"The Reset"
A Second Chance Short Story
By: Brandon Tizeno
"In order to keep your parole in good standing, here are a few rules that you HAVE to comply with, or I'll have no choice but to make some phone calls to send you back to the Joint."
It's been less than twelve hours since my parole officer told me that, and now that I see the bigger picture, he ain't kiddin'. Not only am I subject to a drug test at any given time, I have to get a job, AND have proof of the income. Thing is, as I'm reading three different online apps now, they all ask if you've been convicted before, which they say doesn't affect my hiring process, however, I have been a fool before. Damn, man. This dude probably could walk in at three in the morning, pull my ass out of bed, and have me pee in a cup.
So, why in the world did I let myself roll with those bruhs, anyway? I should've known their stupid asses wouldn't make it through the week without being busted somehow. When they handed my that pistol, hell, I wasn't actually expecting to use it. But, when things got chaotic, and that bystander dude got in our faces, I had to choice but to pull the trigger. Fortunately, I missed. Unfortunately, the judge didn't give a damn. Attempted murder in the first degree, along with the assault and armed robbery charges accrued that night with those three bozos. Ten years. And, that was because the judge was being nice. Good behavior get me out in six, but now that I face a new change in my life, it doesn't come without a price.
"You've been given a chance to hit the reset button in life. Now, all you have to do is prove you are worth the second shot." My parole officer tried to carry a friendly aura, but his tone simply let the world know who was in charge here, and it wasn't me. I walked out of his tiny office a little humble--shaky, but humble. Like he said, I'd hit the reset button. Now, mind you, it wasn't something that could completely clear everything I've done pertaining to the charges, or the incarceration. Basically, this so- called 'reset button' was really a policy that goes with the new found freedom; he was right about the 'worth the second shot' part. But, does he any idea how difficult it is to get job when you have a dark cloud over your head? I not picky about who hires me--I'll work fast food, or even work for a low-class restaurant, cleaning those nasty bathrooms all day. Bosses are gonna treat me like absolute shit, but--a job's a job, nowadays.
Now, a thing with running into some of the guys I used to roll with is a whole other issue. Not only do I have to get, and keep, a job, but refrain from getting involved with whatever those nimrods are up to, an expressed stern concern from the probation officer. And, wouldn't you know it, almost as soon as I stepped in the door of my cousin's house, where I was staying for the time being until I was financially strong enough to afford my own place again, his cell rang. The noise made me stop dead in my tracks, because the only other person that even knew I was off to prison besides the guys with me that night was a short, fast-talking, gossip-fueled woman that seems to have the sense of hearing of a German Shepard. Andrea Watkins. And, based on her choice of company, chances are, if I go back to prison for parole violation, their combined gossiping abilities will spread the word faster then the Plague. I was more than hesitant to talk to her; she's like dealing with a cop: anything you say can & will be used against you. So, imagine my gut feeling knowing my parole could may as well now be the talk of the community. Still, I decided chatting with anyone but my probation officer is a good chat right now. Pleasantries, a little about current events since I've been gone, and a few other details that have nothing to do with anyone, while I settled in for the day. Then, her voice become very stern; her words slowed to a crawl. Something had happened. She explained the reason she really called was to warn me about a guy I was with the night we did the robbery. He got paroled before I did, however, he wasn't even out more than two days before he reunited with some friends, and got back into trouble. Vehicular homicide. He came home to his sister--his newly made pregnant sister--and, found the baby's father was M.I.A. He tracked the guy down, and when he had the chance, that guy became a hood ornament. Things got worse after that. He led cops on a high speed pursuit, ending with a crash in a ditch, and his prompt arrest. An old high school friend, one that taught me how to survive on the streets, one that saved my ass more than a fair share number of times when my mouth got me into trouble my ass couldn't get me out of, was en route to his second term as an inmate. Broken parole. My soul shook a little. We finished the call on blissful terms, but I was still a bit uneasy. The next several days are going to determine just which road my life goes down: a free man with watchful eyes, or a rebound back to the old life, likely to end up as just another statistic?
My future rested on what I would have to do next.
