David Alan Dedin
A Very Good Year
Twenty-Two
A Very Good Year
2016
BZZZZZZZZT!
The warm desert sun had just risen in the sky when the door buzzed open at the Ely State Prison in Nevada, 9:01am on the dot. A wisp of dust blew across the sand as a tall figure stepped out holding a canvas duffle bag and wearing a donated sailor’s coat over a white T-shirt. He walked stoically across the empty courtyard, then waited as a fence buzzed aside – Bzzzzzt! – before passing through the opening. A guard wearing sunglasses watched from the tower, as the gate rolled closed behind him – Bzzzzzt!
It locked with a now too-familiar sound.
Silence.
Raising his head towards the morning sun, Patrick closed his eyes to feel the warmth of freedom.
* * * * *
Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…
Gravel crunched beneath his cloth shoes as Patrick walked towards the bus stop on the empty road ahead. The desert felt vast around him. After a decade of concrete walls, even the barren landscape – a painting of drab browns, dirty blues, and sporadic greens – felt like an explosion of color to his senses. He could smell the dirt in the air, with the faint hint of creosote from rain the previous evening.
Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…
Big white clouds, like tufts of cotton candy, momentarily blocked the rising yellow sun when Patrick approached the lonely bus stop on the desolate two-lane road.
Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…
He could see the plexiglass bus shelter now…
Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…
And the mane of Windex-blue hair on the woman who leaned on a Prius, parked to its side.
Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…
Stephanie looked up when she heard him approach – “Patrick!”
Scrunch – SLAM!
She slammed into his chest so hard when she hugged him, he nearly dropped his bag.
“Migod, you’ve gotten big,” they both said together.
* * * * *
“A Grand Slam, scrambled eggs and bacon for you,” the waitress said, setting a plate in front of Stephanie, “and a Grand Slam with over-easy eggs and sausage for you,” she said to Patrick as she placed his own plate on the table.
The Denny’s waitress then took a deep breath –
“AND a Lumberjack Slam with scrambled eggs” – she gave Patrick a second plate – “a Country Slam, with more scrambled eggs” – a third plate – “a Moons Over My Hammy, a side of biscuits and gravy, and four sides of patty sausage.”
The server had to carefully push everything forward to make room.
“I hope you don’t mind hun, but I just had the cook put it all on the same plate.” The waitress added a steaming platter of round brown circles to the table. “I’ll be back with the toast. Is it okay if we put those on the same plate too?”
“Yes ma’am,” Patrick told her, his mouth full of food. “Oh – can I have Tabasco?”
“Of course.” The server smiled politely, leaving with her tray and jack.
Stephanie cracked a piece of bacon in half while she watched Patrick eat. He shoveled food into his mouth like a starving North Korean child on his very first trip to The Old Country Buffet. “Feel better?” she asked.
“Mmmph – you have no idea how good this tastes!”
The young woman grinned. “I’d always imagined Denny’s food as being the same as prison food. At least that’s how my mom used to describe it.”
“Not even close,” Patrick said, as the waitress handed him a pyramid of hot buttered bread. She refilled their coffee, then left the pot on the table. He raised his finger –
“Tabasco?”
“Oh – here you go.” She handed him a bottle from her apron. “You folks need anything else?”
“We’re fine,” Steph told her.
“Enjoy your meal.”
“Mmmph!”
Stephanie cracked another piece of bacon while Patrick poured hot sauce over everything. She watched him scarf – Holy crap, Dude…I can’t believe how bulked out you are! – though unlike many ex-cons she knew, Patrick wasn’t fat – quite the opposite, in fact. Ten years of incarceration had completely altered his appearance. What had been once a tall and skinny thing had evolved into a tower of jail yard muscle. His arms bulged from weight room curls, and his neck was thicker, with a spattering of tattoos. His hair had gone brown and was now receding slightly, and Steph could only imagine what his legs must have looked like beneath his donated pants.
He looks like a friggin’ action figure.
Patrick felt her eyes upon him – “What?”
She smiled. “Just thinking.” She gingerly poked at her eggs.
“About what?”
“About you.”
“Why’s that?”
