LAWLESS

I love reading those faded blue words on the sign:

Welcome to the Baton Rouge Greyhound Bus Terminal.

Those words are music to my eyes. And that sweet smell of freedom. Long inhale. Nothing sweeter. Not even homeless Santa Claus on the bench or the black girl’s weave conditioner can make freedom smell less sweet.

And each breath pulls me further from the ten years stuck in prison. No more dirty cons, whose stench reminded me of the constant toilet paper and soap shortages. No more being trapped like an animal, fighting over an extra piece of toast, or stabbing someone for cutting in line. Today I rejoin the world, as anonymously as the stranger I pass. Anonymously, until I apply for a job and have to explain away ten years of waste.

Ahh, who am I kidding? I will never be a nine to fiver. I am good at what I do and what I do best is being bad. I robbed six banks before they caught up with me. The stolen loot allowed me to hire a top-notch lawyer that whittled my time down from 30 years to a decade. Money is justice in these United States. God bless America.

They might have never caught me if one nosey, do good neighbor, that saw my car on the news, hadn’t turned me in. I should’ve used a stolen car. Anyhow, I don’t blame her. I’d have turned her in for the 25 grand she got. No hard feelings here.

Besides, I don’t have time for revenge. It’s time to work the retirement plan I have been working on for the past ten years. This isn’t an Edward Jones plan where I slave for some master and retire in 30 years. It’s a Cole Johnson retirement plan. 0 to 1 million in less than six months.

Step one in my plan is walking to my old house. It’s a 5-mile trek home, and I am looking forward to the walk and seeing different things. Prison is like a hamster wheel. You do and see the same boring stuff every day.

I will savor the different scenery before I get to my house because this walk may be the extent of my freedom. My old lady is there, but she thinks I am coming home next week. If a man is fulfilling her needs, all plans will be out the window, and I’ll be doing another murder bid. Like the one I did as a juvenile.

Honk! Honk!

I am not three blocks from the bus station when an unmarked police car is riding alongside me. My celebrity has preceded my arrival.

The pig rolls down his window, “Hey, Cole.”

He sounds like he hasn’t let up on the fried food. The detective is the only person I know that gets winded from driving.

I recognize his voice, so I keep my eyes looking straight and keep walking. He is the last fucker I want to see, not the first.

Still walking and looking forward, I ask, “What can I help you with you, chubby bastard?”

He screeches his tires and pulls a hundred feet ahead of me, parking the white Impala across the sidewalk. Detective Jones jiggles his fat body around the car like an obese Starsky. He’s been watching too many 70s cop show reruns.

Starsky’s still red and breathing hard when I reach his car.

Huff, huff. The detective is breathing and sweating like he ran a marathon in a snowsuit, “Warden…told…me…you’d…be…here…today.”

I stop, cross my arms, and shoot him my legendary smile, “You got a defib in the car in case you go down?”

Detective Jones doesn’t like me, but he has to show me respect. He knows I could grab that Glock and shove it under his chin and pull the trigger before he’d wheeze his next breath.

The detective finally catches his next breath and says, “Johnson, I fought tooth and nail against your release. You are a menace that will never be reformed.”

I opened my arms and smiled, “Didn’t work out too well, because here I am.”

The detective’s chubby cheeks turn red, “Just know when you fuck up, I am the one that will be placing the cuffs on you. You are my sole focus in life.”

I said, “I am reformed, so you will have to find another private citizen to harass.”

He’s walking around his car and looking at me, “I will be keeping tabs on you.”

I roll my eyes, “Wasting your time.”