood outside of Birch Park. It’s not like she had to live here like I did.
“Gotta love that every Polish person in Chicago comes and clears out his bakery,” I said dryly, watching Felicia take a long drag of her cigarette.
“Yeah, I’m a little jealous of the fucker, so what?” she snarled.
“Come on, it’s not that bad here.” I scanned the back of Maddy's Diner.
Yeah, it is.
The chef yelled so loud he sounded like he was right next to us. Mice and rats had turf wars near the overfilled dumpsters. And Teddy, the manager, was having another argument with his baby mama in his ‘I’m not yelling’ voice on the sidewalk in front of the diner.
“Who’re you trying to kid, Ahri? We get paid shit and tips? They’re lookin' as real as a unicorn shitting cupcakes.”
“Myself.” I didn’t bother lying. “Just looking for a silver lining. It’s what I have right now, and it’s better tha
n what I had before. Doesn’t mean it’s going to stay like this forever.”
“I don’t know,” Felicia babbled. “I already think it’s a miracle you got out of your old shit hole. Not saying this shit hole is any better.”
I scoffed. “Miracle? Ha! Yeah, miracles don’t exist, Felicia. But twenty-hour days fueled by only ramen and Red Bull do.”
She smacked her full lips and fluffed her blonde afro. “I guess no cock for…what? Three years? Is also on that Miracles-Don’t-Exist list.”
“Four years.”
I sat down on a wooden crate as it creaked under me. Felicia took another long drag from her cigarette. I wanted a smoke. But I tried not to smoke when I was at the diner. I didn’t like smelling like cigarettes when I talked to people I was trying to get money from. But when I worked at Diablo’s. Everything was fair game. Shitty attitude and cigarettes all the way.
“Tell me. Does your potential roommate sound sexy? The kind of voice that makes you want to crawl into his apartment and into his bed?” Felicia dry humped the air.
I rolled my eyes. “He’s got the kind of voice that wants a place to rent. I’m not going to fuck him. That’s just asking for trouble.”
“Jesus, Ahri. I can practically see the dust bunnies rolling out of your vagina.”
A dry laugh escaped my throat. Felicia had quite the vulgar mouth. I was a sucker for it. Raw, unfiltered humor was always my greatest weakness.
“Well, don’t you worry about me and my puss. I still have a shower head, the number twelve dryer machine at the laundromat, and when I have a little time to myself I have some fun with Sir—”
“Makes-me-Scream.” Felicia flashed a wide smile. “Nice to know my gag gift for your birthday last year wasn’t a gag at all. Unless, you know, it is a gag gift.” Felicia pushed her tongue into her cheek.
“Classy,” I said, giving her the ‘ok’ symbol.
She laughed. “I’m playin’ with you. You know I love you and your stoic-ass personality.”
“Stoic? Where the hell did you hear that?”
“Word of the day. Got that dictionary app on my phone.”
“Fancy.” I looked down at my Motorola Razr.
When it came to technology, I was lagging behind in the mid-2000’s. I could upgrade my thrift store phone if I wanted to, but it wasn’t my priority. It was at the bottom of my list after non-thrift store clothes (I secretly loved and would never change), food that didn’t involve adding water and microwaving it, sleep, and sex.
“Felicia, can you cover my tables for about ten minutes while I struggle with my Polish?”
Felicia nodded, stepping onto her cigarette.
I jogged through the back alley, avoiding the main street and Teddy who was still at it with his baby mama. The bakery was only a five-minute walk from the diner. Lucky and unlucky for me, all the places I worked and lived at made an obtuse triangle on the map. Everything was within walking/running distance, except for the library where I took my online class. That’s when I took the bus. Other than that, I got a lot of cardio. Something I didn’t need. I needed the opposite. Sitting on my bed, vegging out, and sleeping for days until I woke up and it was a different season. I wasn't skinny by choice; it was my life taking an enormous toll on my body.
I spent my mornings at Maddy’s Diner, afternoons sleeping maybe three or four hours if I didn’t have to work extra hours (I almost always did), and finally, I spent my nights at Diablo’s Bar. When I had days off, I usually went to the library or did laundry. If I was lucky, I got a full eight hours. And if I’m unlucky, I didn’t sleep. Unfortunately, all-nighters were the description of my life.
Wazowski’s Bakery’s old school doorbell dinged when I entered. There were only a few people in the store. Agata, Wazowski’s daughter, and only family, worked the register which meant Wazowski was in the back. I let myself in, moving past the angry Poles demanding more bread and pastries, and stopped at his office door. I knocked on the door frame, Wazowski picking up his balding head.
“Ahrianna, co chcesz?”
“Someone’s coming over to see the apartment tomorrow—”
“In Polish, Ahrianna,” he said in a thick accent handing me a beat up Polish dictionary.
Why do you put yourself through this Ahrianna?
It gets twenty-five dollars off my rent. Yep, just twenty-five dollars, but twenty-five dollars was fucking twenty-five dollars I could be saving. I needed the money.
