Over the River and Through the Woods
I understand why employers are hesitant to hire ex-convicts, particularly in rural areas where even minor crimes become the talk of the town. Of course, the felon is expected to turn themselves around and behave as, if not actually become, a part of the community again. If they can not, the stigma placed on them only increases.
After the blueberry harvest ended, I managed to finally land a regular job, at the local redemption center. People would bring in trash bags filled with their returnable bottles and cans and I would count them, sort them and pay out their five cent deposits. It was boring work and I went home every night smelling like stale beer, but at least it was a job. I lasted almost a month before a customer complained to the boss that they were afraid I would sell drugs to their kids, and I was let go.
As summer turned to autumn I got a job at a seafood wholesaler shucking oysters. I wanted to quit after the first few days, because my hands would cramp so badly after a day of that work. But whenever I complained, my mother's admonishing expression sent me back for another day. When oyster season had peaked I was laid off, but immediately got hired at a Christmas tree farm weaving garlands from the trimmed branches.
After the holiday season passed, I could not find any work. One afternoon I drove to the Cheetah Lounge to see if I could dance there again. Jordy was sitting where she always sat at the end of the bar.
I approached her tentatively. "Hi Jordy? Do you remember me?"
She looks me up and down. "Chablis, right?"
"Chardonnay."
"Right. The dick puncher. Some of the girls still talk about that," she laughed.
"Yeah, that was me. So, I was wondering, you said I should come back when I was clean."
"How long, honey?"
"Almost two years."
"Well, you were in jail most of that time, weren't you?"
I shrugged. "It still counts, right?"
"I suppose. Well, good for you, honey. What's your status now? Still on paper?"
She was asking me if I was on parole. I nodded. I didn't think that should matter. Dancing wasn't illegal.
"I'm sorry, dearie," she frowned, "but we don't use girls that are on paper. So you got clean, that's great, but you and I both know half the girls here are using. We can't risk your PO coming in here to check on you and maybe he sees something he shouldn't. Understand?"
I did understand. I thanked her and she told me I should come back once my probationary period ended.
As I was walking back to the car I passed the Goodwill store. There was a help wanted sign in the window. I went inside, and two days later I was sorting and handling the used clothing donations. It was dull work and after the first week, I was telling my mother over dinner that I was bored and feeling restless.
"Getting bored easy was always your problem," she said. "You would get bored at school and act out and get in trouble. You don't write stories anymore, do you? That was Mrs. Anderson's idea, when you were in fourth grade, getting you to write stories when you were bored. You used to write stories all the time."
"No, Mama, I haven't done that in years. I kept a journal for a while in prison, but that's not the same. That was not interesting to anyone else."
"Do you remember when we lived next door to the horse farm?"
"Of course I do."
"You wrote stories about the horses, As if the horses were telling them. And the people would do some ordinary thing, like just ride into town to get ice cream, but to the horses it was a big adventure. You ought to write stories again. Maybe tell people your story."
I shrugged off her suggestion, but the next day I bought a notebook and began writing down some of my memories. It did help me get through the tedium of daily routine.
My other therapy was walking. When I wasn't working, I would sometimes walk for hours, down country roads and across fields and meadows. I avoided town, because I did not want to talk to people, I just wanted to be in motion.
One early evening, I walked my favorite route, one that took me along the river and through the community park.
As I rounded the bend in the path where the woods thinned to the lawn of the park, I saw a man leaning against a tree by the river bank. He was looking intensively at something, and when he heard my approach, he turned to me and raised a finger to his lips, cautioning me to silence. I stepped gingerly over to where he was standing. A great blue heron was stalking through the shallow water near the bank. We watched as the heron froze, then plunged his long sharp beak into the water and came up with a small frog. He swallowed the frog, then flew off.
"Wow, how often do you see something like that!" the man exclaimed.
He must be a city boy, I thought, because I had seen things like that many times.
"Hi, I'm Ken," he said. He gestured to a nearby picnic table. "I was having my lunch when I caught sight of that stork."
"Heron," I corrected him, "It was a heron."
"Oh." He looked a little deflated, but smiled. "Say, would you like a snack? Come on, join me."
We sat across from each other at the picnic table. He fished a bottle of water out of a small cooler and handed it to me. There was a open package of Oreo cookies on the table, and he pushed it towards me.
"They are my one vice," he said. I couldn't help grinning at that. What a bad boy, I thought.
We made small talk as we munched on the cookies. My intuition was correct, he was from Boston. He had recently moved to the area to take a job as a supervisor at a near by call center.
The sun was getting low so I told him I would have to get started towards home. He asked me for my phone number and I gave it to him. On the walk home I thought about why I had done so. He was not the type of man I went out with. He was a nice looking guy, but in a wholesome clean cut way that had always seemed boring to me. On the other hand, how had the type of guys I liked worked out for me? When he called the next day and asked me if I would go out to dinner with him, I said that I would.
That first date was nice. Not great, not exciting, nice. He took me to a new Italian restaurant. The food was good and the conversation was pleasant. He asked me a lot of questions about the area, what sort of things there were to do, interesting places to go. I didn't mention anything he would not have found in any tourist guide, but he seemed please to get my thoughts. After dinner, we strolled a while on the harborwalk. I keep waiting for him to kiss me, but he did not. We walked back to his car, and he took me home. He did kiss me goodnight when he walked me to the door.
He had indicated that he would like to go out together again, and I told him I would. He had seemed tentative and nervous on our dinner date, and I hoped that on a second date, he might loosen up.
I was right, and the next date went much better. He wanted to see some of the tourist towns up and down the coast, and we spent a lovely day checking them out. We held hands as we went in and out of the little shops, and he kissed me as we sat at a seaside table eating lobster rolls. When he dropped me off at home, he said to me, "Well, didn't we have a nice joy ride?" It sent a shiver down by spine, but I smiled and kissed him goodnight.
I found myself eagerly anticipating seeing Ken again, and that third date was wonderful. We saw a movie, then stopped at a sports bar and had nachos and a couple of beers. The Red Sox were beating the Yankees, and that put Ken in high spirits. As we stepped out of the bar I leaned against the wall, took his hand and pulled him to me. After a long kiss I looked into his eyes and asked if he would take me home with him.
"Are you sure?" He asked, looking a little bit astonished.
I wondered if he might be a virgin. "Yes, I'm sure," I told him.
He had a rather plain one bedroom apartment. There were still some unpacked boxes in the corners. I could not help but imagine myself decorating the rooms.
We sat on the couch and kissed. His bashfulness melted away as our kisses grew more passionate, and soon he was squeezing and caressing my breasts. I ran my hand down between his legs and felt his hard cock through the fabric of his slacks. When he moaned with pleasure, I slipped off the couch and knelt between his legs. I looked into his eyes while I unbuckled his belt and pulled down his zipper. His excited expression made me smile.
