Living Right on Wrong Street

by Titus Pollard

  Job looked around. He saw blank walls, and even they seemed to be telling him that a turnaround was needed. They were a bunch of blank canvasses waiting to see how he would paint the portrait. Monica’s words were on his brain. “I hear you, honey.”

  “I really hope you mean it.”

  On the following day, Job awakened to piled furniture, unpacked boxes, and a knowledge that he and Monica would be in close quarters as they worked to gain some order at 2333 Rong Street.

  He had always contended that their home, no matter where, was his castle, but the layout was Monica’s domain. That Friday was devoted to her telling him where to set a box, hammer a nail, blasé, blasé.

  With few exceptions, that was the sum of their conversation that morning.

  He tried breaking the monotony with light discussion that required her to respond with more than short answers. By lunchtime, he had run out of fresh topics. Disgusted with the silence, he decided to try a fresh approach to kicking off a chat.

  “Look honey.” Job snatched a Bible from the bed stand and began shuffling through the pages for any scripture that may force her out of silence, but impatience made him give up on finding one. Content in relying on his memory, he said, “The Bible talks about going to bed angry. This place is the wrong place to let the sun be against you.”

  Monica twisted her mouth, put her hands on her hips, and gave him a discomforting look. “And you’re the last person to quote a book you barely believe in.”

  Her words pierced his thoughts and soul. All Job could say was, “It was a joke. Lighten up.”

  Monica let out a snappy, fake grin. She turned and went back to work.

  That evening, she was courteous enough to let him know that dinner was ready, but the meal was silent except for an occasional slurp or chew.

  Before they went to sleep for the night, she turned over and said, “I was unpacking some files in the office when I ran across something that I bet you’ve forgotten.”

  Job was turned away from her, staring at a dark, blank wall, hoping that it could give him some relief. “What?”

  “The ’99 taxes you haven’t filed.”

  “I’m gonna get to it.”

  “Um hm. That’s what I’m talking about. You don’t pay attention to what’s going on around you. Frankly, it makes me sick.”

  Job didn’t respond.

  With that, she rolled in the opposite direction, and they said their good nights.

  Saturday was the day silence was broken. Job was resolute not to let the first waking hour go by without having an entertaining conversation or some interaction without the tension.

  At Monica’s every turn he was there, cracking a joke, asking a question, or making faces to make her laugh. Job struggled until one of his performances worked.

  “Okay, okay! You’re getting on my nerves. I’ll talk; just give me some space,” she said.

  Job granted her wish.

  Around ten, he suggested they cruise Phoenix, take time away from unpacking and check out the city. No planned agenda, just run headlong into a suburb, see a few interesting attractions, and act on impulse.

  To his surprise, she took him up on the idea. They ran up under a shower, donned color-matched linen outfits, jumped in the SUV, and took off.

  It was a thirty minute drive down Bell Avenue to Scottsdale, where Job picked up a few items at a local drug store. For the most part, they window shopped.

  They doubled back a ways, heading south down Seventh Street to Bank One Ballpark, home of the Diamondbacks. They picked up a schedule of the remaining home games. They stopped in the Blues Light Jazz Grill on Fifty-first and Indian School for a late lunch, and then spent a short time at the flea market on the Arizona State Fairgrounds.

  Job glanced over at Monica, who had her feet propped up on the dash, flipping a city map from back to front. She eyed him without a blink, but she extended her hand. He touched her for a moment and then returned his attention to driving.

  Job dug his heels into the floorboard of the vehicle. “Hey baby?”

  “Um hm.” Her response sounded soothing, almost benevolent.

  “We’re going to pass right by Coral Gables Boulevard. Mountain River High is on that street. Let’s drive by there on the way home. I’m trying to get used to going there from any direction.”

  “Why not?”

  Job considered Mountain River, in comparison to other public schools, as an ingenious piece of architecture. The exterior was made of material native to the Southwest—a mustard colored adobe hewn out of a set of hills. It faced away from the daytime heat and was covered by metal roofing.

