hours since I last dosed myself, so I’m not worried about anything popping up on his radar.
Duane has manipulated his position as a probation officer into a dual role as an active recruiter for a Southern California arm of the white supremacist movement. Of course, he never quite calls it that when he’s pitching it to me. To him, it’s more of an organization for “wayward white men to find their place in a self-destructing society” or a “men’s club for like-minded Caucasians to carve their place back into an America they built.” My pre-prison medical studies have made me an exceptional “get” for Duane’s racist faction, and though he never pushes me too hard, I feel there is a constant stream of pressure over it. I worry slightly that he will one day increase his push by utilizing the considerable leverage he has over me, but for the time being, he is just content to let the idea marinate. He’s smart enough to not push too hard. Of course, he might just be exercising caution because the word from another parolee I ran across is that it was the racial shit that got him busted down from being a real cop. The way Caruzzi spins it is “bullshit bureaucracy.” I pee just enough to fill the cup up to its prescribed line, and finish in the toilet. My urine is cloudy and dark, and I remind myself to drink more water in the future. Careful to ensure nothing has connected with the outside of the cup, I even take the time to wipe it clean before capping it. I return to Caruzzi and set the cup on a napkin to his right. “Make good choices,” he says by way of dismissing me before he inhales more Diet Pepsi. “Oh”—his voice freezes me as I’m almost to the door—“and try to get more sleep. You look like you belong in a concentration camp.” I do feel the need for slumber, but as soon as I get home, I dig into my cigar box for another pill capsule to cook up; sleep will come in time.
—
I wake to blackness, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I am not still under the effects of the heroin. I’ve only slept for a couple of hours, but I am, at once, now restlessly alert. My apartment feels closed off, narrow and stuffy, and I realize it is the last place I want to be at the moment. With no missed calls, though, and nothing else to do, I take a walk.
Night has only just settled over Los Angeles, and children are still playing in the streets, stripped down to their bare minimum. An air conditioner humming out a second-story window drips a steady trickle of condensation down; I stand beneath it, wetting my face and shoulders. An elderly Hispanic man passing by seems to appreciate my situation, though he does not give me eye contact and hurries on his way. I resume my walk, now consciously trying to elicit hellos from my fellow pedestrians. It is almost a basic need for simple communication with a fellow human being, but none are forthcoming. I can’t blame them; a Caucasian man stalking the dirty boulevards with slicked-back hair and wide eyes is, even under normal circumstances, not the sort they want to engage in a casual conversation. Unwilling to be stymied, my need persists; my stroll takes on direction, and I can feel my step quicken beneath me. I see the neon shine of the Electric Candy Factory over the square rooftops of surrounding businesses, and it plants a grin across my jaw. Sometimes you gotta go where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. Besides, I would be selfish if I spent all my new-gotten $4,600 just on me.
I cross the parking lot, threading between low-end Chryslers, and see Royal standing massively beside the cushioned red door.
“Hey, big shot!” The shout is feminine, angry, and to my right. The waitress with the tattoo sleeve, Ivy, is advancing toward me, heels clicking on asphalt, and one hand is curled into itself. A quick glance tells me that she’s gotten Royal’s attention as well.
“Get lost, bitch,” he warns her, but I wave off
Duane has manipulated his position as a probation officer into a dual role as an active recruiter for a Southern California arm of the white supremacist movement. Of course, he never quite calls it that when he’s pitching it to me. To him, it’s more of an organization for “wayward white men to find their place in a self-destructing society” or a “men’s club for like-minded Caucasians to carve their place back into an America they built.” My pre-prison medical studies have made me an exceptional “get” for Duane’s racist faction, and though he never pushes me too hard, I feel there is a constant stream of pressure over it. I worry slightly that he will one day increase his push by utilizing the considerable leverage he has over me, but for the time being, he is just content to let the idea marinate. He’s smart enough to not push too hard. Of course, he might just be exercising caution because the word from another parolee I ran across is that it was the racial shit that got him busted down from being a real cop. The way Caruzzi spins it is “bullshit bureaucracy.” I pee just enough to fill the cup up to its prescribed line, and finish in the toilet. My urine is cloudy and dark, and I remind myself to drink more water in the future. Careful to ensure nothing has connected with the outside of the cup, I even take the time to wipe it clean before capping it. I return to Caruzzi and set the cup on a napkin to his right. “Make good choices,” he says by way of dismissing me before he inhales more Diet Pepsi. “Oh”—his voice freezes me as I’m almost to the door—“and try to get more sleep. You look like you belong in a concentration camp.” I do feel the need for slumber, but as soon as I get home, I dig into my cigar box for another pill capsule to cook up; sleep will come in time.
—
I wake to blackness, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I am not still under the effects of the heroin. I’ve only slept for a couple of hours, but I am, at once, now restlessly alert. My apartment feels closed off, narrow and stuffy, and I realize it is the last place I want to be at the moment. With no missed calls, though, and nothing else to do, I take a walk.
Night has only just settled over Los Angeles, and children are still playing in the streets, stripped down to their bare minimum. An air conditioner humming out a second-story window drips a steady trickle of condensation down; I stand beneath it, wetting my face and shoulders. An elderly Hispanic man passing by seems to appreciate my situation, though he does not give me eye contact and hurries on his way. I resume my walk, now consciously trying to elicit hellos from my fellow pedestrians. It is almost a basic need for simple communication with a fellow human being, but none are forthcoming. I can’t blame them; a Caucasian man stalking the dirty boulevards with slicked-back hair and wide eyes is, even under normal circumstances, not the sort they want to engage in a casual conversation. Unwilling to be stymied, my need persists; my stroll takes on direction, and I can feel my step quicken beneath me. I see the neon shine of the Electric Candy Factory over the square rooftops of surrounding businesses, and it plants a grin across my jaw. Sometimes you gotta go where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. Besides, I would be selfish if I spent all my new-gotten $4,600 just on me.
I cross the parking lot, threading between low-end Chryslers, and see Royal standing massively beside the cushioned red door.
“Hey, big shot!” The shout is feminine, angry, and to my right. The waitress with the tattoo sleeve, Ivy, is advancing toward me, heels clicking on asphalt, and one hand is curled into itself. A quick glance tells me that she’s gotten Royal’s attention as well.
“Get lost, bitch,” he warns her, but I wave off
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