Page 1 of Into The Light
One
BEAR
The jarring buzz of the klaxon makes my hands shake; it's a sound that's defined my days for the last ten years.
This is the last time I'll ever hear it.
Guard Jacobsen pulls the cell door open. "C'mon, Bear. Time to go."
I clench my hands into fists to hide the shaking. Rise to my feet. Let out a breath. "One minute, please."
Jacobsen nods, leaning against the frame of my cell, thumbs hooked into his belt. Jacobsen is one of the good ones. A big man with unruly blond hair and a constant five o'clock shadow, he's talkative and quick with a joke and tends to use his size and rapport with the prisoners to quell any issues rather than his billy club.
I turn to Matt, my cellmate for the last six and a half years. He stands by the bunks, visibly fighting emotion.
"Appreciate you, Matt. All you've done for me." I put out a hand.
Matt takes it, squeezing hard before pulling me into a rough embrace, whacking me on the back. "I'm glad as hell you're gettin' out, but fuck me, I'm gonna miss your big ass, brother.”
I thump him back a few times, pulling away without releasing his hand. “Gonna miss you too.” Matt clears his throat a couple of times, tugging at the neck of his bright orange Michigan Department of Corrections jumpsuit. "Give 'em hell, man."
I snort. "My hellraisin' days are behind me." I grip his shoulder and shake him gently. “So are yours."
He shoves at me. "Aw fuck off, Bear. You know what I meant."
“Yeah."
"Gotta go, Olafsson," Jacobsen says. "Ride's waiting."
"Comin'," I say over my shoulder. "See ya ‘round, Matt."
"See ya ‘round, Bear."
We both say it, knowing it’s untrue.
I nod once more, turn, and exit the cell, pacing a few steps down the hallway before pausing to wait for Jacobsen to close the cell. Hurts like hell, leaving behind the first real friend I've ever had. I refuse to look back, knowing if the situation was reversed, Matt would do the same.
Jacobsen gives me a little shove. "Move along, Olafsson." It's friendly, disguised as rough.
As I pass cell after cell, prisoners reach through the bars and I tap my knuckles against theirs, greet each man by name, and give him a nod.
Down through the dayroom and to R and R, where I'm processed for release: strip out of my jumpsuit and dress in my street clothes. They fit like shit—the last time I wore them was ten years ago, and I've put on a fuck-ton of muscle since then. The jeans constrict my thighs and my junk and rise around my ankles, the floppy brown leather belt doesn't fit even on the last hole, and the shirt fits like I'm doing my best Chris Farley "Fat Guy in a Little Coat" impression. My other belongings, which now feel like they belong to someone else, include a long-deadNokia flip phone, eighty-six dollars and seventy-seven cents, a pack of now-stale gum, and an expired state ID card.
The sum total of my belongings as a human on this earth.
Once I'm changed, Jacobsen, against protocol, accompanies me to the gate. "Better not ever see your ass again, Olaffson, you hear me?"
I nod. “Yes sir. I hear you. You won't."
He fixes me with a hard, stern glare. "Serious as a fuckin' heart attack. You got a once-in-a-lifetime shot at turning your life around with this work-release program, Bear.Don'tfuck it up."
"I know it. I won't. Got my word on that."
Jacobsen nods. “Good." He shakes my hand. "Have a good life."
I let out a short sigh. "Do my best."
Jacobsen turns and twirls his hand in the air over his head; a loud buzz precedes the gate sliding open. For a minute, I can't move, sure that a swarm of guards is going to rush me and haul me back to the box.