“No reason.”
Reaching for his coffee, Patrick looked up and wiped his mouth. His stomach was budging. They had ordered too much food. “You embarrassed?”
“What?”
“Embarrassed to be with me?”
“Wait, what? No, of course not!”
“Then what are you thinking about?” Patrick asked, pulling over the biscuits and gravy. He signed before cutting into them. I ordered them, so I may as well try…
“Dude, there’s no way you’re gonna’ eat all this.” Reaching across the table, Steph poked one of the biscuits with her fork and threw it on her own plate. “And, no…I’m not embarrassed to be with you.” Patrick watched as the window’s sunlight caught her bright blue hair like neon.
She kicked him under the table intentionally.
“I am a little embarrassed by these,” she admitted, referring to his canvas shoes. “I say we take you shopping.”
She pushed her plate aside.
He smiled slightly. “Steph, they gave me a little cash when I got out, but I need to save that money so I can find someplace to” – she motioned him quiet.
“I said I’m taking you shopping.”
Patrick stopped chewing.
Stephanie waved for the check.
“Finish up what you can, but we’re not taking any of this to-go. It’ll stink up my car.”
The server dropped the bill, but Stephanie had her wait – “Here you go.”
“I’ll bring back your change, hun.”
“No change, ma’am.”
The waitress’s eyes widened on realizing her tip.
“Well thank you, Miss – that’s very generous. You two have a wonderful day!” The server patted Patrick’s shoulder before leaving. “And good luck to you, Sir.”
“I’m gonna’ hit the can before we leave,” Stephanie said, standing up. “I’ll meet you at the car.” Patrick watch her zig-zag through the tables towards the restrooms, and marveled that despite a decade having passed, she still had her youthful sass, only now in the body of a beautiful young woman.
Our Guinevere has risen.
Grabbing one last swig of coffee, he noticed that their waitress was now talking to another server, and pointing happily at their table – Err, exactly how big a tip did you leave her, Steph?
* * * * *
“Can we see a pair of these,” Stephanie asked, after a two-hour drive to the Crystal Springs Premium Outlet Center. She was holding up a high-topped logger boot, with a heavy sole and thick heel. The clerk at the Red Wings store nodded – “Size 12, right?” – before disappearing into the back. She showed the boot to Patrick, who was sitting in a chair next to a pile of overstuffed outlet mall bags. He shrugged his shoulders. The salesman returned with a box, then reached for ex-con’s foot while crouching down.
“I’ll do that myself,” Patrick told him.
“Of course, Sir. Just let me know how they feel.”
Stephanie smiled. “Those are fuckin’ badass, Dude.”
Patrick noticed the price tag - $189. “They’re nice, Steph…but they’re too much money.” She shrugged. “I got it.”
“Steph, please…you’ve bought me way too much already.” The bags on the next seat over included the Levi’s store, Eddie Bauer, Banana Republic, and Abercrombie & Fitch. Shopping with Stephanie felt like hitting Northwoods Mall with Guinevere 25 years ago. So…many…bags.
“Seriously. All I need is a good pair of sneakers, and I’ll be fine.”
“Then, let’s hit the Nike store next.” Steph was now reading the mall’s small folding map. “Unless you want Reebok’s instead. Or, wait – does Mikasa make tennis shoes?”
“How do those feel, Sir?” The salesman reappeared while Patrick finished lacing.
“They’re great, but” –
“We’ll take them,” Steph interrupted, handing the clerk a credit card. “And throw in some shoe polish, too.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Patrick sighed loudly. Yes, he appreciated – and needed – the impromptu shopping trip, but after a decade of being told what to do by others, he had hoped that his first day out of prison might include just a little, you know…freedom. He watched Stephanie charge what were apparently now his new boots, then replace her American Express into a wallet on a chain – which she shoved into her back jeans pocket. Her appearance reminded him of Leela from Futurama, with boots of her own, tight jeans, white tank top, and blue instead of purple hair.
Like her mother often did at Checker’s, Steph returned from the register, smiling –
“So, apparently Mikasa sells wine glasses and crystal bowls.”
