Geezer Weezer

By C.J. Lanet

Doing prison time was an easy rump compared to surviving with an off the hook daughter and her recently minted husband. With his daughter a new beginning is what he wants instead of the years wasted on bad ideas and half-baked schemes that reduced his youth into a pile of old bones. His aim is to live honestly, injure no one and embrace his family as the core of his existence. He doesn’t know the dream is impossible. Annabelle at 36 years old spent her entire life being disappointed. Truth to her is a bottle of gin and what the crack between her legs can buy. She dupes a 21-year old bozo to marry her and together they exist in a one room flat with a used mattress and a beat-up, oil burning Ford in the yard.
With a stacked deck and expectations fitting a priest, Lazar is about to climb a mountain of slippery shit without his St. Christopher metal. After finding steady work, he settles in and attempts to makeover his daughter and himself, only to be frustrated at every turn. To make matters impossible, she’s pregnant, which panics her young husband. After being hounded with more demands than he could handle – like seeking employment and being a responsible father to his future child – he skips out. Lazar accepts partial blame and reluctantly locates the misfit after convolved disasters with pimps, drugs and unorthodox therapy that involve a crazy woman believing she’s a dog, and a Russian decoder.
In her eight-month she decides to have an abortion. Naturally, at that late stage no doctor or street quack would touch her. Terrified of having a kid, Annabelle plans to do it herself ...
Bad luck follows her with the passion of a ruthless killer. The baby is misplaced by the hospital staff and in due course is dumped with the garbage into a local river, where a flock of seagulls attempt to dine on his merger flesh. A barking bog saves his life, except for one eye that is plucked out by a wayward bird. Once back in the hospital ...
At length, the mother recovers and a lawsuit garners two million dollars for the boy. Instantly, Annabelle becomes a wealthy woman of pleasure and pursues a gusto lifestyle of drink, song and young men. Through a series of tortuous calamities, the money evaporates, except for a used box of prophylactics...
During her escapades, little Jamie stays with his grandfather. In the course of rearing the boy, Lazar becomes a father and mother. For Lazar life is sweet, and he enjoys caring for him.
With Annabelle back home, Lazar does everything in his power to embrace and cultivate the family unit. A stay at home mother, or working girl, he doesn’t care as long as his daughter follows a simple rule of being accountable to her son...
At four years old Jamie asks questions about his father that forces Lazar to find the asshole. Jamie Sr. is located, but requires major rehabilitation. He has degenerated into a homosexual prostitute, heroin addict and owned by a sleazy character named Pippy Prime...
Conventional therapy is not working...
While Lazar devotes his energies to radical rehabilitation efforts, his daughter digresses into a gin sipper at the rate of two plastic bottles a day...
Lazar is able to introduce Jamie Sr. to his son, and corrals Annabelle to be a proper mother and devoted wife. At first the plan works, as the entire family becomes a supportive, loving unit, each caring for the welfare and happiness of the others. But below the surface Jamie Sr. has bitterness...
Annabelle is like a dried twig, drinks herself under the bus and abandons her son. With no money and an untimely back injury, Geezer is unable to remain gainfully employed. Disparate and with limited options... ... Yet chance has dealt him a joker. He learns that the boy requires a major operation or can lose sight of his other eye, and be totally blind. Again, Geezer decides to commit another robbery, but this time they are caught.
... and the rest of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Lanet
• Release date: May 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476036847

C.J. Lanet

If you dare to waste one hour of time you lost the value of life. From my pen is this creed - the golden rule to prevent the mind from rusting. I have often regretted my writing, never my silence. Yet through it all - my words are not faked. Hands-on experience makes the difference. Indeed, it's impossible to be a writer without having lived. My short list of skills may offer an insight to what I say. Artist Gambler Gangster Industrialist Inventor Pilot Pirate Prizefighter Prophet Tycoon "Magic happens only when you make it happen." ________

Book preview

Part One

_________

Anticipation

Introduction

What can I say? It wasn’t suppos’ to happen again, but it did; back in federal prison to do five more years. ‘Never again,’ I must have said those two words a thousand times. I survived on the street precisely 2513 days, nine minutes, and fourteen seconds – what a let down after doin’ over eleven years – 4445 days to be exact – in Uncle Sam’s slammer. No joke, but a miserable turn of events. Hold it, before you close the book as just another prison story with excuses and all that ‘I’m innocent crap,’ just hear me out and you decide if I did the right thing. The prosecutor declares to the judge that I am a menace to society, while my daughter believes I corrupted her six-year son and turn him into a professional criminal. Whether the word professional over exaggerated the claim, or merely dramatics, it’s the perspective that must be considered. Did I turn my only grandson into a criminal?

Not exactly. Please allow me to explain.

