The Reset, Part Two

'The Reset'

Part Two

     Nightfall finally came. I was deep asleep, snuggled in a high-rise loft with a supermodel, moments from a lip-to-lip connection so romantically intense, it could set off seismic tremors, when my cousin's cell rang again. Nearly midnight. I heard the ring, but I was still making love quakes, so I didn't really bother to interrupt something so beautiful. My cousin didn't really give a damn. I was about to begin some baby-making procedures, when I was thrust back into reality. I struggled to get my eyes to remain open, blinking profusely, neck and spine screaming from having to sleep on his narrow couch. He turns on the ceiling fan-light, and hands me the phone. As I took it to my ear, the voice on the other end became my mental defibrillator, shocking my neurons to life. I was now fully awake. It was Marlon; my street brother. He was closing his CD shop, and heard I was out. Andrea had told me most of crew both Marl & myself used to hang with was either locked up, or dead. I was desperate for a saving grace. It wasn't a glamorous or high-paying job, but it was a job, and all I would have to do is keep merchandise stocked, and clean up as needed. If you had old CD's, he'd buy them from you, clean and fix them, and then place them in a special discount section. It was a good way to someone to earn some extra cash when their flow got low. So, when he made me an offer to not only work there, but to be his apprentice to manage it someday, like those popular resold CD's, I was instantly sold. Just one problem: it was a legit business, but fronted a not-so-legal business in a second backroom, adjacent to the main one. I remember how it worked: the secondary backroom was a street pharmacy, complete with stock piles of pills to deal with almost any ailment. And, since most in the neighborhood couldn't afford a ride in an ambulance, let alone afford any kind of prescription medication, this was go-to spot. They say loose lips can sink ships, and that's how word spread, reaching the ears of any average Joe or Jane that may be on the hunt. That job offering wasn't just to help out in the store, it was to also assist in working the main backroom, with a cut of the profits from the pill room. Legit paychecks, plus I'd be able to earn a little something extra with the pills. Good deal. The job would keep my probation officer in check. But, it was a major risk. Each day, having to watch my back for not only cops that may have gotten wind of the internal business, but knowing the streets, there is always someone riding a fast track to envy and greed, ready to put a bullet in your head, and rob you blind. 

     I was torn between my own self. Both choices had their ups, downs, and all-arounds, so naturally, I felt trapped between the two fates. They barked at each other like rival dogs neighboring from across the street. But, what could I really do at this point? I'd been rummaging through help wanted ads both in newspapers, and online, ever since leaving that office. I made a deal with Marl: he hires me on a legitimate basis, and I have no contact with anyone--or anything--that goes in or out of the pill backroom. I bring twelve years' experience in sales, cashier, and customer service, thanks in part to a couple of previous similar jobs, sans the illegal stuff, and he provides whatever my probation officer may need, like check stubs, W-2 forms, or even security camera footage of me actually working. I tell you, it's a helluva life. Once you're incarcerated, that part of your past remains linked to you forever, no matter what the files say; somebody somewhere has the knowledge that you were locked up, having to surrender all rights and privileges until release. As a paroled man, you have those returned to you, but with a stipulation of having using your newly granted freedom in such a manner, that there is no doubt anywhere of your outside time being used properly. Done. I was set. I was also taking the biggest risk in my life. I had already wounded myself by sheer stupidity in breaking the law, and now I drift in open waters again, wounds healed, but I'm surrounded by predators who will instantly smell my blood if I'm not careful keeping those wounds shut. This job was the current that keeps me moving on through towards safer waters. I took the deal, knowing what I was getting myself into. But, I didn't care too much about any consequences. A job's a job.  

     After a few days of getting adjusted, I managed to make my new job worthwhile. I spent most of the time either cleaning the store, dealing with customers, or having a few laughs with the other three workers. Things were pretty good, just enough hours to pay my cousin some rent until I could afford a place of my own. I got paid every two weeks, and as soon as that little slice of heaven was in my possession, it was off to my P.O., and I'm not talking about the post office. He called Marl to verify my hours, rate of pay, and any other significant things relevant to me actually working. I was solid as metal. Thing was, not a moment went past me that I didn't think about the second backroom, or the results of even having the knowledge of what goes on back there. Marl had a feeling I would feel like this, so he kept me afloat by making sure my tasks were things that had nothing to do with it. Restock certain areas that were nowhere near it, or just general store upkeep, like dusting floor signs, or cleaning off the light fixtures. If a customer showed up, I was the priority cashier, despite having two others on-board the crew, both of which are just as capable of doing any one of my tasks--Emilio, and Felix, who we affectionately call "String Bean" for his thin body frame. I swear that dude is made out of elastic body parts. Thankfully, neither Bean nor Felix know my situation with the parole thing, but it was put in jeopardy when Marl and I were closing one night, and he pulled me into his office.