  He thought it peculiar that the gate was open with a few cars in the parking lot. Curious to see why the school seemed accessible on the weekend, he pulled in.

  Monica frowned at him and popped her lips. “I thought we were only driving by. I should’ve known better.”

  “We might get to see my classroom.”

  Job parked the car and asked if she was getting out.

  Monica adjusted her seat into a more relaxed position. “You’re on your own. Leave the car running.” She leaned back, unbuckled her seatbelt, and turned on the radio.

  Job went to the front entrance, knocked, and then realized the door was already unlocked. He heard a chirp as he started down the main hallway, guessing that it was an alert that someone had entered the building. He had passed a few classrooms that appeared to be used for science: Bunsen burners, rows of test tubes, the formaldehyde smell.

  He was met by a gentleman who was about five foot ten with sledge hammer hands, sunburned skin, satin black, shoulder length hair, and a thick Spanish accent. He had a tape measurer on his belt and a broom in his hand.

  Job’s Spanish skills, one thing he’d have to work on if he were to survive in Phoenix, were limited at best. Somehow he and the custodian were able to come to a verbal understanding. His name was Enrique. He was using the remaining Saturdays as extra time to make last minute preparations before school began in August.

  Enrique said, “Principal,” pointed down the hall and then said, “Izquierda.”

  Job wrenched his brain for a Spanish-to-English interpretation. He figured that the principal’s office was nearby and she must be in.

  Enrique gave him an, “Adios,” and went on his way.

  The administrative offices were in a remote corner at the end of the central hallway. Job entered through the door, which was accented with a frosted glass. Inside the offices was a massive counter that measured about four feet high. There was a partition for three large desks, columns of file cabinets, and a monstrous safe.

  Job smelled coffee. It must’ve been instant, with a hint of mint. There were faint sounds of someone on a phone. He followed his ears.

  He was led to a woman who was shuffling a set of multi-colored papers and talking on the phone.

  She halted her conversation when she noticed Job standing in the doorway, and hung up. “Mr. Wright,” she said.

  Job’s mouth hung open. How did this woman know his name? And who is she; a teacher?

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to startle you.” The woman placed the paperwork on the desk in front of her, saying, “When you applied to Paradise School District, you sent in a picture. The principal where you’re assigned, always receives a photo of the potential employee. I’m Bianca Rizzo.”

  This couldn’t possibly be the principal. He shook her extended hand and looked at her without appearing to gawk. He could see the Italian in her; the light cream skin yoked by burnt almond hair, the retroussé nose, thin lips, and honey colored eyes that were accented by a pair of red Art Nouveau spectacles. Her wide smile gave him the impression that she was personable, yet with an authoritative intellect. He couldn’t get over her youthful look. She seemed only one year the other side of her high school diploma.

  “I didn’t expect you until Monday. Superintendent McManus called and told me that you would be moving in and getting settled this weeke
nd. Dedication. I’m impressed,” Bianca said.

  “Don’t be so impressed, Mrs. Rizzo. You’re the one here on Saturday actually working. I’m just looking around.”

  “Ms., please,” she corrected.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll get married when I find the right man. Meanwhile, I’m concentrating on my career.”

  For a fleeting moment, Job felt a slight awkwardness when she voiced her current marital status. “Good thing. Concentrating on your career, I mean.”

  “Humph. The district expects me to be here any day of the week, so it doesn’t count. I’m a twelve-month employee. And the principal.”

  Bianca thumbed through a stack of student attendance records from which she pulled one. “So, what brings you by here?”

  He checked his watch and began to get uneasy, remembering that Monica was out in the car. “We took a half day’s break from unpacking to drive around and see what we could see.”

  “We?”

  “My wife and I.”

  Silence.

  Job took the initiative to clear up Bianca’s perplexed look. “Monica—my wife—is outside. And I better be getting back to her before she kills me.”

