CARS AND GIRLS

Day Forty-Four.

Finally feels like I'm starting to get the measure of how things work, getting to feel a bit more in control, like myself again. That's not to say I'm any higher up the food chain or that I don't ever get no trouble, but I'm better at spotting the signs and avoiding as much shit as I possibly can—or handling it a little better when I can't.

Turns out Walt ain't a bad guy to know and we been knocking around together more often than not lately. But there's visiting today. He's been going on about it all week, been a damn nightmare. It's the first Saturday of the month which means his broad will heading up here and he's desperate to see her, tells me they got some agreement that she'll travel up here the first weekend of every month.

So Walt's back up by his cell, waiting, and Bobby...well I don't exactly want to think too much about where Bobby might be right now, but he ain't around either, which means that there's just me and Ray here this afternoon. I'm half reading Angela's last letter again while he's started rearranging his girls, creating a space.

"Got a new one today." He gestures towards the picture he's just tacked to the wall.

"Yeah? How much she cost you?"

"Half a pack of smokes. Looks good, don't she?"

"Not bad," I agree, glancing across. It's some actress chick, and he's right, she does look pretty good in the photo, sitting on a beach all tanned with long blonde hair, legs going on forever.

Most of the time there's two main topics of conversation in this place. Three if you include sports, but I've never been one for following stats and scores and talking over the details endlessly. I don't mind watching sometimes, like the action as much as the next guy, but the chat is so damn dull. Ray laughs at me when I tell him that.

"Just wait, Shep, few more months and before you know it all they'll be talking about again is getting ready for the damn rodeo twenty-four seven. You interested in all that shit?"

"Fuck no, ain't never been a fan. I'd much rather you give me a bar, a beer and a girl any day of the week."

The only thing about rodeos that ever interested me was the gambling and drinking. Not like Dallas, if it was him in here he'd be fighting tooth and nail, doing whatever it might take to get himself involved and on one of the teams. Except then I remember he's not around to do any of it any more and I try not to think too much about how my life used to be.

So our conversation's back round to cars and girls again, and we're passing the time by bullshitting once more about different cars we've owned, driven, or boosted, cars we'd like to own. Girls we've had, been with, want to be with, girls outta the movies or off of the television that we seen in the papers. Course Ray's been here so long that he's a little out of date on what he's actually done, but he can still talk it up, sell you a good story, especially if some of the tales he tells me from his army days are true.

Outside the guards start yelling, rattling out the names of people who got visitors, when it hits me —my name is on the list.

I haven't had any visitors so far and didn't expect to get none either. I've been here over a month now and the only contact I've had with home is a couple letters from Angela. Was my birthday yesterday, turned nineteen, but Ma couldn't even stretch to putting pen to paper and write me, so I know there ain't no way in hell she's got off her ass and come all out here in person.

But on the other hand I haven't got no friends left that'd bother to drive out here either, not since I had that falling out with Nick and Dallas done what he did anyways. So maybe Curly got out the reformatory early, although I don't know that he's old enough to be let in here on his own unless he lies about his age. Suppose it's got to be him though, 'cause I'm damn sure there ain't no one else who's going to waste their time on me.

xxxxxx

As I'm entering the room I spot Walt ahead of me, watch him for a couple seconds as he's waving and heading towards the little dark haired chick I recognise from the photo he keeps in his pocket and shows me at least once every day. She's having their first kid sometime soon. Real soon from the size of her, and she's waving back at him with a huge smile on her face.

Glancing impatiently around looking for Curly, I'm stunned to see a different familiar figure across the room.

I'm not seeing things though; it's definitely her, standing there behind another of the tables a couple rows back from Walt's old lady, smiling at me.

I stare at her some more, not quite believing she's here, wondering why she's here because things didn't exactly end well.

Somehow, I make it across the room and take the seat opposite her, frowning, 'cause I don't know exactly how I'm feeling about her being here. My mind goes back and forth from how good it feels seeing her again, to resentment over how things went with us; then back round again to how much I'd like to be somewhere alone with her far away from here, before flipping back to remembering how bad I've screwed up my life.

"What're you doing here, Leigh? This ain't no place for you."

I know my voice is harsh but my confusion, all my frustrations, get the better of me. And when she finally answers it's obvious from her tone that she's upset but trying to pretend like she's not bothered.

I'm not really listening to what she's actually saying to me though. We're close enough together that I can smell the familiar scent of her perfume and my mind is wandering, thinking about some of the good times we had together, all those nights we spent at my place, how I somehow always found myself wanting more from her, before wondering what she's wearing under that dress. That dress that she probably thinks is real sensible but actually, if I lean forward a little, I'm tall enough to see right down the front and get a glimpse of white lace underneath, and the thoughts that follow from there mess with my head a little more.