...to be continued
A Second Chance Short Story
By: Brandon Tizeno
"In order to keep your parole in good standing, here are a few rules that you HAVE to comply with, or I'll have no choice but to make some phone calls to send you back to the Joint."
It's been less than twelve hours since my parole officer told me that, and now that I see the bigger picture, he ain't kiddin'. Not only am I subject to a drug test at any given time, I have to get a job, AND have proof of the income. Thing is, as I'm reading three different online apps now, they all ask if you've been convicted before, which they say doesn't affect my hiring process, however, I have been a fool before. Damn, man. This dude probably could walk in at three in the morning, pull my ass out of bed, and have me pee in a cup.
So, why in the world did I let myself roll with those bruhs, anyway? I should've known their stupid asses wouldn't make it through the week without being busted somehow. When they handed my that pistol, hell, I wasn't actually expecting to use it. But, when things got chaotic, and that bystander dude got in our faces, I had to choice but to pull the trigger. Fortunately, I missed. Unfortunately, the judge didn't give a damn. Attempted murder in the first degree, along with the assault and armed robbery charges accrued that night with those three bozos. Ten years. And, that was because the judge was being nice. Good behavior get me out in six, but now that I face a new change in my life, it doesn't come without a price.
"You've been given a chance to hit the reset button in life. Now, all you have to do is prove you are worth the second shot." My parole officer tried to carry a friendly aura, but his tone simply let the world know who was in charge here, and it wasn't me. I walked out of his tiny office a little humble--shaky, but humble. Like he said, I'd hit the reset button. Now, mind you, it wasn't something that could completely clear everything I've done pertaining to the charges, or the incarceration. Basically, this so- called 'reset button' was really a policy that goes with the new found freedom; he was right about the 'worth the second shot' part. But, does he any idea how difficult it is to get job when you have a dark cloud over your head? I not picky about who hires me--I'll work fast food, or even work for a low-class restaurant, cleaning those nasty bathrooms all day. Bosses are gonna treat me like absolute shit, but--a job's a job, nowadays.
Now, a thing with running into some of the guys I used to roll with is a whole other issue. Not only do I have to get, and keep, a job, but refrain from getting involved with whatever those nimrods are up to, an expressed stern concern from the probation officer. And, wouldn't you know it, almost as soon as I stepped in the door of my cousin's house, where I was staying for the time being until I was financially strong enough to afford my own place again, his cell rang. The noise made me stop dead in my tracks, because the only other person that even knew I was off to prison besides the guys with me that night was a short, fast-talking, gossip-fueled woman that seems to have the sense of hearing of a German Shepard. Andrea Watkins. And, based on her choice of company, chances are, if I go back to prison for parole violation, their combined gossiping abilities will spread the word faster then the Plague. I was more than hesitant to talk to her; she's like dealing with a cop: anything you say can & will be used against you. So, imagine my gut feeling knowing my parole could may as well now be the talk of the community. Still, I decided chatting with anyone but my probation officer is a good chat right now. Pleasantries, a little about current events since I've been gone, and a few other details that have nothing to do with anyone, while I settled in for the day. Then, her voice become very stern; her words slowed to a crawl. Something had happened. She explained the reason she really called was to warn me about a guy I was with the night we did the robbery. He got paroled before I did, however, he wasn't even out more than two days before he reunited with some friends, and got back into trouble. Vehicular homicide. He came home to his sister--his newly made pregnant sister--and, found the baby's father was M.I.A. He tracked the guy down, and when he had the chance, that guy became a hood ornament. Things got worse after that. He led cops on a high speed pursuit, ending with a crash in a ditch, and his prompt arrest. An old high school friend, one that taught me how to survive on the streets, one that saved my ass more than a fair share number of times when my mouth got me into trouble my ass couldn't get me out of, was en route to his second term as an inmate. Broken parole. My soul shook a little. We finished the call on blissful terms, but I was still a bit uneasy. The next several days are going to determine just which road my life goes down: a free man with watchful eyes, or a rebound back to the old life, likely to end up as just another statistic?
My future rested on what I would have to do next.
...to be continued
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