Where Peace Walks in a Tight Rope

By Francis Brainfloss

The next night, she went to another bar that has live bands. She had no luck but didn't want to give-up yet. She can't get him off her mind. That gaunt face, dark hair and the dreamy eyes that was shadowed by his eyebrows. Oh, that handsome face, Deborah thought with desire. She did not care that she was looking for him everywhere and she was a woman, the guy was a hero and he saved her life; There's something poetic about him. Deborah bet he is a very good and romantic man. Deborah moves on her chair.

"Are you okay honey?" asked her father William Cunningham.

"Yes dad," came her reply, still with a faraway."

"You must be thinking of Clide huh?" William leaned closer from across the table. "He really sounded sincere. I think he was close to tears when he talked to me."

"I don't know dad," Deborah said with a dismissive sight.

"But . . ."

"Listen dad," Deborah said more firmly. "I need time to think. I hope you understand."

"Okay," said William with resignation. "I understand. You're mad at him. It takes time to get over what he'd done. I'm just worried that you won't get married. I mean, you're past the marrying age already. Three years from now, you're going to be thirty."

" I know that dad," said Deborah burdened by having to say it again. "And I thought that Clide was the one-but, he just betrayed my trust. You know how Iam about trust." Deborah wished she could leave now and be somewhere where she would be left with her thoughts and fantasize about that mysterious man. She felt a stirring in her groin every time she thinks of him. God, when am I going to find him? Deborah desperately wanted some hope just so she could go on. Then she'd find him and thank him or something. Don't joke yourself Deborah, you want more than that.

Deborah smiled.

"What's that smile all about?" William asked.

Deborah felt herself blush. "Nothing dad . . ." she said quickly. "Listen, I have a lot to do in the office."

"Honey, are you even listening to what I said?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479741472

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Copyright © 2012 by Francis Brainfloss.

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Contents

Epilogue

The Parole hearing room looked scary to Francis as he walked in. It’s because this is the place that he imagined what it is like and what would it be like when it is his time to come here when his parole application is approved. And when the news of the parole came, he was so happy that he could not contain his excitement that was suddenly neutralized at the thought of pessimism. What if his interview fails What if he says the wrong thing? He could not endure another year in prison at having to go through having his chances of being paroled and failed in the parole interview.

Because of that, Francis was restless during the waiting period of his parole interview. He’d pace around the grounds or in his cell imagining how it would be like and what he would do or say. He would cook up an imaginary interview in his mind and he would say the best answers he could come up. And it would always be a great one, one that he could feel confident with and he would feel so optimistic and become euphoric as he looked forward to the future where he is free outside and go wherever he wants when he gets bored. A cycle went on at the waiting period of feeling optimistic at the moment and pessimistic at the next, then he would supplement with something that would make it alright like saying the most convincing words to the parole board and it sustained Francis’s month of waiting.

Now, Francis sat on the chair in-front of the four parole officer as his heart raced. He did not know what to make out of the room except that he felt this is the best looking room in the world because the key to his freedom which was his parole is decided here.

Francis looked at the faces of the three parole board member who is going to interview him across the varnished table and his mind raced as he wondered what they’re going to ask him and if he would be able to say the right thing that would convince them to approve his parole. True, Francis had made-up his own convincing words but he was fearful he might not be able to use it or that he would not sound convincing enough if he’d be able to say it.

The parole board members where busy at the moment looking at the papers in-front of them so Francis rolled his eyes around the room trying to find something interesting in it. Living in his cell for a long time made him appreciate places that are not familiar with him. Sometimes, the prison library is so good to be around with because it has a lot to look at that’s not as generic as his cell. One time when he got a fever, it was very nice to be in the prison infirmary because it was a change of scenery from his cell. Now, Francis realized, the scenery of this room is intoxicating to him like he was actually stepping outside of the gate of San Quentin Prison.