The tension is getting fucking unbearable. I don't think I've ever wanted to touch someone as much as I want to touch her right now. And then her leg brushes against mine as she shifts in the chair and it's like getting an electric shock or something. I want to be with her so fucking badly right now—and I can't help but wonder if she's thinking the same about me.

Catching her eye it's obvious she's waiting for me to say something. Except I've been so caught up in imagining all the things I want to do with her that I ain't registered a word of what she's just said. Instead I end up staring at her again before she starts up saying something else.

"I'm sorry for coming here, Tim...I...I just missed you and I guess I hoped you might want to see me too...but I suppose I was wrong about that. I don't know, it was a stupid idea really but I thought it might be nice for you to have someone come wish you happy birthday in person."

"Hell, it's alright, it's just a shock to see you is all."

"Oh. Okay. So are you sure you're not mad with me for coming here?"

She seems so desperate for me to say something decent to her, that I try to make myself sound a little more pleased to see her. Because it is good to see her, to know she still cares something for me.

"No, not really. But it ain't exactly cool you coming here is it? And I don't especially want you to see me like this."

What is making me mad is seeing how some of the other fucking losers in the room are looking her over, like they've never seen a good-looking girl before. Probably thinking about screwing her while they sit there pretending to listen to their overweight buddies or sour faced wives and mothers. Glancing round the room I glare at a couple of them that I catch gawping at her, before getting a glimpse of Walt.

I reckon Walt's having a much better time than me. Hell, if you put a couple cokes on the table—and ignore the fact he's got handcuffs on—the pair of them could be out on a date someplace, sitting there holding hands and smiling at each other, chatting and laughing.

Not like us.

We talk a little more but the conversation remains awkward and uncomfortable. It's much harder work than it ought to be, and I know that's mostly down to me. Much as I want her, I can't help coming back to that last time we met on the outside. Because thinking about that always leaves me wondering if I would still be in here if Leigh hadn't had to be so fucking stubborn about it all and had just changed her plans and stayed with me that night. She could have given me a reason to have stayed away from the River Kings.

There's only a couple of minutes of visiting time left now.

Even though deep down I know she's not really to blame, I'm damn sure that I can't go through this again. I need to keep my head straight and seeing her here is dredging up everything I've been trying not to think about, makes me feel weaker by reminding me how much I've lost—not only her, but all the other things too. Curly, Angela, home, the gang, and then other stuff like the ability to go for a beer or a drive, or stay out all night if I choose to. All the things that don't seem important until you can't do them anymore.

So I tell her what's got to be the biggest load of bullshit that's ever come out my mouth, and it's like listening to someone else talking, not myself. I'm telling her that I don't want to see her no more, never really wanted her back and never ever gave a damn about her the whole time we were together.

"I don't believe you, Tim," she protests, "you were the one who came back to me, you said—"

"Yeah well, I say a lot of things, don't mean any of it's true though does it? So don't waste your time coming here again, understand?"

Noticing how hurt she looks as she turns to leave makes me feel a complete bastard. For a couple of seconds I'm on the verge of stopping her and admitting that it's all lies. Only it's too late to do anything to set it right now 'cause all the visitors are trailing out of the room while the guards make ready to take us back to the cells. And yet despite everything I've said and done, there's a part of me that hopes she doesn't listen, that she somehow realises I was lying and that she comes back next week. Or next month, or maybe the month after that, or even that she writes me sometime.

xxxxxx

Walt comes bounding up behind me in the corridor back to the cell block, slinging an arm across my shoulders and grinning like an idiot.

"Hey, what's your hurry?"

"Nothing. Good visit?"

"Yeah, my Marie's a real sweetheart ain't she? But Jesus, Timmy, you're a dark horse, not letting on to me that you got a girl of your own."

Irritated, I shrug his arm off of me. "She ain't my girl, and don't ever fucking call me that again."

"Come on man, you're fucking kidding me? The way she was looking at you?"

"What the hell do you care? Reckon you should have been paying more attention to your own fucking visitor than to mine."

He continues to match my pace as I stride off down the corridor, asking me questions that I've got no intention of answering. All that's on my mind right now is getting away from other people, crashing on my bunk, and forgetting all about today.

Even though it still don't feel like it right now, shutting her out was the best thing I could have done. I can't afford to lose focus, not again, have just got to get through this. And putting my trust in others or letting myself care too much about anyone else isn't going to help me do that, would simply be asking for trouble.

Turns out I never was too good at listening to my own advice.