A little background to get you up to speed:

Federal Correctional Institution at Ray Brook, New York, is a typical warehouse to contain convicted felons until they complete their allotted time as mandated by the federal courts to reentry society. The Sentencing Guidelines gives all the power to the prosecutors to decide what punishment criminal a defendant receives, while the judge just sits like humpy-dumpy to rubber stamp the government’s misdirected quest of protecting society. If the prosecutor wants to give a guy a break for whatever reason, he gets it. Since these protectors of moral right don’t have eyes in back of their heads and are traditionally lazy, they rely for most of their convictions on snitches; informants who lie, cheat and steal to warrant sentencing breaks, while poor smucks do maximum jail time for crimes that should deserve less, merely because they didn’t give someone up. Classic examples are drug cases. Some petty dime bag seller can get twenty-years under the Sentencing Guidelines for moving a gram of cocaine, whereas the snitch who rats him out gets no time. Allow me to clarify. The big time drug dealer selling cocaine for ten years and finally gets caught. So what does he do? Makes a deal with the prosecutor and gives up low level peons. You see, it’s not quality, but quantity. That is justice the American way! You doubt the reality? Don’t! FBI statistics back it up. Informants, whistleblowers, sneaks, stool pigeons, moles, tipsters, creeps, slinks, snitches, or whatever you wish to call them are more American than apple pie.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not attempting to make a social statement, merely to enlighten you that federal prosecutors play god with other people’s lives, and never have any qualms about it. You get the picture? Oh, by the way, this narrative is not about drugs. The example I gave just illustrated who steers the bus, and what the mixed bag of riders can expects.

THE FEDERAL Correctional Institution at Ray Brook sits on five acres, surrounded by the most pristine setting New York State has to offer: high snowcap mountains, majestic evergreens, the purest air and sparkling water, et cetera. The region attracts tourists the world over, regardless of the season. From winter skiing to summer boating, the Adirondacks represents nature at its best.

And right in the middle of this paradise, a federal prison squats with 1330 male convicts in five, overcrowded buildings that were originally designed to house a mere 450 bodies. Back in 1980, United States hosted the winter Olympics and constructed the present day prison as living quarters for the amateur athletes and their coaches. In truth, the Russians refused the accommodations, claiming it looked like a prison. Undeniably, the host country declared to the world, It’s our intent to donate this property upon completion of the games to the state of New York for a permanent recreation facility. Naturally, that was the big lie to placate the athletes, especially the Russians. Well, once the games were over, eighty barbed wire fences were erected to encase the grounds and a few minor modifications later, a federal prison was born from, so to speak, the ashes of the Olympics.

WALKING FROM the prison yard with two king size, black garbage bags containing my worldly possessions after spending eleven plus years for bank robbery, I stroll the final fifty yards to freedom like the joint belongs to me. The small brown and white ‘R&D’ sign above the exit door looms larger and larger as I spit on the dirt, and whisper, thank you god for allowin’ me to survive this piss hole.

R&D stands for Receive and Deliver. When a convict is received into a prison, usually by two U.S. Marshals, shackled and handcuffed like a package, the true meaning of the R becomes relevant. Hence, the word package symbolized the movement of a prisoner, i.e. We have one package in transit. That single proclamation means: two or more U.S. Marshals have one jailbird en route to a federal court or prison. As a package, you are dropped off at R&D. Once the prisoner is received and accepted as a ward of the Federal Bureau of Prisons (the BOP), the package becomes its property until a release date, as set by the court has been satisfied. Thus, the expression ‘doin’ time’ follows you around until you get out. Like all packages, the customary procedure is to open it. You are stripped to god’s original body suit, and told, turn around, bend over and spread those cheeks. The command is followed or else. This straightforward practice is how they initially open the package by sadistically playing with the prisoner’s mind. Why the need to look up my ass has never been adequately explained to me. Only later do I understand that the manipulation of the mind is the means to control the body. Exposing you to another man has never appealed to me; especially the bendin’ over and the spreadin’ cheeks part. If an individual wants to conceal something, the best way is to swallow it. I never tried it. Maybe I wasn’t desperate enough to fish out the bits and pieces from the toilet bowl. On the other hand, sticking it up your ass makes absolutely no sense, unless the package wants to get caught. Be as it may, the package is opened, inspected and processed.

On the door the R for receiving expressed a very subjective and truly subversive symbol. To be received means simply that the U.S. Marshals have picked up and transports a package to another prison – an ongoing, round the clock affair. Indeed, the federal government has the dubious world record of locking-up the most people and ordering the longest terms of incarceration. Why all the movement within the BOP is something I never figured out. In the 4445 days of federal custody, I am received by other prisons twenty-one times, fly on CONAIR (that’s the BOP’s officially code name for the jetliners to transport convicts by air) six times. Lastly, every once in awhile a prisoner is released and received into society. How fitting that the letter R cuts both ways.

... I STEP INTO THE FRESH AIR like a gladiator on a mission. Not that I want to fight to the death, but to start over with a clean slate and enough smarts to make it right. I have two aces in the hole, my daughter and me. Together we’ll leave yesterday behind and concentrate on now. Forget the miracle stuff or prizes easily won; it only happens when you believe. Wisdom and courage are the guideposts to discover the truth for ourselves.

So, we’re off, let the adventure begin!