A sound of the throat cleared and Francis snapped back to reality. He looked at the parole board members and he smiled. Their faces are drawn as if they’re sick and tired of doing the same old job everyday: granting prisoners something that they spent dreaming day and night and would kill for or pay millions for. How nice of you guys, Francis thought, that you’d never appreciate freedom like I do. You just approve or deny it and I wondered if you were rewarded for holding in your hands the happiness of the prisoner? Not thinking of the one’s you denied. Are you happy like we do when we get our freedom?

Francis looked at each one of them, there’s a lunky man that looks like a guy that works in a morgue. There’s a fiftyish lady who look like a librarian. Then there’s a man who looks like a principal. They look up and Francis who has ready smile for them.

Hi, I’m Mr. Trusdale, said the morgue guy.

And I’m Mrs. Casey, said the librarian.

And I’m Mr. Segorney, said the principal.

Francis nod his acknowledgement.

Nice to meet you, sir, ma’am, Francis hoped he was so respectful enough.

So, do you have something to say for yourself Francis? Said Mr. Segorney.

Francis took his time. Then he opened his mouth but he was stopped.

Mrs. Casey spoke: Can you tell us why you should be paroled?

Francis took a deep breath and spoke. Well sir, ma’am, I have grieved for my sin. And it’s a smear of my conscience for the rest of my life. I shall take it with me to the grave, even though my fiancé died because of him. But thou shalt not kill as the ten commandment said. So I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulder. Whether you give me the parole or not, I am content that I am a changed man and parole is the only way I can prove it—if you think that I deserve it of course. Francis braved to check on the Parole board’s faces. They are listening intently. Good sign. Francis felt optimistic for he said what he meant to say. Lord, I’ve done the best I can, now do the rest. Francis realized that his thumb hurt. He looked down to see it is white and that his point finger is buried in it. Lord, he said to himself, I need a smoke now. Francis looked up to see that the board is confiding with each other in a hush voice. Francis couldn’t discern what they’re saying, but his got a stirring in his stomach and he was surprised that he felt some sort of excitement. He held his breathe trying to contain his adrenaline that is pumping like crazy. It seemed that every second is a grudging step of an hour. Then, the three parole board members faced him and they looked nice now and with a smile.

Francis felt queasy as he walked toward the prison gate. He’s dressed in the clothes he wore when got arrested. A dark suit and a white shirt without a tie looking like a jaz singer with his gaunt face and long nose. He was thin, and tall and handsome with brown hair styled in a barber’s cut.

In one hand, Francis carried a bag and in the other is a beaten hollow guitar case. Goodbye at last to this hell of a place called San Quentin State Prison. Pass by the seven years of torment. Hell has opened it’s door to the outside world to the gates of heaven. Heaven is freedom and heaven is being bored just as long as it is not in my prison cell. Life will be more endurable for there is somewhere to go when you needed somewhere to go especially someone. I shall be happy outside for the field to run around is wider than the prison grounds.

The guard at the gate smiled at Francis. Francis smiles back and hands over a paper. Francis had a sudden overwhelming sense of fear: What if there’s something wrong with the papers and he have to go back inside. Anything could go wrong for he wanted to get out so much. Damn this thing called life, it is very treacherous sometimes . . . putting it mildly that’s why I have doubts. I shall not breathe till the gate opens.