“I don’t need any wine glasses, Steph.”
“Not even to make a shiv? If yes, then I know where we can get broken glass for free.” She kicked his foot again. “How does that feel?”
“Great, but listen…I really can’t let you buy me anymore” –
“Lace up the other one,” she cut him off. “And you’re right. I think we should hit the road.” As Patrick removed the stuffing from the second boot, Stephanie watched passing soccer moms on the sidewalk in the window. One of them shot her a disapproving glare, causing Steph to narrow her eyes – bitch.
“How’s this?” Patrick’s reflection asked, now appearing behind her. She turned around to find him even taller, tottering slightly in the unfamiliar footwear. “They’re kind of heavy, but surprisingly comfortable.”
“They look good on you, Pat.”
He smiled with melancholy. “Kind of makes me think of Alan. He used to wear boots like this all the time.”
“Well,” Stephanie said, grabbing an armful of bags. “Alan used to wear a lot of things he shouldn’t have…including the face of a friend.” Patrick watched her scoop and throw his dirty prison shoes into a nearby trash can. “But, I think that we can both agree that particular chapter in life is long behind us, thank fucking God” –
“It’s time for you to wear the big-boy boots now.”
* * * * *
Three hours later, after a stop for lunch and a trip to Walmart, Patrick and Stephanie climbed a terrifying flight of steep, open-air, fire escape stairs…and onto a small iron landing, that clung to the building’s third-floor wall like a spider. With bags in her teeth, the young woman jingled keys. Patrick held on for dear life below her. The staircase was so tall, it gave him vertigo. His own hands were also full of bags, though as his knuckles grew white on the narrow metal hand railing, he now regretted not dividing them into two trips. He cleared his throat nervously –
“I’ll stay for the night Steph, but tomorrow I’ll find a halfway house or something. They gave me a list of places I can go.” He heard keys jingle above him – click.
“I’m not sure I’m the best fit for a house full of roommates,” he added, nervously looking over the edge. How many college students have given their lives here, coming home drunk, after a late-night party?
“Will you just shut up, already?” Stephanie held the door open for him. “Do you honestly think that I live in a fuckin’ dorm?”
Patrick’s heart slowed once he stepped from air and onto solid floor. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he found himself in a long, wide, industrial corridor, in a red brick building that had once been a school, but now had been converted into loft-style apartments. Like Checker’s dining room, the hall was lit by hanging schoolhouse lights.
“Welcome to Schoolhouse Rock,” Stephanie explained, motioning him forward. “And yes, that’s really its name.”
“This is your apartment?” Patrick seemed more astonished than surprised.
“It’s more of a commune than an apartment,” Steph told him. We all have our rooms” – she gestured towards the old classrooms on either side – “but they don’t have running water, so we share a kitchen and communal bathrooms.”
“How many people live here?”
“Dunno…it changes a lot. There’s me, Suzanne and Darryl – we’re the ones who’ve been here the longest. And then there’s some dude in his fifties who lives at the end. Nobody ever sees him, though. Sometimes he roller-skates up and down the hallway.”
Patrick smiled. “So, this isn’t exactly a college dorm?”
“Well, yes and no. The college kids rent the second floor below us – those rooms are smaller. But the second and third floors are separate from each other, and the college floor changes every semester. The third floor is for us, the responsible adults.”
The two set their bags down onto the responsible adults’ hallway fuzz ball table. Stephanie entered the open classroom door beside it. Patrick followed.
“This is the living room,” she said, “though sadly, Martha Stewart isn’t returning our calls anymore.” The room was lined with mismatched recliners, and numerous sofas, chairs and tables left behind by previous renters. The walls were plastered with yellow maps, peeling around thumbtacks.
“Shabby chic,” Patrick joked.
“The shabbiest,” Stephanie told him, gesturing towards the classroom’s old cloak room – which had been converted into a narrow galley kitchen. “That’s the kitchen. But it’s best to store any food that you want to keep in my room. It won’t be there in the morning.”
Whoooosh!
The two looked up with the sound of in-line skates in the hallway. Patrick caught the brief flash of cargo-shorts, followed by the smell of marijuana.
