dontravis.com blog post #569
Claudio’s done his stretch and is getting out of the pen, despite the authorities’ desperation to hang a murder charge on him. I wonder how Claudio will handle his pending freedom? Can he straighten up and fly right? Let’s see.
INMATE
PADILLA
The inmate clerk in the clothing room issued
his two sets of civilian clothes an hour later. “This is the day, huh, Chief?”
“Yeah, I’m putting this clusterfuck behind
me.” Might as well be civil. The guy had slipped him extra socks and shorts
from time to time.
The hack in charge of the place stalked up
and glared at Claudio. “Move it, Padilla. They’re waiting for you. I hope you
find as good cock on the outside as you got in here.”
His blood went cold. He halted in his tracks.
The guard dropped into a crouch. “Try it,
Indian. Come on. Please.”
Something was wrong. The hack was unarmed and
out of shape. No way the man would take him on, not in a million years. Unless
the cards were stacked. Claudio stepped back to the counter “Don’t worry about
it, Mr. Talbert. You gonna wish me luck?”
The guard waved him away. “Stuff it. Go on,
get outa here.”
He almost collided with two guards hanging
around outside the door, the aces up the fat fuck’s sleeve. He spoke to them
courteously, calling each by name as he fell into his macho gait on the way to
Administration. The bastards were about to choke on that unsolved killing. They
had a dead con with no one to pin him on. It drove them batty that their prime
suspect was about to walk out the gate. They’d hung onto him as long as they
could by lying to the parole board, like the sheriff down home had lied to get
him in here.
He walked on eggshells through the discharge
procedure and didn’t take a good breath until the gate clanged behind him. On
the ride to the bus station, the world seemed odd, off-kilter. The whole
universe was upside down. Being locked up and watched every minute of the day
and night and sleeping in a cubby-hole with strips of iron for curtains was natural, and all of this space with
nobody to tell you when to go to the crapper was strange? Weird.
Convinced the two old women sitting behind
him knew he was straight out of the joint and had been fucked by fairies, he
got off the bus in Albuquerque.
He left the depot and ignored the chilly wind
to start walking. He had no idea where he was or where he was going. All the
talk was about something called the Suez Canal Crisis and a hillbilly kid with
the duck’s ass haircut and swivel hips called Elvis Presley.
After a look around downtown, he started up a
long street that turned out to be East Central. He put one foot in front of the
other for miles simply because there was no wall or fence to run up against.
After passing the University Book Store and the University Drug Store, he
realized the big buildings across the street must be the University. Was Paul Martinson
still there?
On a side street in the university area, he
found a used clothing store willing to trade him three worn pairs of dungarees,
some cotton shirts, and a pair of boots for his two sets of brand new khakis
and cheap prison shoes. The girl who waited on him was the only other person in
the place. Short with long stringy hair, she chewed gum non-stop, but, man, did
she have curves.
When he asked to change into his new duds,
she waved him to the back of the small store and told him nobody would bother
him. The clerk watched as he tore off his shirt. Beginning to get turned on, he
shucked his pants. The woman walked over and eyed him frankly.
“You work out or something? That’s a damned
good bod.”
“Yeah, I been with this work crew out on the
desert.”
“Bullshit, honey. I know state issue when I
see it. You been in the joint. I had an old man up there for a while.” She came
closer and eyed him frankly. “How about it, want to work off some of that
tension, or did they make a queer out of you up there?”
“They made me queer for girls with long hair
who chew gum.”
She locked the door, and he took her on the
floor of the crummy little shop. She was still shedding clothes when he threw
her down and mounted her. He came almost immediately.
“Damned muscle boys. Got no staying power.”
He slapped her on the side of the head, and
she came up fighting. As he pinned her to the floor, he got hard again and
threw it to her savagely. She gasped and called him a dirty name. He stabbed
her viciously with his body. By the time he climaxed again, she’d come at least
twice. He sat up and tried to control his breathing.
“Man, that was some fuck!” She lifted her
hips and pulled up her undergarment. “You ripped my panties, you shit. But you
know what? I think I’ll set up camp outside the gates and catch all the cons
when they’re turned loose.” She ran a hand over his chest. “Anybody ever tell
you you’re pretty?”
“A couple of fags, but they were sorry.”
“I’ll tell you, and I won’t be sorry. You’re
prettier than most women. You Mexican?”
He shook his head. “Apache.”
“Oh, wow! That’s groovy. I go for the natural
things. You know… natural foods, natural fibers. I guess they don’t come any
more natural than Native Americans.”
When he stood and began dressing, she kissed
his groin and got up. She tried to talk him into staying, even offering to let
him move in with her, but he’d already violated parole by not going straight to
Terreon and reporting to the Sheriff’s Office. He stuffed his spare clothes in
the paper bag she gave him and crossed the street to wander the University of New
Mexico campus looking for Paul Martinson. All he spotted were lots of kids
headed this way and that way like they were rushing to save the world.
Well, one thing about it. He hadn’t lost his
taste for women. After fucking that good-looking kid, Luis, for a year, he
hadn’t been able to be absolutely certain. He paused as he reconsidered. Maybe
he’d find himself another Luis… you know, just for now and then.
So you tell me, did
Claudio come out of the pen a changed man? Oh, yeah. He’s a murderer, isn’t he.
But do you get the feeling he misses Luis… just a little?
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