  “Well, Mr. Wright. I hope you were able to see some interesting sights, although there’s nothing much around here to see.” Her dark eyes were shieded under the part in her hair.

  He shifted his eyes to a different direction. “I really must go.”

  “I won’t be here much longer myself. I need to begin a weekend. What’s left of it. Umm, Mr. Wright?”

  Job, who had begun heading toward the door, spun around. “Yes?”

  “Have a great day.” The inflection in Bianca’s voice sounded more like she had just asked a question than given a suggestion. Job thought it was a slick reprimand for walking away without speaking. “You, too,” he said with a hint of nervousness.

  When Job returned to the car, he found Monica asleep, curled up in the seat with the street map unfolded over her.

  When he awakened her, she reeled right into him with a few loud, unrepeatable comments. After a moment or so, she calmed down and asked, “What were you thinking, leaving me like that? You’re standing on thin ground with me anyway, and then you have me out here on a practically deserted parking lot.” She rolled her eyes away from him.

  “I met the principal and a custodian,” Job said, trying to sound matter-of-factly.

  “How was he?”

  Job was reminded of Bianca Rizzo. The youthful look, the resonant voice. In the same exact moment, he felt both guilty and fortunate. He did his best to respond with as little excitement as possible. “Oh, the principal? She—”

  “She?”

  “Yeah.” Job breathed in a portion of nonchalance. “She was okay.”

  Chapter 5

  The wicked plotteth against the just, and gnasheth upon him with his teeth.

  Psalms 37:12

  Delvin pulled his hands out of the water, thankful that they were protected by industrial gauge rubber gloves. Kentucky Corrections required chlorine bleach in the dishwater, but he was pale enough without sticking his bare hands into the chemical of the servant class. He had heard of bleach being used before. He knew that outside of prison, it was how the Chinese laundered his shirts and the way his stylist lightened hair.

  He was astounded at the perspective he could gain just by peering into and pounding through dishwater. It was the last day to bust suds on his thirty-day, ninety-meal punishment. He made a mental note not to wish for the assignment again.

  Inmate after inmate filed past his area, depositing their plastic trays into what they called the Bean Chute, a twelve by twelve square that had been cut into the wall and trimmed out in welded metal. He took a rubber spatula and cleared each tray before plunging it into the hot, murky water. There was a nauseating odor of human skin and leftover scraps from that evening’s meal: Salisbury steak, green beans, corn on the cob, and fruit cocktail.

  Standing still, watching soap bubbles take shape then burst, gave him time to plot, plan, and analyze. He hadn’t forgotten where he was and that Job Wright wasn’t there with him.

  Delvin wanted redemption and soon. He knew that, although he was incarcerated, he could make arrangements to put a free man in uncomfortable positions. What better way to feel better than to pawn his former partner off, have him to think he had been placed in a little prison?

  All it took was a little ingenuity, cold hard cash, and a relentless person to damage their target. Delvin possessed all three. All he lacked was a contact on the inside. He had plucked out a name from among the ranks. But Stinson had not come through the line just yet.

  Tall, dumpy, slim, and overweight—a barnyard of roosters clucking after a late feeding came through that little hole for a brief visit. He refused to look up and make any one face recognizable. For him, each man that evening was just a shadow, a talking head with legs. With one exception.

  “Aw man, don’t do that. Didn’t anybody tell you?” Stinson asked as he scratched the chest hair sticking out from his shirt. “You’re throwing away the goods.”

  Delvin’s heart pounded. “What goods?” He took quick glances at several trays. Nothing looked salvageable on any of them.

  “I still gotta lot to teach you.” Stinson took his bare hands, reached into a few trays and yanked up the corn cobs, each devoid of a single kernel. He tossed them into a nearby plastic lined fifty gallon container. He brushed his forehead and a few corn silks stuck above his eyebrow. “You’re trying to keep us from making this week’s hooch, huh?”