Chapter One

LAZAR ANASTASIUS is fifty-nine this summer. A wiry guy with a pale, weathered face, he looks like a convict ready to be released from jail. Glancing over his shoulder at the prison compound before turning the doorknob of the R&D door, he groans. The cloudless sky is murky gray, exactly how he feels – gray from doing hard time, gray for getting old. In a three more days, he’ll be 60. The zero pissed him off. Gray for being reduced to two black garbage bags. He further declares his feelings with a second healthy spit and watches slime slowly drip down the R&D door: green and thick and arrogant.

The short narrow corridor reminds him of that infamous day long ago when he’s going the other way. What a difference direction makes, he murmurs. Maybe I’m not a menace to society anymore? Each shuffling sound of the shabby army boots echo off the gray wall like a hiss in a gas chamber.

What the hell are you doing? complains the fat desk cop with no chin, standing behind the R&D counter. Your papers been ready for over an hour.

"Come on, easy up. What do yoa think, I don’t want to get out of this place? They let me out ten minutes ago. You got a beef, piss on the unit manager. He acted like he’s doin’ me a favor! Maybe he doesn’t like anybody leavin’?" Lazar drops the garbage bags on the floor.

Cut the lip! I got paperwork to do.

So! Do it and stop complainin’. Yous cops are all the same. What’s the problem, a little work is goin’ to give you a fuckin’ blister?

Fat Desk Cop gives him a hard look. Put those bags on the counter.

Come on, the god damn shit’s been checked three times already. Lazar shakes his head in disgust. It’s only … papers and old clothes. … What do you think, I’m goin’ to steal any of your shit?

Just put ‘em on the counter and stop your yapping.

After Fat Desk Cop scrutinizes each item as if counting gold bars, Lazar is allowed to enter the interior office for final fingerprinting to insure that who came in eleven years ago, and the guy leaving today have the same hands.

Like a part on an assembly line, Lazar methodically moves through the processing cycle until he stands before the second to the last metal door to freedom. One electric click later, the door opens and Lazar drags his possession to the receiving counter.

What the hell took you so long? Says old cop Miller. You interferin’ with my mornin’ break. Come on, come on, I don’t have all fucking day. Get around on this side. Need to take your picture first. You goin’ to the street or halfway house?

Street, man! You got my paperwork.

Miller lifts the fold from the small pile on the counter and opens it. Yeap! Right to the street. Somebody pickin’ you up, or you need a bus ticket?

My daughter.

Good! Saves me the trouble makin’ a voucher. Okay, smile for the camera. … Good! One more, side shot. … Good! After snapping the mug shots, Lazar is directed to sign the release papers and fingerprint card. Good! Need a set of prints to go with this. Miller holds up the fingerprint card.

With the final details complete, Lazar is given an envelope. Have a nice day.

Sure! Lazar doesn’t smile, and fingers the sealed, yellow envelope. What’s in here?

Miller smirks. Notice to report to your probation officer within 72 hours. Remember, you got five years of paper to do. … And $20.00.

Hold it! Lazar quickly tore open the envelope and pulls out the twenty. Hey Miller, I was promised one-fifty. What’s the bullshit?"

That’s all she wrote, pal! Take it or leave it! I don’t make the rules, just following ‘em. Miller shows Lazar a piece of paper. Signed by the warden himself. Twenty bucks.

Lazar tears the two bills in small piece and throws the small confetti bundle at him. Tell the warden to take a flyin’ shit and let ‘em wipe his ass with dem!

Walking the final yard to the triple locked, stainless steel reinforced sliding gates, he feels old, tired. The two garbage bags with his worldly possession inside seemed heavier, as if Miller filled them with prison sand when he wasn’t looking.

What did Lazar have in the bags?

Old, worn out sneakers, three pairs to be exact. Ten and half pairs of old white socks, six motley T-shirts, two sets of sweat pants and tops, one with short sleeves; five very worn boxer shorts (with customary brown stains), three winter flannel shirts, one pair of semi-new dungarees and one old, dirty and smelly New York Mets baseball cap. Personal hygiene items, and the balance are trial transcripts, legal briefs, the government’s nonsense that got him time and nine beat-up paperbacks, mostly detective stories.

The big metal gate makes a grinding sound as it slides open just enough for him to creep through. Hey! Open it wider. Lazar shouts to no one in particular. My stuff! More grinning noises are heard, as the gate slowly opens five inches more. Shaking his head in disbelief, as if they needs to torture him one more time with the last farewell poke in the eye. Taking a deep breath and looking at the guard’s porky face behind the thick green glass on the other side of the gate, he gives him the bird and bent down to grab the garbage bags one at a time and attempts to squeeze them through the slight opening. Again he shakes his head. Just open it wider. Trucks come in this way, what’s goin’ on?

Lazar re-enters on the prison side of the gate; something he doesn’t want to do. It’s like going back, and a bad omen. But to get the misshaped garbage bags to freedom, he has to flatten them out, and maybe carry some of the items in his arms. As he eases back behind the gate, cold shills run up and down his spine. While he opens the bags, a delivery truck stops on the other side of the gate. Lazar laughs. Now what, asshole?

