I suppose I can skirt the real issues only so long before Jimbo is apt to put me in a headlock and beat the information out of me.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I decide to go ahead and lay it out. “I wake up at five AM every day, no matter what time I get to sleep the night before. It’s because I’ve been getting up at the same time every morning for the last five years… because I had no choice but to get up every morning at five AM. I don’t even know how to have a leisurely morning where I sleep in. When I go to sleep at night, I can hear metal cots squeaking and my cell mate rubbing one off while he tries to stifle his groans into the two-inch piece of flimsy foam that’s called a pillow. I hear the newbies crying, and I hear the hacks yelling at them to shut the fuck up. When I’m awake… out in the real world, I can’t walk around a blind corner without my palms sweating, because I’m expecting someone will be there waiting to jump me. I was always on alert in there, waiting for one of the prison wolves to try to jump me. Two months out and I’m still always on alert. The air smells too fresh, the food tastes too good, people talk too loud, and I’m having a hard time letting people touch me. It’s overwhelming and that’s just for starters, Jimbo. So yeah,” I say with some sarcasm as my eyes drop to the table. “I’m having a bit of an adjustment problem.”
“How does all of that make you feel?”
My eyes slowly rise to meet his. “I’m pissed off. All the time. I’m withdrawn, moody, and restless. I have all this wide-open space available to me, yet I’m having a hard time straying too far from the things that make me feel safe. So I go to work, and I go home. That’s it.”
Jimbo gives me that contemplative look, and I can see the wheels turning inside his head. I’m prepared for him to launch into a pep talk, about how I have a chance to make something with my life… to atone for my mistakes and put the past behind me. Instead, he says, “You know… there’s something odd about you.”
My eyebrows shoot up and, for a moment, I consider being affronted by that statement, but then I just mentally shrug my shoulders.
Odd is just one of many things that I am.
“How’s that?” I ask.
“I’ve been doing this work close to twelve years now… and I can count on one hand the amount of parolees I’ve had that don’t try to convince me that they didn’t do it… or they were framed… or hell, even if they did do it, they blame a corrupt system for sending them away.” He pauses, his green-gold eyes flickering back and forth between mine. “But not you. You accepted responsibility and never once tried to blame someone or something else for your lot in life. It just makes you… odd.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I lean back in my chair. “No one to blame but myself.”
“That’s right,” Jimbo says with a nod. “No one to blame but yourself, and you’ve done a remarkable job accepting responsibility. In fact, you’ve done such a good job at it… some might say that it would help you have a clear conscience.”
“What’s your point?” I ask, genuinely curious as to where he’s going with this.
“My point is that if you truly took responsibility and had a clear conscience, then you should have some measure of peace.”
I scratch my chin absently, pondering his words. I did the time. I took my lumps and accepted my punishment. Should that give me peace?
Jimbo’s probably right. In those circumstances, maybe my soul should feel a little lighter… more free. If I truly was remorseful for what happened, and I truly had done my penance, I shouldn’t be struggling the way I am.
Except… my circumstances aren’t exactly the way Jimbo describes it. He sees my sorrow and guilt, but he doesn’t see past that. Because there’s a whole lot more that makes up Brody Markham’s fucked-up world than just the after effects of a few years in prison. My issues started before I even got sent away.
“Yeah, well… I imagine I’m just having a hard time adjusting to a different routine,” I say casually, wanting to turn his probing gaze away from me. “I’m sure with time it will get better.”
“Of course it will get better with time,” Jimbo muses. “But you need to work on it. If shit is eating you up, you need to get it out. Does no good to hold on to stuff.”
Those freaky eyes are staring thoughtfully at me again and, for a moment, I think he can see past the bull I’ve been feeding him and see below to what’s really haunting me. And it has not a damn thing to do with prison or my inability to adjust thereafter.