Francis looked at the guard who reads the paper carefully. He summoned up the courage to stay on his feet: For it is weakened and every second is an hour as his freedom is just a few yards away. The guard nods and he hands back the paper. Francis heaves a sigh of relief as he pockets the paper. The guard nods to his friend inside the guard house. The gate made its noisy drilling sound as it opened, which tickles the tense sensation Francis felt. Then Francis’s lips widens in a grin like it has a life of its own. He felt his face quiver. Isn’t laughing supposed to use less muscle? He rolled his eyes to the guard, who is focused on the magazine he’s reading. He seemed to not mind, about the joy that he felt. Francis is getting his freedom, and that means the world to him. No money in the world could replace it, especially when your dreaming of it for seven years. Francis thought if he was the guard, what a nice thing to see to watch a prisoner leave this place; the happiness ones felt, when he gain his freedom—after waiting for years and without patience. Savoring with them, the euphoria they felt. He guessed the guard got used to it, for he is like a teacher whose job is teaching forever. Not minding how happy the students are, when they make their next step to another level, or graduate from the school as they go break free from the burdens of the grueling task of memorizing the answers of the quizzes, just to be able to gain freedom, from the subjects and the grade level that they want to escape. Francis wondered, why teachers want to teach, when they would be stuck in school that they wanted to leave when they were a student themselves. Francis felt a certain kind of pity for the guard, for he did not value freedom like he does. He is free, so he shall not know freedom even if it smacks him in the face. The gate is opened enough for him to pass, so Francis started walking past it, with every quivering step by step. His head is dizzy, intoxicated by the air of freedom, and what it would give him. The epoch of his life that he got entangled in; which he vowed never to return. It’s a little scary for life is treacherous, but as long as his eyes can stay open, in the arms of sleep that is the treacherous world of freedom and happiness, he shall held it at its bay, and pray that he shall not fall asleep, and stay away from trouble.

Francis reached the side walk, and he felt foolish at the smile he wears. It taken a life of its own, and he could not stop it even if he wanted to.

So he waited for the bus that would take him to the city, the place where he grew up, the place where he will return, the city of San Francisco. He was thankful, that no one is watching, for they will see, a crazy man who’s laughing by himself. He is overwhelmed by the ecstasy of freedom, as if he has to finish a project, and meet the deadline, of a project that’s standing the way of his graduation, and he finished it, to march with the other graduates, to receive their diploma on graduation day. This is the prize of being in prison, you get to value freedom. Like a bum who got back on his feet, found a job and is no longer living in the street. To be reminded how lucky he is, when he sees a bum when he walks on the street where he used to live.

Finally, Francis sees the bus approaching, he heaved a deep breath and picked up his bag and guitar, and watch it till it got bigger and bigger as it’s distance grew smaller, as his jaws are hurting from smiling too long.

Francis sat beside an old lady, who was nice enough to smile at him. She did not spoke and Francis just did the same and looked straight ahead. He thought what he should do, when he gets back to the city: find a band, and play his songs for money, or form his old band back if they wanted to. He hoped his house is alright, and it’s still where it stands, for he had nowhere else to go, if it is gone. He liked it, for he shared it with a woman he loved. Melissa was her name, a name so beautiful it’s like music to his ears. She died when she took the bullet for him at the bar, from the guy who wanted to kill him for beating the pulp out of him, for trying to take a pass on Melissa, who refuses his advances as nice as she could. Francis got angry, when he saw him grab Melissa’s elbow forcefully, who was scared, because the guy is drunk. He couldn’t take rejection well, and Melissa didn’t know what to do anymore. Francis puts down his guitar, in the middle of a song, and run to his girlfriend’s side where harsh words are exchanged. Until the guy hit him, which made Francis explode with rage, and beaten the guy to a pulp. When the guy lay and moaning and can’t fight no more, Francis led Melissa out of the bar. Then he heard the guy call him asshole from his back, Melissa and Francis turn to see a gun pointed at them, he squeezed the trigger and Melissa instinctively pushed Francis aside, taking the bullet that was intended for him. Francis was down on the floor, and saw Melissa dropped beside him, he saw her face, shocked and white. Eyes bulge and looking up at him. Her hands reached out for him as she grasp for her last breathe. Francis crawled to her side and searched her body, and saw the blood gushing at her belly. He trembled in fear that she may die, he told her to stay with him but she can’t talk. Her trembling hands, caresses his tears smeared face, as blood splurted, when she said I love you. That was the last words that came out of her mouth, as then her eyes closed and her hands dropped to the floor. Francis shook Melissa, a desperate effort to bring her back to life, but it seems like he was shaking a doll. Francis gave up and got up, he saw, that the man was restrained, by Tom the bouncer, and some other guys. His bloody face, a mask of triumph, at what he did that would anger Francis the more. Francis went to him and grabbed the chair that was on his way and dragged it toward the restrained murderer. He no longer held a gun, but a smile on his face, in which Francis smashed the chair on. He just hit him once, and would have wanted to hit him more, but he was suddenly restrained by his band mates. He wiggled, but they’re much stronger, but he need not to struggle no more for the guy is dead. And that’s why he ended up in San Quentin State Prison.