The white and red Little Debbie’s snacks truck beeps its horn. From behind the green glass Porky Guard exits the control booth and wobbles toward the truck. Lazar watches the action as an interested bystander and grins. Hey shithead, the truck ain’t goin’ to fit tru dat crack!

The truck driver looks confused. What’s up, something wrong with the gate?

No! Porky Guard snatches the papers from the extended hand of the driver. Once inside the booth, Porky Guard shouts over the loudspeaker, step back. Instantly, the gate opens wider to accommodate the truck, which naturally allows Lazar more than sufficient clearance to carry on his shoulders the two large black garbage bags.

Once clear of the gate and prison fences, he stops and looks toward the parking lot. Abandoned at the near curb is an old, worn out, compact car engulfed in white smoke. Apparently, the ill-fated vehicle has caught fire? Lazar scans the parking lot for his daughter with her car. He drops the garbage bags to the ground and sits on them. Where the hell is she? he whispers.

At length, someone from the passenger side evacuates the smoking vehicle, waves and shouts, Daddy, it’s me!

Holy shit, it’s my daughter. What the hell? Lazar jumps off the bags quicker than a jack-in-the-box and rapidly moves toward the waving woman. She, on the other hand, waddles like a pregnant duck. Behind her, the smoke from the burning car is thicker. Get away from that car, he shouts while running full speed to shield her from harm’s way. Lazar stops with a skid, inches apart from her. Her protruding belly touches his new, loose fitting, brown prison issued jacket as she reaches to greet him. Let’s get out of here, the car is about to explode. Hey, I’m not foolin’, come on! Holding Annabelle’s arm, he directs her to crouch down behind a row of cement barriers separating the parking lot from the fenced prison complex.

She looks over her shoulder. "No daddy, that’s our car."

"What, that smoking pile of shit is our car?"

She proudly nods her head.

He sighs. Why didn’t you shut it off?

"We can’t. It won’t start. The car’s not that bad. We’ve been waitin’ over two hours," her squeaky voice humbly declares.

Looking at my garbage bags ten yards away, I continue to be preoccupied as if the prison, the gate incident, the smoke, my daughter, and finally the belly have collectively rattled me. My daughter is pregnant. I have no knowledge of this! Who’s the father? My mind keeps churning with bewildering images and bizarre thoughts.

Daddy, I have somethin’ to tell you. She holds my arm and pulls me forward. Daddy, I have … I have a surprise.

Lazar fakes closing his eyes, and scratches his head. What’s this? Lazar says softly. Pointing at her belly, his finger starts to shake.

She smiles. I’m going to have a baby!

Great! Come on, let’s get the car out of here before we get arrested.

Sure daddy, sure.

Holding his daughter’s arm makes him feel human. His only daughter is still a scatterbrain and wistful soul. He laughs for the first time in years. So, when’s the big day?

I don’t know for sure. She looks at him with hopeful big green eyes. Haven’t been to the doctor’s yet.

Lazar stops her and gazes at her body. Surprised, he says, you … you are what, maybe six months or more?

Yeah, maybe. She shrugs her shoulders.

Looking at the smoke billowing from the car, he anxiously scratches his face. "Come on. We got a lot to talk about."

Sure daddy.

They both shuffle toward the compact car; she waddles, while he crouches over like an old junkyard peddler with his garbage bags.

The car, an old, small Ford of some kind, two doors, more dust than paint, is totally swallowed up in a thick cloud of smoke. A coffee grinding noise dominates the scene, probably the engine, he reasons. Close enough to look through the front windshield, Lazar freezes in his tracks. Who’s that? He points.

Next to her father, she smiles. "That’s my new husband. Isn’t he cute?"

"Your husband! Why didn’t you write me about him … and havin’ a kid?’

Engulfed in a white cloud, the engine strains, produces more thick, smelly fumes by the minute, while Lazar just stands astonished, shakes his head with slow agonizing motions. The car door opens. A gawky kid, possibly twenty-five with shoulder length, wavy greasy black hair, all arms and legs, timidly smiles and extends his hand to Lazar. Nice to meet you, sir.

Sure kid! You’re the guy who knocked her up?

Gawky Kid nervously attempts to pull back his hand, but the grip tightens as Lazar prevents it. Well! What’s the story?

I … we are married.

Annabelle quickly moves between them, forces Lazar to release his hold of Gawky Kid’s hand. Oh daddy, we’re married. We did it last month.

Interrupting her, Lazar says, Come on, that belly is way more than a month. What is it kid, you made an honest woman of her?

He’s the father daddy.

Sure! And elephants dance with midgets!

Really daddy. It’s true, he’s the father.

The fumes cause Lazar to cough. Let’s move this contraption. I can’t believe this shit ass car made all this smoke? Again he clears his throat.

Gawky Kid anxiously smirks. "Burns only two quarts of oil a day."

Get my bags kid!

I’ll get ‘em daddy! she says briskly.

