Some Reason in Madness

No more fuck-ups, okay, Ventresca? Here's your stuff." The matron shoved a pile across the counter. Frank caught a look at her badge. Her name was Becky. He almost laughed. She was at least six feet tall, with boobs big enough to support a set of Britannicas, and her name was not Helga, not Bertha, but Becky. He examined his pile, one item at a time. A black comb, two teeth missing. He ran his thumb down the teeth and listened to the plinking sound. A white T-shirt, a pair of black sneakers with laces knotted in several places where they'd broken, and a pair of Levi's, still grease-stained and smelling of 10W30. One cassette: Carlos Santana. He turned the plastic case over and scanned the list of tunes. Almost immediately, he began to sing softly. Got a black magic woman. He looked up to find the matron staring at him. He stopped singing and focused once again on the pile, trying to ignore the cords of pain at the back of his neck. One ballpoint pen. And his wallet. Still in pretty good shape, the black leather molded comfortably by the curve of his ass. He opened it. Two credit cards, both expired in 1987. His driver's license, car ownership, and the picture. The one he'd traded for. Sure you can drive my car, if I can have a picture of you. She was kind of half-smiling, her long brown hair in a single braid to one side, stray wisps floating around her face. He pulled the picture from the wallet and held it, stroking its surface with a dirty index finger. The matron cleared her throat. When Frank glanced up again, she was staring at the photograph. Then she looked him square in the eye and repeated, "No more fu" "Hey, don't you worry 'bout me, Becky. I'm not coming back to Sunnybrook Farm." His things were packaged. The State of Massachusetts gave him a suit he would never wear, along with some cash. He counted it. Enough here to set up a small lemonade stand in a good neighborhood. Knowing he'd have to get a job, and fast, he grabbed his gear and felt himself being hustled to the door, Becky's long strides proof of her eagerness to get rid of him. He wasn't quite prepared for the shock of late-autumn air that hit his face when he got outside. He inhaled deeply, waiting for a whiff of cafeteria food. Or stale urine. But the air was fresh, and the sky was full of huge billowy clouds rolling eastward. At least he thought it was east. When he reached the gate, he saw a bus pulling away and broke into a run to catch it. Then he stopped himself. He didn't even know what bus fare cost these days. He wasn't about to look stupid in front of anybody. So he walked, following the direction of the clouds. He pulled the picture from his wallet once again. With the cool, clean air working its way into his pores and her pretty face in front of him, the knot in his neck began to loosen. Within minutes, he felt great. 2 So you want to hurt Jenny?" "Yeah." "Why is that, Derek?" Samantha Quinlan looked at the boy's clenched fists, his tight jaw, the muscles in his neck straining against his black T-shirt. He's afraid if he loosens up, he'll unravel. "Because she hurt me . . . she hurt me so bad." His shoulders slumped, his head dropped, and the tears came, the genuine sorrow that had been hidden beneath his armor of anger. She let him cry for a while, remembering her own pain of a lost first love. Eventually, she asked, "Do you really want to hurt Jenny, Derek? Deep down?" He shook his head miserably. "No." She waited. [read more]