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Grabbing them from my back pocket, I handed Reed the printed paystubs. With technology as it was, I wondered why parole still required paper stubs. I could have emailed them. But I understood nothing about parole was supposed to be convenient, and especially not for Black and Brown men and women. They complicated shit just to keep us down.
“No raise yet, I see,” he observed, reading over them. “Not that I’m critiquing. Your salary is handsome for most men. But it looks to have been shrinking. You putting in less hours?”
I shook my head. “Buying stock within the company.”
Reed lowered his glasses. “Stock?”
“More like equity.”
Then he completely removed his glasses. “You mean to tell me you’re buying into that building firm?”
I shrugged. “Rizzo’s got great opportunities happening over there. Maybe one day, I’ll own the company.”
“Well, shit, Sinclair!” He belted a robust hoot. “I guess if some miraculous shit like that happens, it would be to a fella like you.” Then Reed paused and sobered. “Listen, kid.” He then looked me in the eye. “About the other week. We’ve been inundated with demands from the higher-ups to up the quota. I’d been out all that weekend performing negative checks and when I got to your name and saw you hadn’t called in earlier that week…” He sighed. “I was on a warpath, I guess. I’m sure the young lady understands how this game goes.”
He looked to me for confirmation. The nigga didn’t apologize, but wanted me to approve his mistake. I liked Reed, I really did. But I looked forward to the day when I had to answer to no white men. He was the last one standing.
“I’m good, sir.” That was the best I could give him.
In this instance, he had me by the balls in more ways than one. I needed something only Reed could grant.
He nodded, accepting those words as forgiveness for a transgression he didn’t cop to. Then Reed slid his glasses back on, resuming his typical questions. “Have you been around unlawful weapons such as firearms and such?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you entered your hot zones like the Iron Bound section of Newark?”
“I still haven’t had the pleasure,” I answered, quickly regretting being an ass about it.
But Reed knew he had no right to ask me anything not related to my charges, at least not a failed trial.
He scribbled something into my chart. “And how are those sessions with your therapist?”
“Still expensive as hell.”
I sat through a few more standard questions before he began to wrap up this visit. “Okay, Sinclair.” Reed closed my file. “No need to have you piss. I’ll save that for a later visit. You know, you’re one of a small minority—no pun intended—who don’t indulge in alcohol or other prohibited substances.”
“Doesn’t make for an entertaining life, I guess. Reed.” I sat up in my seat, needing to get my words together. “Other than a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been laying low, staying out ya hair. I need something.”
His narrowed lips pushed out. “What’s that?”
I understood his confusion: I’ve never asked for anything from this man, not even patience.
Scratching beneath my goatee, I just came with it. “Travel. I wanna travel.”
“Where to?”
I inhaled a heap of air. “I ‘on’t know specifically. But want to be able to go away for a few days.”
“So, we’re talking national and international travel. For what?”
“Recreation.”
He stared at me deeply. “Exclusively for recreation?”
“Yeah, man.” I exhaled, trying to use my hands to help explain. “You see the hours I put in at work. The weather’s breaking and I’d like to start exploring a little. Maybe The Bahamas…Cabo?”
Reed’s eyes locked into me even more, if that was possible. He was trying to read me. I was sure not many parolees came in here asking to island hop. I needed this.God, I need this. It was the chick. Witherspoon.