No! Let him do it. I want to talk to you. Lazar moves his daughter away from the smoking, noise-rattling car. What the hell is goin’ on. He’s just a kid. … You’re what, thirty-seven?

Thirty-six.

Stop it. You get the point.

"But daddy, we love each other."

"I assume he doesn’t have a steady job?"

He’s good with computers.

Gawky Kid returns with the garage bags. Should I put ‘em in the car?

Certainly!

The small, two-door car designed by Ford, maybe million years ago, looks like a discarded wreck. The junk inside competes with the car itself. Lazar face shows disgust. What this? There’s no room even to sit. What are yous’ goin’ to do, strap me to the friggen roof? … We got to get away from here. This smoke! Jesus Christ!

Gawky Kid makes a feeble attempt to quickly rearrange the junk, to no avail. I’m sorry, sir.

"Screw that word ‘sorry.’ There’s no such thing as ‘sorry.’ It means shit! … Goddamn this fuckin’ smoke! Come on, we got to get out of here. Lazar jumps into the passenger seat. Here, sit on my lap. To Gawky Kid, he says, You, drive this piece of shit out of here."

"But your … your things!"

Screw the shit! Come on kid, get behind the wheel and move it!

Lazar glances at the two garage bags and considers the accumulated memories; how he fought to preserve the contents, protected them, worried about their arrival while in transit, bargained, honored and cherished them. In an instant, his worldly possessions are gone as if a nasty chapter has closed and every remembrance finally dissolves into nothing.

Chapter Two

Considering the total neglect, and deplorable condition, the old Ford rolls right along. From the prison to Asbury Park, New Jersey is a long seven-hour haul. As they approach the first pit stop, Lazar considers the lengthy trip and the two accomplices, decides to rearrange the traveling accommodations and make the drive home a bit more palatable.

To buy gas requires pulling off the highway to a local gas station. Each town, village or hamlet is tucked away against a mountain, a lake, or a stand of tall evergreens, never in a normal spot, like right off, or close to the main highway. Just to locate the first gas station, a county road map would have been convenient. As expected, a road map was not part of their agenda. Finding a place to full the tank becomes a gas consuming exercise, until exasperated, Annabelle solicits help when both men refuse to ask. Apparently, finding it by potluck is a guy thing, she reflects with a personal smile.

Eventually, a mom and pop operation is found. The tired Ford sputters by the gas pump, smoking and coughing like it’s auditioning for a part in Dante’s Inferno. A smiling old man in white overalls as if type cast from a ‘40s movie quickly exits a small white shack, and has the pump nozzle in his hand before the Ford came to a stop. What will it be, high test or regular?

Put five dollars in! says Gawky Kid. Oh, regular…

Are you out of your mind? shouts Lazar. We goin’ a million miles. Fill it up!

… That’s all I have. Gawky Kid tightens his grip on the stirring wheel.

From outside, as the smoking car acts like a mosquito exterminator, a voice barks, "Please, shut off the engine."

Gawky Kid sticks his head out of the car’s window. I … I can’t. It won’t start. He stares at White Overalls, who quickly responds, That’s the law, kiddo! You get no gas unless …

Lazar storms from the car, slams the door, ready to fight, if necessary. Forget the fact, White Overall has to be seventy-five, maybe eight-years-old, and feeble, Lazar shouts! "What rule is this? … Look Mac, we just want gas. … No trouble! You get me?"

I’m sorry mister. The pump nozzle shakes in the old man’s hand.

Lazar groans, and slowly walks to the driver’s side of the car, leans in and says to Gawky Kid, How did you get up here?

Gawky Kid shows his palms and stutters. We did okay. Didn’t … didn’t need to shut it off.

Yeah, daddy. Annabelle’s voice is heard.

To Gawky Kid, he says, If you shut it off …

Shakes his head, Gawky Kid quickly offers, Bad idea.

Shit! roars Lazar.

What’s it going to be? impatiently questions White Overalls, still holding the black plastic and metal nozzle.

Lazar gives the old man a hard look, gazes at the smoking car, and shakes his head. After scratching the side of his nose, he looks down at his third rate, used surplus army boots, and spits on the ground. Violently slapping his hands together, says, Let’s go, find another station! To White Overalls, he sucks in extra air, quickly exhales and barks; You know what’s the matter with this country? Too many Americans.

The old Ford bellows white smoke, and loudly vibrated away.

Gawky Kid circles the hamlet for another gas station; finds nothing. The gauge is broke, I don’t know how much gas is left.

Well, what do you think?

Gawky Kid calculates in this mind. Maybe, fifty-miles, sir.

"Hey, call me Lazar. What’s your name, anyway?"

As if afraid, Gawky Kid looks at him for a long second.

Maybe, he doesn’t have a name? The question floated in his brain.

Finally, he nervously says, It’s Jamison Ellsworth, sir, I mean Mr. Lazar…

"Damn it kid, just Lazar; Lazar!"

Annabelle squirms on her father lap. Daddy, you’re so mean to him. Why are you always yelling?