Francis woke up. He looks around. He’s still in the bus. He looked at the window pass through the old lady and he saw a familiar sight. He’s in San Francisco. Francis smiled. He is home. He wasn’t excited that much to get home, he was excited all of the time he is in the bus. Remembering that depressing day when he was on the bus on the way to Prison. It was a welcome sight than what’s waiting for him as he think of being locked down on San Quentin for a very long time. Every passing time on that prison bus was hell and at the same time ethereal, as he savor the sights that he would not see for a long time. Now, he watched the city unfold in a beautiful and different way. This time he’s not saying goodbye to it, but welcoming it. He smiled wider. He flashed a look at the old lady. She was watching him with disdain. He looked away and looked straight.

The bus stopped in a corner in 16th street Mission. It stayed there for a while. Then it revs and leaves. Francis is standing on the side walk staring at the building in-front of him. He caught that bus from downtown San Francisco where the Greyhound bus terminal is located. 16th St.

It was still as it is when he left seven years ago. Nothing much has changed as if he hasn’t left at all. Mc Donald’s is still there. Most of the restaurant is still around. At-least most he can remember. He could not be sure of the others. He fished for his cigarette and lights it with a Zippo lighter. He blows a cloud of smoke on the air. Then walk sign is go . . . He crossed the street carrying his guitar case and bag. He walks in the pedestrian looking at the buildings for two blocks. He turned left to Vannesse St. It’s residential area now. He walks slow, looking at the familiar places. He lights another cigarette. He felt the tones of home, like music to his ear and touch him to the core and explodes in euphoric high. He felt a little dizzy as he walks. His lips wide in a grin, that hurts now from smiling so long. He still smiled but strained his face because it got tired and numb. His pace slowed after walking the second block and he faced a house. It was a house like most houses in San Francisco. Its roof is triangular and shorter than the two houses on its sides. It was a house so worn from neglect but not that bad. Its paints are just peeling but far from a sight that is far from abandoned, well maybe a little. Francis climbs the steps and unlocked the door with a key. He stepped inside and smelled the murky smell of time and dust. He switched on the light and hoped it still works. It did. He saw the living room, its dry looking wooden floor. It needs to be varnished again. The furniture were covered by white cloth. Thank you Chad, said Francis to himself. Chad did as he promised: that he’d take care of the house when he was in prison. Francis wondered if he is still playing bass. Francis thought of calling him tomorrow and ask him if he can get the old band back. He wrote a lot of songs in prison, lyrics mostly, because he could not get hold of a guitar. He usually wrote his songs with a guitar or music first and put his words later. Francis wondered if he still had a little money in the bank . . . his and Melissa’s savings. He trusted his ATM to Chad. The electricity still worked so Chad must have continued paying the bills. With my money I hope, Francis thought.

Francis crossed the living room and straight to the kitchen and opened its lights. It turned on but it kept on blinking. From the flicker, he made out its condition: A kitchen that hasn’t been used for seven years. No dishes on the sink. Melissa was very tidy all the time. She doesn’t like to leave dirty dishes on the sink.

Melissa owned this house. She bought it and paid it in three years before they got together. She has a very high income from being a manager in a bank. She could have gotten a bigger house and more expensive. Francis thank that she didn’t, for she would have not paid it in full when she died and he would not have a place to stay now that he got paroled. They were already engaged for three month before she died. She didn’t care that he is not making a lot of money playing his music in the bar. She fall in-love with him when she heard him sing in the bar. She told him later when they finally met that she came along with her office mates to the bar that he is playing and she thought he was really cool with his suit and guitar. Then she started to listen to the lyrics of his songs and she thought, how wonderful it would be if Francis wrote that song for her. So after that, she came to the bar every chance she could to listen to Francis and his band. She said it’s almost like Francis is singing it to her in the middle of a grass field having a picnic and Francis is singing it to her with his guitar with his voice piercing into her heart like all the messages of his songs that made her feel like she’s in a wonderful love story; singing songs to express how he loved her and intending to make her love him the more.