Felix and Bean had already gone home, and I only stuck around for the extra hours, something I knew would make my P.O. smile, and be a bit more lenient. Once the front door was locked, main and outside sign lights turned off, we counted down the register, verified the numbers, and as he was placing the money into specially marked bags to put into the safe, he called me into the office, the flat screen monitor pointing right at me as I entered. He pointed to a figure on the screen, and sighed in disbelief. When I asked what was happening, he told me that figure was Felix, and this was security footage of the backroom. The second one. The one I have to avoid. My heart started to beat faster. What the hell was that idiot up to? Marl made my heart race when he explained what he found.

Or, rather, what he didn't find. 

     Over the past few days, he had been tracking the not-so-legal inventory, and notice certain pill types were missing: Oxycontin, both the actual brand and generic names, opium pills, sleep enhancers, blood pressure meds, all the way down to Marl usually deals with those transactions, so that the three of us would be clear of any problems that may accrue. Felix had other plans. He not only sold pills, keeping the profit for himself, but broke the number one rule: never get hooked on your own product. No wonder he was full of energy! Marl began noticing his lack of inventory, but Felix could not contain himself, no matter how well he hid that energy. It got to the point to where his eyes would appear to nearly want to pop our of their sockets. After a few weeks of this, business up front began to fall behind to the business in the back, which had Marl worried. He knew that there would be a mistake somewhere--selling to an undercover narc, or some jerk attempting to break-in, and just steal what he wants. And, knowing Felix's mouth? There's an old naval expression, "Loose lips sink ships," in other words, anyone could be listening on whatever information someone spills about a particular thing. Felix already had the gift of gab, so to be high on whatever he was using made him that much more talkative, that much more dangerous. I wanted to keep my distance, but I also didn't want to stir trouble, for fear of him finding out my parole, and he'd be able to use that to his advantage by getting me to lose control, fast-tracking my way back jail. It didn't matter anyway. Word of our little endeavor reached too many ears, and it became difficult to keep an eye on that second backroom, since there were a few instances of someone breaking in, and making off with some of the pills. I contemplated keeping the job, and was about to have a chat with Marl about this. However, the day I finally decided to make a move on this, two tall men in dark suits came in. We thought they were just some business folk in search of some music for an office party. They were much more than that.

     Just as they began looking around, Felix came in from the first backroom with a small cardboard box of old CDs, mostly compilation albums from the late 80's to early 90's. As he set the box down on a small table behind the cashier counter, he mumbled under his breath, "The Pharmacy's open. Hey, you think they got some good eye drops. My eyes been burnin' a lot lately." Code. Street customer needing an ibuprofen-type of pill that just happened to have a side effect of hallucinated visions. Extremely hallucinated, like suddenly seeing beige unicorns sipping tea underneath a rainbow, laced with inflated music notes that drip liquid candy that you can grab, and squeeze its juice in your teacup. With a nod, he turns to head to the pill backroom to meet the client. As soon as the exchange was made, he was forcefully taken to the floor. When I heard the loud thud, I rushed to check on things, but my stupid ass didn't think twice about going into that backroom; I just rushed right in, saw Felix face-first on the floor, in handcuffs. Right as I turned around, those two men were standing in close enough proximity where they didn't have to speak loudly to bark the order to throw my hands up. Marl was in his office when all the commotion took place, and was immediately arrested when he came out. Even though I never made any physical contact with the pills, some of which stolen by Felix from dealers just to be resold for his own profit, a factoid I had learned during the trials that followed, I still was charged with accessory after the fact, which automatically brought on a parole violation charge. If convicted, I'd be staring at about less than seven years in prison, but any time in the clink is time against you. 

     Well, here I am once again. Back on the inside. It's been less than twelve hours since I had to don an orange jumpsuit again. Things haven't changed since I've had a reset in life. Beefy inmates still trying to claim areas like they are still with gangs back on the streets. The food's so sloppy, I question if it is indeed sustenance intended for human consumption. Oh, and there's always someone trying to shank you for really no apparent reason. As far Marl or Felix, haven't seen them since the trials; chances are, they were shipped off to different prisons--Felix would be headed to a max security because of the other numerous charges, including a brutal murder, the fourth of his career as a criminal. Old Marlon only had the simple drug charge, with intent to distribute, and got a lucky break when the judge sent him to a small county correctional facility. That same judge blasted me for mindlessly blowing a new shot at making a better name for myself instead of just "felon." "No longer am I a nameless face in crowds," he said, "You'll now carry that label for the rest of your life." And, with that, he slammed his gavel, its crack sounding like a baseball player hitting a home run. If I were to close my eyes, I'd be able to see the onomatopoeia, as if it were a page from a comic book. As I sit here in my cell, a few photos of family taped to the walls, I cannot help but think about the choices I've made, especially taking on a job with dangerous surroundings just to keep the hound that is my probation officer off my back. I watch the few sun rays that have made it through the tiny window, drifting off into another round of long thinking.

One day down, six years to go.