The old Ford bumps and rocks back onto the highway. Traveling at sixty miles per hour, the oil burner functions like a charm. There should be an exit, maybe twenty-miles. Jamison says, while keeping his eyes on the road.

Big eighteen-wheelers ramble by as the old oil burner seems to crawl along at ten-miles an hour. Lazar is short-circuited by the collective events and lacks the means to be objective. At least in prison you can maneuver and handle any circumstance. A peculiar sensation possesses him as if he’s clinging to the edge of a giant phonograph disc; nothing is in focus. His daughter is strange to him. As for being pregnant and her husband, these issues have consequences difficult to judge. The many years of planning while in custody had been reduced to the thorny task of dealing with anomalies, as they currently exist. Whatever abstract thoughts he has of embracing a simple life are so clouded he considers jumping from the car and to never look back. Indeed, traveling the interstate provides a useful insight into his daughter and her husband.

Jamison Ellsworth, your name sounds rich …

Hell no! complains Annabelle. We’re poorer than church mice.

What does your family do?

Don’t know, sir, oh, I mean Mr. … Oh, Lazar. … I’m …

Annabelle promptly adds, He’s a friggen orphan.

Lazar closes his eyes as if wishing the entire episode can dissolve as a bad dream, and can start the day over with a different cast of characters.

What’s the matter, daddy?

He kisses her cheek. Nothing baby, just thinkin’, that’s all. … Hey, by the way, back there, Jamison …

Just call him Jamie. Annabelle interrupts.

"Sure! Back there, you said you had only five dollars."

I hold most of the money, boosts Annabelle. We have sixty-four dollars and some change. That’s all we got left from the welfare check.

Lazar laughs. At least the government is good for somethin’. At the next pit stop, let’s figure what to do with the seating arrangements. Only Jamie appears comfortable.

Jamie nods his head and slightly grins.

Another hamlet; another gas station; another attendant, a woman, maybe ten years younger than White Overalls, but the results are different: a full tank of gas with the engine running. So much for the law and the American way.

On the interstate again, Annabelle cannot take it any longer. Daddy, I’m so uncomfortable, I want to cry. My neck hurts. I don’t feel good. I’m hot. She consciously lifted her belly with both hands. I really hurt, she cries.

"Stop the car! Come on, stop the goddamn car. My kid got a problem."

Jamie maneuvers the car to the outer shoulder and skids to a squeaky stop. Lazar opens the passenger door. Straight away, Annabelle climbs out, and squats on the ground with her head between her legs. "Klooop …ahh! She coughs, spits up slimy clots. Klooop .. ahh! Oh, daddy, I feel real sick."

Lazar stands there, is befuddled. Looking toward Jamie, he declares. "Go to your wife, boy! … Son of bitch! The car, this day; being free is a crock of bullshit! … Come on, she needs you."

Shrugging his shoulders, Jamie looks like a ten year old, bewildered, embarrassed. What … what can I do? I don’t know. He’s about to cry.

Okay, okay! … Now, now, baby. Daddy’s here. You’ll be okay. To Jamie he shouts, Get the water bottle. Stay alive!

In due course, she improves, sits in the shade of a rotund poplar tree. I hate bein’ pregnant. The whole system stinks. How come men don’t do this shit? She forces a smile.

Yeah, the girl’s fine. All right. Let’s make more room in this jalopy. Lazar looks at Jamie, then at the old Ford, puffing and grinning away. The car’s got heart. Look at it, smokin’ like a chummy, and still, it keeps on tickin’.

I need to put oil in.

Your show Jamie.

From under the front seat he pulls out a ten-gallon plastic container. After finding a funnel in the trunk he places both items on the ground and lifts the hood. The Ford bellows more smoke. Running back to the truck he returns with an oversized cloth and lifts off the oil cap with it. With the funnel inserted he pours the oil in. Instantly the car is engulfed under a larger cloud of white smoke. For a moment it seems Jamie is sucked into the motor, only to appear coughing and waving the smoke away from his head.

Lazar claps his hands and says, That my boy is worth the price of admission. I was wondering how you would do it!

She smiles. Well, daddy, it got us here, and will take us home. I love my car, sometimes more than Jamie.

Jamie shuffles his feet, looks at Lazar for further instruction. When none comes, he nervously sits near his wife.

Busy removing all the contents from inside the car, including the trunk, Lazar is on a mission. Two folded chairs, three horseshoes, deflated water tube, one third-hand Scooby Doo folded children’s chair, Proctor-Silex iron in pieces, six one-gallon paint cans of various weights, most of which appeared empty, two bent and hardly useable paint trays, one chipped toilet seat cover, one 20 gallon trash can without a wheel filled with assorted clothes, CD/Cassette boombox, Sylvania 19" T.V. without the tube, seven cordless phones, dozens of old books and magazines, half-fill bag of charcoal, 20 pound bag of unopened wild bird food, ten bamboo torch tops, parts of a charcoal grill, one package of Bounty 8-roll paper towels, ten quarts of Mobil motor oil, a dozen or so boxes of opened snacks and crackers, assorted broken toys and more junk of various sizes and shapes that defy description.