Not knowing that Francis noticed her every time she came with her friends, for who would miss a beautiful blonde and a face that really showed interest of every song he sings about love, Francis decided to approach her while waiting for his time to play in the bar when she pass by to go the ladies. It wasn’t hard, for Melissa smiled at him like a fan does. Francis smiled back and approached her.

Hi, Francis said. I was wondering if I can buy you a drink?

Melissa suddenly lost her smile and lowered her head; probably conscious of herself.

I thought you liked listening to my songs for you watch my show a lot, Francis said smiling down at her.

Melissa smiled back, a shy smile. She braved to look up and she must had took all of her courage to meet his gaze.

I really liked the lyrics of your song, Melissa said her voice trembling"

It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Francis said. I wrote it because I want people to like it. And it seemed that you liked it . . . You have no idea how happy I am that you liked it, looking faraway. A very special and beautiful woman liked my song . . . wow.

Really? Melissa caught herself, she said it too excitedly. But it’s already too late. She gave out herself.

Francis smiled in a kind way, for he felt like he was talking to a child, who makes mistakes and always felt guilty about it. He liked her even more.

Listen, I’m not really good at this, he said. And if you like me, you can be honest. I’m the lucky one here. Not the one you should be frightened about. I promise we can work it out.

Melissa considered it as she stare at the ladies room. Finally, she decided she smiled and faced him with courage. Alright, I’m in-love with you and I’d like to know where this would lead me.

It should lead to something wonderful, Francis said. I’m in-love with you.

Melissa smiled.

I don’t know what to say?

Well, how about saying yes to that drink?

Can I go to the ladies room first?

Sorry . . . Francis smiled. I’ll wait for you here.

Okay . . . be back in a sec.

Francis watched her head for the ladies room, amused that she is trying to walk carefully.

Francis moved in a month later to her house. She did not mind he’s not making much money, she loves having a musician for a lover. She’d support him even he’s not making money until he get signed to a record label. Francis accepted it; She wouldn’t take no for an answer anyway. She even put the name in the house to both of them after living there for two months. Francis guessed she trusted him. He could not blame Melissa, she has nothing to fear from him. Now, Francis has somewhere to live after getting out of prison. Francis thanked himself for being in-love with Melissa and having no reservation in how he felt for her . . . he’s got somewhere to go home to. Francis smiled at the thought of that first time they spoke as he climbed into bed and got under the cover of a double bed. The bed he and Melissa shared when they were together. He closed his eyes with a smile.

The Parole Officer’s office is murky. It looks like it hasn’t been renovated since it opened for the paint looked worn out. The filing cabinets has rusts in it and the desk of the secretary looks even older where papers and folders are piled neatly but did not deter it’s ancient look on the whole office. The secretary looked like she’s in her late fifties and was typing on an old typewriter as she peered above her spectacles. She looked strict as if it was a compliment to the place where she worked for which its job anyway is to monitor the parolees behavior so that they would think twice into violating their parole. When Francis introduced himself and told him why he’s here, Francis felt the first time how it is being an ex-con. He thought now of the parole office as another obstacle from the succession of fears he encountered starting from the parole board to the prison gate. Francis hopes that the parole officer is much nicer than the secretary who certainly did not sound any different than how she looked. He had no idea what to expect, all he knows is his name: Brad Peterson. He couldn’t even put a face to it. It is already thirty minutes and he isn’t still called inside. He wished he could have a smoke. He’d kill for a smoke right now to ease the tension. Francis studied the typewriter in the secretary’s desk. What the hell? Haven’t they heard of a computer? Why would I wonder? Francis thought. The typewriter sure is the symbol of how the office looks. Why am I surprised? Francis laughed to himself. Francis was awoken from his reverie at the sound of the door opening. Francis found himself gazing at a burly balding man with a mustache. He just gave Francis a slight look and spoke to his secretary right away.

