air smelling slightly of humidity mixed with a lingering scent of pine cleaner. A twin mattress and box spring were pressed into the corner of the two inside walls, away from the cold, wet concrete. My bed had comforter and sheets tucked in between the mattress and box spring, and a thin crease between the pillow and the comforter.
A frayed carpet spread out from underneath the bed, covering most of the floor. There was a small end table with a shadeless lamp directly beside the bed. A matching wardrobe/dresser set were shoved together against the outside wall with an eight-inch-screen TV on top of the dresser.
Right next to the dresser and filling up the rest of the wall was a Formica-top kitchen table with a matching chair. A single-burner hot plate and small microwave sat at the back of the table against the wall, a jar of change on top of the microware. The microwave was also doing double duty as a bookend for a line of about twenty books.
As I lay on my bed, my only piece of furniture that could be sat or lain upon, I decompressed, congratulating myself for my day and my victories. But when I pulled the wad of bills out of my pocket, I remembered the bank and fell back onto my bed, shivering. I lay there forever, waiting for the heavy footsteps of police-issue boots as they came down the stairs to take me in for bank robbery.
Two steps forward, and two steps back. It was always that way.
7
I robbed my first bank by mistake. It was two weeks after getting a job at a new paper, some months after living NFA (no fixed address). Despite my disheveled appearance, the managing editor and I had worked together at another paper and he was desperate for a night copy editor, another pig on the rim. It was a dull and sometimes depressing job, so to have someone also desperate for work made me the perfect choice.
After two weeks editing night copy, I was presented with my first real paycheck in a long time. The ME gave me that first check himself, coming out of his office and handing me the white envelope, surprising the hell out of the other pigs on the editing rim. “Considering your circumstances, I’m bringing your check to you,” he said, trying to punch some authority into his voice. He may have scared the others on the rim, but I had seen him as a small-town reporter fresh out of journalism school so I wasn’t impressed by his appearance. “But this is the only time, Leo, because once you take it in your hands, I’m ordering you to head to the closest bank right now and open yourself an account so we can do a direct deposit. Do I make myself clear?”
I almost smiled at his order, but I knew it would unwise to undermine his authority. Despite our past relationship, a managing editor has got to look like he’s in power. So I just grabbed the envelope. “Yes, boss,” I said, tempted to flash him a salute but knowing that that would have also undermined his authority.
Then I headed out of the building, looking for the nearest bank. It was cold so I had my gloves on and my hood pulled over my toque to cut down on the biting wind. Unfortunately, the nearest bank was the same location where I had ended up sleeping in the ATM foyer during a cold snap several months ago, so I went on by. I was trying to put that past behind me, to forget my lost years, and coming to that bank over and over again, as I rebuilt my life, wouldn’t do.
Instead, I walked a few blocks to the north, where there were plenty of banking options. I chose one named after an eastern Canadian city and stepped in. The shock of the lights confused me for a second. It was like stepping into a casino, but instead of putting money in it to lose, I was putting money in it to save.
For a few seconds, I had no idea what to do; I had no recollection of how to fill out a deposit form or to open a bank account. I was like a prisoner being left on his own, to make his own decisions after years of being locked up. Instead of filling in the required boxes
A frayed carpet spread out from underneath the bed, covering most of the floor. There was a small end table with a shadeless lamp directly beside the bed. A matching wardrobe/dresser set were shoved together against the outside wall with an eight-inch-screen TV on top of the dresser.
Right next to the dresser and filling up the rest of the wall was a Formica-top kitchen table with a matching chair. A single-burner hot plate and small microwave sat at the back of the table against the wall, a jar of change on top of the microware. The microwave was also doing double duty as a bookend for a line of about twenty books.
As I lay on my bed, my only piece of furniture that could be sat or lain upon, I decompressed, congratulating myself for my day and my victories. But when I pulled the wad of bills out of my pocket, I remembered the bank and fell back onto my bed, shivering. I lay there forever, waiting for the heavy footsteps of police-issue boots as they came down the stairs to take me in for bank robbery.
Two steps forward, and two steps back. It was always that way.
7
I robbed my first bank by mistake. It was two weeks after getting a job at a new paper, some months after living NFA (no fixed address). Despite my disheveled appearance, the managing editor and I had worked together at another paper and he was desperate for a night copy editor, another pig on the rim. It was a dull and sometimes depressing job, so to have someone also desperate for work made me the perfect choice.
After two weeks editing night copy, I was presented with my first real paycheck in a long time. The ME gave me that first check himself, coming out of his office and handing me the white envelope, surprising the hell out of the other pigs on the editing rim. “Considering your circumstances, I’m bringing your check to you,” he said, trying to punch some authority into his voice. He may have scared the others on the rim, but I had seen him as a small-town reporter fresh out of journalism school so I wasn’t impressed by his appearance. “But this is the only time, Leo, because once you take it in your hands, I’m ordering you to head to the closest bank right now and open yourself an account so we can do a direct deposit. Do I make myself clear?”
I almost smiled at his order, but I knew it would unwise to undermine his authority. Despite our past relationship, a managing editor has got to look like he’s in power. So I just grabbed the envelope. “Yes, boss,” I said, tempted to flash him a salute but knowing that that would have also undermined his authority.
Then I headed out of the building, looking for the nearest bank. It was cold so I had my gloves on and my hood pulled over my toque to cut down on the biting wind. Unfortunately, the nearest bank was the same location where I had ended up sleeping in the ATM foyer during a cold snap several months ago, so I went on by. I was trying to put that past behind me, to forget my lost years, and coming to that bank over and over again, as I rebuilt my life, wouldn’t do.
Instead, I walked a few blocks to the north, where there were plenty of banking options. I chose one named after an eastern Canadian city and stepped in. The shock of the lights confused me for a second. It was like stepping into a casino, but instead of putting money in it to lose, I was putting money in it to save.
For a few seconds, I had no idea what to do; I had no recollection of how to fill out a deposit form or to open a bank account. I was like a prisoner being left on his own, to make his own decisions after years of being locked up. Instead of filling in the required boxes
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