Look at all this shit! What a crew. No spare tire or jack, but a lot of nothin’. Lazar shouts over the noisy truck traffic and the hapless Ford. What the hell is you goin’ to do with this crap?

Annabelle walks toward the car and glances down. Gee, this is somethin’. She giggles. "We sure collected a lot of things, Jamie."

Hey, don’t blame me. You wanted …

With his hands on his hips, Lazar say, All this shit got to go!

Daddy, you can’t. She immediately picked up two of the broken toys. This is for the …"

Stop the crap! It’s junk. You want to get the kid sick playing … who know where the stuff came from. No! Definitely, it’s goin’. To Jamie, he says, pick out what’s important. The rest goes.

Lazar sits on a rock, while they debate what should be kept. Ten-minutes later, he shouts, Stop sniveling! Hear me! The oil, bird seed, … take the clothes from the trashcan, and … yeah, dose paper towels. The rest goes! … Hey, no lip girl. Grab the oil quarts Jamie. Annabelle, get in the car. NOW!

When she refused to move, he picks her up and gently places her in the front passenger’s seat. Don’t move, or else. She attempts to get out of the car. No you don’t. He pushes her down with his hand. Get behind the wheel Jamie, we’re goin’. I’ll sit in the back. As Lazar squeezes into the back seat, he says. See, we all fit with no bullshit. Okay, put the thing into drive. Let’s get home.

Chapter Three

Jamie leads the way into the hall, while Lazar stops in the vestibule. The depressing smell has a permeating odor of decayed garbage, smell of every fried fish, every pot of cabbage, every strip of rancid bacon, every joint ever smoked, every bottle of whiskey every sucked, body stench, dirty clothes, shit and piss and diarrhea, and the slow death of the build itself.

The smell recoils in his mind, as would an evil, festering cancer would. Lazar whispers in his daughter’s ear, as she remains sound asleep in his arms, "We will escape this smell of poverty!"

Lazar rests on the second floor landing. After shifting the weight of his daughter, he looks up. The dim hall light on the third floor seems a hundred miles away.

You want I should carry her? Jamie asks.

No! Just point the way. How long yous been here?

Ah, maybe seven months. She had it before I moves in.

Lazar sighs. You knocked her up in this flea bag.

Just shrugging his shoulders, Gawky Kid takes two stairs at a time, apparently to avoid any further questions on the subject.

Shaking his head, he inhales a ton of stale air, and blew it out like trying to distinguish a candle a mile away.

What did I get myself into? In three more days I’m be 60. At my age a man shouldn’t be dealing with this crap. He should be fuckin’ some whore on 14th Street in New York City.

What daddy?

"We’re home baby. Old, sweet house!"

Oh good. Daddy thanks. I’m so tired.

"Go to sleep. You’ll be okay. Daddy’s home."

A single tear rolled off his cheek.

As he ascends the final flight of stairs to the third floor, he isn’t tired. Energized by holding his daughter, Lazar has a mission. Whatever it takes, this poverty is not going to last. I’ll work four jobs, if necessary, to get her out of there. And the shit head who fucked ‘yoa, he’ll pay and work his balls off.

Lazar mumbles. "We’ll all be ruthless to guarantee a better life for the little bugger. You can take it to the bank! When that day comes, we’ll be ready. You bet your ass, we’ll be ready!"

Jamie waits at a shiny red painted door. This is it!

Smiling, Lazar says, "good start. The first new paint in the whole joint, and it’s on our door." He turns his sleeping daughter to maneuver the door space, and steps inside.

It’s dark, and Lazar waits until Jamie finds the light switched. Finally, he says, you’re not getting’ candles are you? What’s taken’ so long?

Scuffing, scratching sounds can be heard. I … I guess the front light bulb burned out. Just give me a sec’.

Except for the dim light from the hallway, the small room is in the deep shadows. Lazar is anxious to lay her down, since the farther he navigating the tiny apartment, the more obstacles he encounters. What’s the hell’s goin’ on here?

… I don’t know. Maybe the power is off for some reason?

Did you pay the bill? Why all the crap in here? You can’t walk.

Okay, I found the extension cord.

When the faint light finally blinks on, Lazar sees furniture, and assorted junk packs to the ceiling. What the hell’s this shit? The words sputter from his lips. The front yard is pale by comparison to the amount of accumulated rubbish crammed in such a minuscule space. Accented with scattered clothing and towels are the only proof that just maybe humans occupy the demented space. A further observation to the harsh dynamics: a pungent, unrecognizable odor with an odd urine patina, grabs at his nostrils, and doesn’t let go.

Lazar is not part of the picture and only a mere spectator ready to bolt with a minimum of provocation. Nevertheless, on the third sweep with his eyes, he realizes this is it.

Jamie enters the room. It’s a little messy. We were in a hurry … to pick you up. He stutters, while moving debris to make a path to the bed. Lazar is too dumfounded to speak, and simply follows behind him like a blind man. After setting his sleeping daughter down on the bare mattress, he turns slowly to face Jamie. Holding his hands palms up, he sincerely says, "I don’t know what to say about all this. How can you live here? Don’t you have any consideration for her? When Jamie attempts a weak smile, Lazar bristles.

