July 23, 2018
July 23, 2018
When I called my mom yesterday, she answered with, “Congratulations!”
“For what?” I said.
“Your early release. Online it says your release date is August 17”.
“No,” I said, but it sounded like yes. A strange alchemy started happening in my gut. “That’s like 3 weeks away.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I called everyone and told them. Sam and Rita are buying plane tickets as we speak.”
The alchemy in my stomach suddenly turned sour. It sounded too good to be true, like a dream. This is the place where dreams come to die. “Wait a minute, Mom. I better check with the councilor.”
But as I waited to talk to the councilor everything took on a new vividness. Colors were sharper, sounds more pleasing to the ear, even the sweat on my palms was like smooth butter. I couldn’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of getting out in 3 ½ weeks. Time for me had slowed to a crawl and two and a half months might as well been an eternity. But 3 more weeks! My mind tore tread, going a million miles an hour, romping through the wilderness, mud bogging, tearing up trees. I made about 4,342 plans for what I would do when I get out. I even started making a mental checklist of the people I would leave my stuff to—Scotty will get my T.V., Josh my C.D. player, old dirty Joe can have my old dirty clothes.
The counselor opened the door, and my stomach flipped, twisted, and turned. I asked him to verify my release date. He made a gesture that he would be right back. He had to go check his computer. I was left outside to dance back and forth on the balls of my feet, rubbing my hands raw. Those 3 minutes stretched indefinitely. I about pooped my pants when he opened the door again.
“What did it say?”
“November 7th” he said, a smug look on his face.
I felt something deflate inside of me, like when you pull the mouth of a balloon apart. A screechy, annoying, emptying.
“But,” I said, lamely. “Online it says August 19th.”
“Does it?” He tilted his head, serious-like, as if this could possibly be some grave error on his part. My body tensed. I willed him to be wrong. I wanted his stupid face to be so wrong it hurt. “Let me check.”
That wait was a frustrated, angry wait.
He opened the door, “It does say August 19th online.”
“It does?” I froze. The possibility crept up again like a baby deer. I didn’t want to startle it away. “What does that mean?”
He got that smug look on his face again. “It’s a mistake. I’ll tell them to fix it.”
Just like that he slaughtered that baby deer right in front of me.
So I had to call my Mom and tell her it was a mistake. She was crushed. She had to call my family and tell them to cancel the plane tickets.
“For what?” I said.
“Your early release. Online it says your release date is August 17”.
“No,” I said, but it sounded like yes. A strange alchemy started happening in my gut. “That’s like 3 weeks away.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I called everyone and told them. Sam and Rita are buying plane tickets as we speak.”
The alchemy in my stomach suddenly turned sour. It sounded too good to be true, like a dream. This is the place where dreams come to die. “Wait a minute, Mom. I better check with the councilor.”
But as I waited to talk to the councilor everything took on a new vividness. Colors were sharper, sounds more pleasing to the ear, even the sweat on my palms was like smooth butter. I couldn’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of getting out in 3 ½ weeks. Time for me had slowed to a crawl and two and a half months might as well been an eternity. But 3 more weeks! My mind tore tread, going a million miles an hour, romping through the wilderness, mud bogging, tearing up trees. I made about 4,342 plans for what I would do when I get out. I even started making a mental checklist of the people I would leave my stuff to—Scotty will get my T.V., Josh my C.D. player, old dirty Joe can have my old dirty clothes.
The counselor opened the door, and my stomach flipped, twisted, and turned. I asked him to verify my release date. He made a gesture that he would be right back. He had to go check his computer. I was left outside to dance back and forth on the balls of my feet, rubbing my hands raw. Those 3 minutes stretched indefinitely. I about pooped my pants when he opened the door again.
“What did it say?”
“November 7th” he said, a smug look on his face.
I felt something deflate inside of me, like when you pull the mouth of a balloon apart. A screechy, annoying, emptying.
“But,” I said, lamely. “Online it says August 19th.”
“Does it?” He tilted his head, serious-like, as if this could possibly be some grave error on his part. My body tensed. I willed him to be wrong. I wanted his stupid face to be so wrong it hurt. “Let me check.”
That wait was a frustrated, angry wait.
He opened the door, “It does say August 19th online.”
“It does?” I froze. The possibility crept up again like a baby deer. I didn’t want to startle it away. “What does that mean?”
He got that smug look on his face again. “It’s a mistake. I’ll tell them to fix it.”
Just like that he slaughtered that baby deer right in front of me.
So I had to call my Mom and tell her it was a mistake. She was crushed. She had to call my family and tell them to cancel the plane tickets.
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