“P-potrzeb-buję klucza. Jut-ro ktoś nadcho-odzi.” My lips butcher Wazowski’s mother language as I searched for each word and struggled with the way too many ‘z’s in one sentence for my liking. Wazowski flashed me a one-second smile for my effects and handed me the key to the only apartment next door to mine.
“Don’t lose key.” He wiggled his finger at me like I was a child. Oh yes, please treat me like I’m an infant. I loooove that. “Only key I have.”
“Dziękuję, do widzenia!” I thanked him, said my goodbye, and headed back toward the diner.
I went down Lavador Street, taking in the end of August weather. I relished my free time before I had to serve food to some sketchy people inside a yellow themed diner.
The walks to the diner always killed me.
Heavy grunts and rolled eyes were promised as I stumped my feet. I dropped my head like a bomb, eyes glued to my not-so-white knock-off Vans until my shitty flip phone stole the attention. It bounced off my thigh inside my white apron with each step I took. There was a mysterious stain on my apron. Ketchup? Barbecue sauce? Who the fuck knew and who the fuck cared.
My sunshine yellow diner dress always made me feel happy. I wasn’t. Not truly. Haven’t been in years. But the color yellow does that to you. It gave you the illusion that you’re cheerful and happy even when you weren’t. Maybe that’s why I always loved it so much.
I stopped in front of an empty storefront with a ‘FOR LEASE’ sign in the dust-coated window. My bleached yellow hair was a wavy mess—the norm—covering my forehead with a fringe and the top of my shoulders. My dark circles were worse in the daylight, and I was convinced they were permanent. No amount of sleep could reverse the effect of my work schedule and stress levels. And the red mark on my cheek, which was once purple, was fading and no longer painful.
My eyes fell to my lips, naturally looking like I was in bitch mode all the time—I was. I rarely smiled, and when I did, it's only because I wanted customer’s money. I’d pull on a phony smile any day of the week if it meant better tips. It usually did.
When I could no longer look at myself, I continued my short journey to the diner. I focused on my dress, playing with a loose yellow string hanging from the hem and pulled it off. I looked at the thread.
Sunshine yellow.
Maybe I loved yellow because it reminded me of Luke and…Aurora.
JACK
I held my middle fingers in the air like a peace sign and woohoo’ed at the top of my lungs the second I got outside of the prison gates. I jumped and clicked my heels together like I was on the yellow brick road, moving toward my escape. God, the air in the courtyard had never smelled so fucking free. It was so fucking delicious I wanted to marry it and make babies with it.
I skipped toward the new sports car waiting for me behind the fence, wearing my old clothes from seven years ago that were a little too tight around my legs. My shirt was fine. I always went a size larger, but my jeans were suffocating my balls.
The guards let me pass, and I approached the sexiest, most exotic thing on earth. My fucking car. I bit my lip and trailed my finger across the glossy black hood, my cock tingling with pure joy. When I opened the door, I was greeted by the face of a man in his late-sixties. One of Wallace’s men, I could only assume, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass who he was.
“Are you Mr. Baron? Jack Baron?”
“Nah, I’m fucking Patrick Bateman,” I growled happily, showing him all my teeth. Pulling his collar, I yanked him out of my car. I didn’t need any old man smell mixing
with my new car scent any longer. I looked inside my baby, red interior as promised. Everything inside was polished and high-tech.
I began to strip out of my tight clothes, exposing my black boxer briefs to the stranger behind me. I was utterly comfortable with all my tattoos and scars, masking my whole body. I’d always been proud of my body, especially my beautiful cock. That sucker could make any girl orgasm in less than five seconds, tops.
“You going to stare at my damn ass all day, old man, or are you going to tell me where my fucking clothes are?”
The old man jumped, popped the trunk, and grabbed a duffle bag. Inside it had everything I’d asked for: my jacket, shirt, and ripped jeans, which were all the same shade of black—a fucking rarity. It matched my black raven hair, oh so perfectly.
I rolled the hem of my jeans and slipped into my Doc’s. The same beat up, old, and fucking comfortable Doc’s I’d had since I was eighteen and started my little kiss tradition. Biting my whole bottom lip, I slammed my foot into the ground and moaned like I just came.
“Tell me I look fucking good, old man!” I howled.
“You-you look very good, Mr. Baron.” He let out a nervous smile.
I laughed.
Picking up my Marlboro pack, I lit three cigarettes and took a drag so deep I thought I would pass out. I had cigarettes in prison, but it was a whole different story when I didn’t have to go through Blue, the smuggler, to get them.
I tossed the cigarette pack in my passenger seat and puffed a cloud of smoke before I checked my wallet. Credit cards, Massachusetts license (expired), apartment key card to my penthouse, and five grand—bonus spending money. I clicked the silver chain on my belt loop and shoved my wallet in my back pocket. The sound of my silver chain rattling with each movement I made never sounded so free. Ironic.