Shelly? Brad Peterson said. Francis thought his husky voice is scary. Francis’s tension rises.

Shelly looked at Peterson from above the rim of her glasses. There’s a parolee named Francis Satriano . . . He’s got an appointment.

Peterson suddenly turned to Francis.

Francis gave him a smile.

Peterson studied him.

Oh yeah. I was expecting you today, Peterson said. Didn’t know you’d come this early.

Yes I am, said Francis.

Well, step into my office, says Peterson and went inside before Francis could get into his feet.

Inside the office, Francis waited while Peterson talked on the phone. Brad is talking someone on the police station about some parolee violating his parole. Francis got scared. What if he would be the next parolee that Peterson would be talking on the phone? That parolee could have been listening to the same conversation in his visits here. Francis prayed he wouldn’t fuck-up like that sorry guy that got caught . . . He wouldn’t be able to take it. He can’t stand being in prison again . . . not now that he is granted with his freedom.

Finally, Peterson puts down the phone and he finally has Francis’s attention.

You heard that? Peterson said with his calculating eyes. A parolee just recid. Now he’s going back to prison. I hope that won’t happen to you.

I’ll do my best sir, Francis answered trying to hide his anxiety.

Well, you know the rules, Peterson said. I am not going to give you a hard time like the other’s do. But if you become a problem, I will be your worst nightmare. You report here regularly and I don’t suspect anything fishy, then we’d just be fine.

I promise I would and won’t break any rules. I don’t want to go back again.

I’m glad we got that understood. You’re given a second chance and I suppose you don’t want to lose it. It’s easy to say it but this world has lots of temptation. It’s a crazy world out there and the good lord and the devil are trying to make it on their own. It’s up to you which side you’re on.

That’s a very good insight sir, said Francis who relaxed a little now. I’ll keep that in mind.

Good, said Peterson looking at Francis’s eyes again with those calculating eyes. Cause you seem to be a nice guy and I don’t want to make you sorry.

I don’t want that, Francis said quickly.

Go, said Peterson leaning back. I think we’re done here.

Francis was only too glad that they’re done. He stood up quickly and shook Peterson’s hand. Finally Peterson smiled. Francis felt a chill on his body, he did not know why. Probably he does: that smile of his, it elude Francis expectation that he got used to handling and now he had to think of Peterson in another way: He wasn’t so bad at all.

Francis went to the door awash with relief for surviving his first appointment with his parole officer. His nerves are still racking with Peterson’s smile. He guessed because he hasn’t seen someone being nice to him for a long time. Prison is not the place where kindness is always seen. It’s a place where you become indifferent and want to be let alone to be indifferent. Francis was one of them and Peterson too was the last thing he’d expect niceness.

Francis lighted a cigarette when he stepped out of the building. He saw a phone booth and went there as he fished some quarters from his pocket. He got to call Chad.

Francis found a table at a coffee shop. He sat there with an Cappuccino. He missed it so much that’s why he decided to meet Chad in a coffee shop so he could have a Cappuccino. They spoke briefly on the phone, he was busy but he has some time after. Chad was so surprised to hear from him and that he was paroled. He asked him why he didn’t call him because he could have picked him up when he got out of the prison gate. Yes, he has another band now but it doesn’t matter: He’d drop everything for Francis. Said it was like playing with Bob Dylan. Only he only sings about love and a bit more poetic. He said his other band, which was called Prone was a far cry from being with Francis. That’s about their conversation because he was late for a practice.

Now, Francis has his second espresso and Chad hasn’t arrived yet. It would be thirty minutes more before he arrives. And in Chad’s time, it’s going to take twenty minutes