The New Day
At 31, Farrell had spent the majority of his life in prison, and became accustomed to bells, buzzers, and the clanging of cell doors. Mechanical devices and violence had been the backdrop of his life.
He had been released from prison yesterday. He remained disorientated all night, not sure what to do outside the gate anymore. . Independence had always been lurking on the edges of his fantasies. Thin hope in a pale dream.
His parole officer had recommended the hotel to him for anonymity. It wasn’t quite what he expected; it was clean, and had a pleasing view of a nearby river. Not the anthill of prison.
He put his head back down on his pillow ,and took advantage of the tranquility. He was grateful for the moment.
Farrell had always been able to see more than one side of things, but he couldn’t figure out when things went bad. This is what got him into trouble. He always felt that his positive attitude would overcome anything.
The memory of his childhood was strong. Having been smaller than most of the other boys his age in school, he found it necessary to fight or ally himself with tough boys. Bad boys. He chose the bad boys. He did anything they did, and anything they told him to do. When the gang made him steal a car, he knew what the result would be. He had been arrested within an hour.
Farrell’s father had died soon after Farrell’s twenty-fifth birthday, and the focus of the world became his mother. His parents hadn’t gotten along well, and Farrell learned to survive by accepting any point of view, going along, never causing any turmoil by resistance. His obvious downfall was that he subverted his own feelings to go along with the group. That desire to please had been misplaced. Prison life had demanded that Farrell stand up for himself.
Yesterday morning, guards led Farrell to the main gate. The guards thought he looked pitiful with just a small bag containing everything he owned. The sergeant of the guard, who had known Ferrell for years, was backlit by the deep blue morning sky. They looked at each other for a few moments. The pale blue of Farrell’s eyes seemed disturbing to the sergeant, and he had to fight to keep from looking away.
Their hands clasped, they nodded to each other. Then the sergeant moved aside.
Farrell’s skin crawled with expectation of strong hands pulling him back, pulling him back. But nothing happened, and his pace quickened.
Shortly, Farrell reached down and pulled back his blanket. He placed his feet on the carpeted floor, and felt the contrast between it and the cold concrete of his ended prison life.
As life slowly imposed itself upon Farrell, he looked across the room at the old rotary phone. The rays of the morning sun penetrated the threadbare green curtain through the window; the other half of the room seem to be in another dimension. He crossed to the phone and stared at it. His left hand alternately opened and closed, revealing his uncertainty.
He picked up the phone. His finger dialed his mother’s number in Alabama. No answer. He tried the number again, and when he was ready to hang up, he heard a small voice.
“Hello.”
“Hello.” The voice repeated.
Farrell was speechless. He watched the pigeons walk back and forth outside his window. “Mama?”
“Who is this?”
“Mama.”
He could hear breathing.
“Farrell. Boy … is that you?”
“They let me out yesterday, Mama.”
“Where are you?”
His voice sounded remote.
“California. At a motel.”
Farrell could hear her weeping.
“It’s all right now.”
The hiss of the telephone connection was deafening.
“Are you … coming home?”
Farrell could hear the age in her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You come on home, now.”
“I’ll be leaving this morning. It’ll take about three days to get there.”
The hiss returned.
“I’ll be waiting, Farrell.”
“Bye, mama.”
Suddenly the phone was heavy in Farrell’s hand and it fell, dreamlike, into its cradle. He stood there for a few moments in the eerie green light. He looked around the dingy room, then entered the bathroom and started a shower of very hot water. He stepped in to the steam.
He soaped himself, and was elated by the smells and the sensation of the hot water running down his body.
Afterwards, he quickly packed his few things.
Farrell reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a matchbox. Inside was a razorblade he had hidden the last few years. He tossed the box and blade into the trashcan.
He absentmindedly rubbed his wrist.
He stepped towards the door as muscles in his face unwound. His exit ended that chapter of his life.