“And over here” – Steph led him back into the hallway, now empty – “are the bathrooms.” She gestured to two, side-by-side doorways, one marked men, the other, women. “Use whichever makes you feel comfortable – we don’t judge. But we do ask that you contribute to the toilet paper fund. Oh – and clean up your skid marks, if you leave any.”
“Got it.”
“And this…is my room,” Stephanie said, walking to the next classroom and unlocking it with a key. She pushed the massive wooden door open with a creak, stepping aside so Patrick could pass – “Welcome.”
Patrick’s eyes widened when he crossed the old door’s threshold.
It felt like entering Wonka’s fuckin’ chocolate factory…
* * * * *
Like an antique store, Stephanie’s room was divided into small themed alcoves…with bookshelves and aquariums acting as walls, and a meandering pathway that started at the door and made a sort of circle. The place was as packed with “stuff” as a hoarder’s home, but its lava-lamp-lit collections screamed creativity, rather than the isolation of depression.
As Patrick entered the vast world of books, collectibles, movies on disc, music on CD & vinyl, and afternoon sun pouring through large, single-paned windows, he felt as though he were stepping into Stephanie’s head – and into a world she rarely showed anyone. The place was incredible. Four cats looked down from various perches – Sup, dude? – while ferns exploded in brilliant green fireworks, side-by-side with celestial mobiles, hanging in the old windows. The room smelled of Yankee candles, the black ones – Midsummer’s Night. A Bose Wave Radio hummed softly in one of the many alcove’s corners, filling the air with the words of a bygone era, “…turn the radio up, with that sweet sound…hold me close, never let me go…”
“Migod Stephanie,” Patrick whispered. His voice had the emotion of Timothy Robbins playing opera in The Shawshank Redemption. “This place is” –
“Fucking cool!” She finished his sentence, though referring more to his own reaction than the reason behind it. “Show yourself around. Say hi to my cats – they don’t bite.”
A second whoosh of roller blades preceded her disappearing into the hallway, then returning with a handful of bags. She set them on the floor.
“My bed’s up there” – she gestured towards a wooden loft area, that had been built above a makeshift pantry, with food and a Keurig coffee machine. “You can sleep on a couch” – she gestured to several – “and I cleared off a couple of shelves in the corner, for you to keep your clothes.”
Patrick stroked a black cat while Stephanie brought the remaining bags inside, closing the door. Once settled, she came up to him. “You good?”
“Yes, Steph…and thanks.”
He watched her brew a K-cup of coffee – “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Kay.”
He continued exploring his surroundings, stopping to admire a framed photo of Alan, Guinevere, and himself on one of the shelves. The trio was wearing their Checker’s uniforms –
“Here,” Steph said, coming up behind him. She handed him two keys. “One’s for the outside doors, and one’s for the room.” He hesitated but took them.
“Steph, I really don’t want to intrude on you.”
“You’re not intruding,” she insisted, sipping coffee. “And you can stay here as long as you like – I honestly don’t care.”
“But what about your roommates?”
Stephanie nearly choked. “Mmmph – seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be.”
“How can you say that?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Patrick laughed out loud. “I mean that this, all this” – he gestured around. He smiled genuinely, though his tone grew somber. “Look,” he said slowly. “I can’t tell you how much your friendship has meant to me, over these last few years. The letters, the emails, the occasional phone calls…” His eyes looked shiny as he struggled for words –
“I mean, I don’t know if you realize how much you’ve helped me through this, these last few years in particular.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“And now,” he went on, “having you let me into your home like this. Buying me all this stuff, and treating me like I’m a real person” –
“You are a real person, Pat.”
“Steph – I’ve been in prison for ten years.”
“So?”
“It’s just that…”
“Pat, you don’t need to explain yourself.”
“But I feel like I do.”
“No, you don’t,” she said firmly, setting her coffee on a shelf. She cleared her throat, as though preparing to say something she’d been rehearsing for weeks. “There’s actually something that I need to tell you…and I’ve purposely avoided mentioning it before, because I knew that all our correspondence was being monitored.” Like her mother often did, Stephanie paused for effect. “And it’s big.”