  Delvin was silent, yet confident that Stinson could see confusion written on his face.

  “Never mind, Storm. I’ll give you the low-down later. Just don’t get rid of these.” He held up another cob.

  Stinson continued to chatter on about one topic then another; he was either unaware or unconcerned that he was holding up the line. It occurred to Delvin that this man might be the very one he needed to befriend. Or better yet, use.

  Delvin cleaned the last tray while the container of cobs was whisked away to an undisclosed destination. He peeled off the gloves and hung them on a nearby high pressure sprayer. He tipped his head to the guard then exited out of the galley area. He walked into the cafeteria and over where Stinson, Saks, and Murphy were standing around one of the tables, engaging in what seemed to be a lie-telling contest.

  Delvin directed an intentional gaze at Stinson. “You have a minute?”

  “Who? Me?” Stinson asked. His biceps popped repeatedly.

  Saks and Murphy took the hint and gathered themselves into a remote area of the room, about thirty feet away.

  Stinson hoisted himself onto a table and planted his feet on the bench. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  Delvin looked around, assured that no additional ears were joining the conversation. “Need something.”

  He grunted. “Oh, this is grand. You come to me—for something. Must be a cold day in hell.” He turned his left hand until the palm was up and then scratched it with his right.

  “You have a way in this place,” Delvin said.

  “You’re telling me stuff I already know.”

  Delvin seethed underneath, but appeared composed. His daily discourse with the inmates had been far from cordial. The majority of his interactions had barely been above a hello. He was being tested by the very one who had attempted to befriend him in the past. It was a sickening feeling, having to depend on another for anything. “I want something. That’s all.”

  Delvin was growing impatient, a minute regret that he had even approached the man he believed was the most conceited inmate in Ashland. “So, are you the man or should I look for another?”

  “Let me ask you something, Storm.” He shook his head. “Are you blazed? Something wrong with you ... like ... crazy?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You must be, because you don’t get the picture. What’s in it for me?” Stinson
was loud enough to cause Murphy and Saks to look in their direction for a brief moment.

  Delvin backed away, squeezing his fists so tight the blood left his hands, leaving the knuckles eggshell white. “See, I knew you were homosexual. Trying to pretend like you have my well-being at heart. Back off.”

  Stinson’s eyes opened up. He began a hard laugh, continuing until he began to choke. He straightened up, pounded his chest, and regained his composure. “Man, I told you I ain’t into that. I meant it. You ain’t seen nothing outta me that told you I’m a siss—get real.”

  Delvin was confident that Stinson was resourceful. Above all, he knew the network inside the hole had laws that ascended above the warden, with a hierarchy of its own. “I’m going to put together a list. Things I want while I’m here.”

  “Contraband?”

  “No. Some papers, books, and stuff.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard.”

  “But it won’t be things you can find inside, necessarily.”

  Stinson cocked his head. “I figured that.” “Might take me a few days to compile the list. I’ll let you know when it’s completed.”

  “The person who actually secures the goods won’t be me.”

  Delvin leaned in, wondering if his time had just been wasted on the wrong person. “Why am I talking to you, then?”

  “You have a thing against patience, don’t you? Be cool.”

  Stinson was in control and Delvin hated it. Having to wait for someone else to put a plan into motion was not his forté, but he had no choice. “You haven’t told me what you wanted out of this.”

  Stinson rubbed his face, twisting his cheeks as if in a whirlwind of thought. Moments passed. He sighed. “A toy.”

  Delvin, had expected something more profound. Then he asked, “What? A set of Chinese tension balls? A stainless steel abacus? What?”

  Stinson belted out a laugh to confirm Delvin’s ignorance. “Naw, man. A regular toy. Hoola hoop, Slinky. In this place, a toy makes problems light; gives a ray of hope. It brings out the child inside no matter how old you are. Murphy taught us that.”