Madder than a hungry junkyard dog, he looks down at his daughter, and then back at him. "What’s she to you, a fuckin’ pincushion?"

Jamie backs up instinctively. "No sir. I love Annabelle. … Most of the stuff is my furniture. When I moved in, I had no place to put it. It’s really good …"

Stop it! The shit’s junk. Lazar turns to his left and grabs a wooden chair with one leg missing, and shakes it at him. You’re goin’ tell me this fuckin’ chair … In disgust, he flings it into another piece of worthless furniture. What is it with you, just one goddamn comedy show? This is no joke kid. Wakeup…

"Meow … meow."

Lovingly, Jamie bends down, picks up and cuddles a skinny, motley black cat. Wid-widdy puddy, did you miss me? He kisses its head. Skinny Cat meows and licks his face.

"A cat! A cat, with all this shit. That’s what stinks! A fuckin’ cat! … Give ‘em to me," demands Lazar. When Jamie refuses by holding it tight against his body, Lazar grabs the cat by the head, and snatches it from his arms.

What are you do-innnggggg? screams Jamie.

Skinny Cat aggressively wiggles, claws show, and attempts to escape without success. A cat! Lazar yells.

Jamie is unable to reach the cat as Lazar keeps blocking him with his shoulders. With his free hand, Lazar push him to the floor. Take another step, and I’ll kick you in the teeth. Turning away from him, Lazar stumbles, pushes furniture aside with his free hand, and nears a window. After opening it further, he flings the cat out the window.

A thump and a slight animal cries are heard. He turns from the window. Jamie’s eyes, big as saucers reflect in the shadows with a strange combination of fear and anger.

Don’t say or do a fuckin’ thing kid! he menacingly whispers. A lot of things are goin’ to change around here. Hear me straight! We’re not goin’ to live like gypsies.

Annabelle stirs, opens her green eyes for an instant. Oh, good, we’re home. She rolls toward the wall and sleeps.

I suppose, you’re goin’ to leave her like this with her coat and clothes on?

Fearful, not looking at Lazar, he says without emotion. I guess. When it’s cold, we always …

Lazar waves with his hand to end the senseless conversation. "Where do I sleep?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Jamie nervously searches the small room for a likely area without offending him. Finally, he says, You pick a spot, and immediately turns to the bed and Annabelle.

What’s in the other room? Lazar waits for the answer. Without an instant response, he repeats the question. Still no answer. After moving closer to the bed, he finds Jamie face down, out like a light.

Nimbly snooping around, his movements are slow and deliberate. Lazar is shocked. The smell of poverty is deep. Without a dime to his name, the prospects are dimmer still. Shadows made by the dim light add to his misery and emptiness.

He follows the light to its source, and finds to his dismay an extension cord hanging from a broken piece of ceiling tile with a 25-watt bulb flicking. What he believes is the kitchen is a closet without a door containing a single makeshift shelves and a hot plate on top. No refrigerator, stove and or anything else a normal couple would need to exist.

Back to the other room, Lazar looks down at his daughter and her husband. She 36 years old and the common sense of a June bug: and the kid, what did he say? Oh yeah 24! What a combination!

Treading toward the dim light, he cries for the first time in fifteen years.

Chapter Four

"Why did you kill the cat? Oh daddy, how could you do such a thing?"

She pushes aside her coffee cup.

That’s the least of our worries.

"Poor Jamie, he’s burying Lucky next to his other cat."

"Come on, look around you. Old furniture. ... No! Just worthless crap. You can’t even sell the shit. Boxes of I don’t know what, all just plain garbage. You and that idiot are …"

Please, don’t call him …

All right! I apologize. Jamie, right? … Many way, while you and him were asleep, I tried to figure what you have, and make this sad sack of a place livable. See, by just piling up the shit, we have more room.

"Yeah, the place does look bigger."

See! He smiles. We have a place to sit, even found some coffee.

Thanks! I’m going down stairs and help Jamie. Maybe say a few words.

Like what? Lazar wants to laugh. What would you say to a dead cat?

Lots of good things. Cats are like people …

Yeah, like they have a cat god?

Oh daddy, I can’t talk to you.

She abruptly stands and quickly exits the apartment.

Lazar continues to sit and reflect on his first day of freedom. So far the event left him flabbergasted, but like all things this too will pass. Since yesterday he hasn’t slept, spent the entire night and early morning cleaning up the joint. He has shaped a tiny corner near the window for a table and three chairs. A broken vase and ugly dried flowers he finds in a draw gives the table a pleasant, continental look.

The bright blue cloudless sky and warm early morning sun are gladly invited into the single window. From the vantage point of a six-story view, Lazar has an insightful thought. Only yesterday life is miserable, depressing, terrible burden. Now, the constructive evidence speaks volumes: a daughter that loved him, a child on the way and the energy, desire and well to make it right. Focus on the positive, he whispers while pushing the