Silence.
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked carefully.
“Wait here,” she said, disappearing into one of the alcoves. Patrick noticed a worn copy of Investing in Your 20s & 30s for Dummies on a bookshelf while he heard keys open a padlock, following by a metal drawer rolling open. Stephanie returned with a worn Manilla envelope, which she gave him – “Open it.”
He hesitated but did as he was told.
And once he saw the cash inside, his eyes nearly popped from their sockets.
* * * * *
A few hours later, as night descended on the distant Vegas skyline, burgers crackled above a hissing fire, as Darryl, one of Stephanie’s roommates, flipped them on the grill with an unnecessarily large hunting knife, rather than a spatula. Soft music played from someone’s iPhone. The roof of Schoolhouse Rock was lit by white Christmas lights, and a handful of citronella candles. A small cluster of people were seated in a circle, on white resin chairs around the grill, while a joint was passed from one hand to another, its tip glowing orange in the chilly desert night. Standing at the rooftop edge, Patrick pulled his sailor’s jacket closed –
“So, you stole a hundred thousand?” he asked Stephanie.
“I didn’t steal anything,” she insisted, passing him a joint. She was wearing a black UNLV hoodie. “I mean seriously, the money was stolen anyway, right? How could I steal something that was already stolen from someone else?”
Patrick took a hit. “And Alan didn’t notice?” he asked, inhaling. “He didn’t know it was gone?”
“I don’t even think he knew how much was there,” Stephanie said honestly. “I mean, the suitcases looked like they had been opened, but it didn’t seem like anything was missing.”
“But Alan didn’t know you took it?”
“He was so fuckin’ drunk, he probably didn’t even know what his name was,” Steph said, taking the joint when Patrick handed it back to her. She took another drag. “I mean, he came at me with a fuckin’ fireplace poker” – she coughed white – “so, he definitely wasn’t in a good frame of mind.”
Burgers sizzled as Patrick thought about this.
“And it’s been a solid ten years since I’ve heard from him,” Stephanie added. From behind, Patrick and she were dark shapes against the colorful lights of the Strip. Steph’s hair was midnight blue in the night. “I used to check my email every day…every, single, goddamn day.” Her face went briefly white as she lit an ultra-light.
“And, very honestly, I still check today, in case he reaches out…”
“You guys want a refill?” Darryl appeared between them, holding a silver bladder from a box of wine. Patrick nodded, and Darryl squeezed out another two red plastic cups, as though milking a cow. “Burgers are almost ready.”
“Thanks Dude,” Stephanie told him.
“Welcome.”
Darryl returned to the grill, grabbing a plate.
The young woman passed the roach to Patrick, who finished and flicked it. The air filled with the delicious aroma of grilled meat, as the two looked out, into the night.
“Do you have any idea where Alan is?” Patrick asked.
“No,” Steph said. “You?”
“Nope.”
Silence.
“He must be totally off the grid though,” she added. “These days, with all the apps, cameras, and even Facebook tracking your movements, I can’t even imagine someone completely disappearing like that.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said, a little bitterly. Stephanie noticed this –
“Ever think about finding him?”
“Huh?”
“Do you ever think about finding him?” she repeated. “I mean…to get even?”
Patrick chuckled. “Oh, I think that we’re a lonnnnnng way passed that, Steph.”
“But, do you ever think about it?”
Darryl called out that dinner was ready.
Patrick looked at her quietly – “Sometimes.”
“Good.” She stamped out her smoke. “Because, I think about it all the time.” She stepped away from the ledge. “And there’s no fuckin’ way that with all this modern technology that Alan can possibly stay hidden forever. He’ll make a mistake, I promise you that. Something will eventually happen that lets us know where he’s been hiding” –
“But for right now, let’s get some food.”
He watched her blue hair leave.
Silence.
And with the lights of Las Vegas twinkling behind him, Patrick thought about the fact that this now twenty-four-year-old woman had been smart enough as a kid to save her stolen money.
A chill shot up his spine when he realized –
One beat, two beats –
This might just be the second time in my life when a blue-hair causes me trouble…