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I turned, looking around the main area of the house. It was narrow, as all duplexes are, with a staircase leading up right inside the door. The small living room with windows that peeped out onto the porch ran beside the stairs and back toward the kitchen that, yep, was straight out of the seventies. And the ugly seventies with yellow cabinets, floral backsplashes, and faux wood linoleum on the floor.
With a head shake, I moved back out toward the living room, grabbing one of my bags to take up the stairs that creaked loudly enough for the neighbors to hear me each time I went up or down. Which, in turn, meant I would hear them as well. But, whatever, it was the price that came with freedom and detachment from the life that would make a shitty duplex a laughable concept.
I would fix it up.
I would make it home.
The upstairs was cursed with thick brown shag carpeting in every room except the bathroom that had small black and white tile, a shower stall that needed a serious bleaching, and a cracked mirror over the pedestal sink.
The spare bedroom was maybe eight by nine with a window looking right into the window to the next set of duplexes. But it was plenty big for the studio I had planned for it. It was certainly more than I was used to.
The master bedroom was maybe ten by ten with a decent set of windows overlooking a courtyard that it seemed all the duplexes on this side of the street shared, littered with bikes, plastic slides, skate boards, a plastic kiddie pool full of sand, and a push mower wrapped in tarp.
I made a mental note to hit the local home improvement store for flooring, cabinet solutions, and window treatment options when I went to buy a cot to hold me over until I could order furniture.
I'd never truly started over again.
Not completely.
Anytime I had moved, from my parents' to my first apartment, from my first to my second, second to third, I had always had shit with me, the little stuff you compile over time that you need. Cleaning supplies, towels, sheets. Life stuff.
I shot Bobby a text asking to borrow his car until I got around to getting one for myself. I couldn't even fucking shower and wash off the penn because I didn't even have any goddamned soap.
Three hours later, my apartment had more bags and supplies than actual floorspace.
Once I got my bearings, things like withdrawing money from my bank as I waited for up-to-date cards to get sent to me, like shopping, like unpacking, like cleaning with actual supplies, yeah, it all came back as easily as you might expect, no matter how much time had passed.
By the time mid-afternoon passed, I had a clean enough place, a spot to sleep on, some food in the fridge, three beers in me, and a sense of self-satisfaction I hadn't experienced in far too long.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, tossing the clothes I would never wear again, showering, and changing into the new digs I picked up at the store.
Then I paced.
Like I did in prison.
Like a caged animal.
It took an almost embarrassingly long time to realize I didn't have to pace, that I could just... go for a walk. I could get back whenever I wanted.
So I called my parole officer, grabbed my keys and wallet, and headed out, waving a hand to Bobby who I was pretending not to notice was handing out pot to a couple of kids who were likely still in high school.
Not my business.
I learned that motto in prison.
It was something you had to roll around your head a dozen times a day, no matter what crazy shit was going on around you.
Not my business.
I had no real plan in mind, maybe just a walk up the street and back, just clearing my head, just trying to keep focused.
But then I saw it.
She's Bean Around.
I swear to shit, I literally stopped dead in my tracks, making the guy who was walking behind me ram into my shoulder with a muttered curse.
See, I tried.
To stop writing her when she wrote me. To put an end to that connection.
Not because I didn't want it.
I wanted it too much.
That was the problem.
When I found myself going out into the common room when it was time for mail, finding myself disappointed each time there was nothing, even though that was generally the pattern - a few months between each letter, though there were times when it was more frequent.
When I found myself reading and re-reading her sometimes several page-long letters about the prison shows she was watching, or the new places popping up in Navesink Bank, or whatever new trouble Coop was getting himself into that week, and fucking smiling at myself all alone in my bunk, yeah, I knew I needed to get it together.
