Orange is the New Black: A New Life Chapter 8
Cleveland is pretty much a straight shot from my brother's apartment in Brooklyn, especially once I'm on Interstate 278. Two seventy-eight, across the Manhattan Bridge through Chinatown, Lower Manhattan, Soho, onto Interstate 78 and through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey, New Jersey 139 to Interstate 280 through Newark, West Orange, West Caldwell, and left onto Interstate 80 into Pennsylvania, across the state to Ohio and north on Interstate 480 to Interstate 77 into Cleveland. I leave at 5 am so I can beat the traffic through Manhattan. I blast the heater. The temperature is in the teens. The car has SiriusXM so I have all the music I need, especially in the middle of Jesus Country where Bible thumpers dominate the airwaves.
Going through the Holland Tunnel, I have light traffic. Most of the traffic is coming into Manhattan from New Jersey for work. The smarter people are not driving; they take trains. I never drive in the city. Subways and buses are the way to go. Of course, when I use public transportation, I see the most interesting people. In the past I would be so judgmental. I remember once I complained about a homeless man with a cigar box for handouts to feed his dog. The other day, I put a couple dollars in a box for someone in similar need. I get it now. I have woken up, or maybe I've simply grown up, become more compassionate. Litchfield was my finishing school and Alex, Red, Nicky, Lorna, Taystee, Cindy, Poussey, Yoga Jones, and so many others were my teachers.
The sky is clear. Snow has been plowed from the streets and roads. Evidence of the storms that have blown through over the last couple of weeks lay in heaps off to the side. I do not speed and keep my eyes sharp on the road. Patches of black ice will make the journey tricky. My mom and dad cautioned me endlessly to drive safely. Both want me to give them updates on my journey and to call when I reach the apartment. It doesn't matter that Cal, Neri, and Goodall will follow, or lead, in a rented truck with most of my belongings.
Cal and I had loaded the rental truck the day before. I have my bedroom set from my childhood room, my old bookcases and an extra one I bought at a flea market the weekend before. I bought some pots and pans, a variety of dishes and cooking implements, a copper tea kettle, and a small formica table with two naugahyde padded chairs from Goodwill. Linens, the couch, end and coffee tables, and lamps from mom's basement. Mom has her wish. She's been wanting to buy some new furniture for the "den" since Cal and Neri moved out. Something about wear and tear, but honestly they look good. The truck also has my clothes, books, bicycle, framed photos and everything else I think I might need or use. .This is no temporary move. I have three years of law school. Alex has three plus years and additional years of parole. Who knows what will happen or what we'll decide to do, if there is a we. I am going to work my ass off so there will be a we. I will prove this to Alex that I am not the immature self-centered coward who left her in Paris and almost married Larry. This time my heart has made me brave.
Neri is not ready to leave at 5 am. She is not even awake. She is not a morning person, especially since Goodall did not sleep through the night. Neither is Cal. He's awake, but not dressed. Prison made me a morning person and I haven't lost the habit. Cal tells me they will follow in a couple of hours. Short of I-80, I receive a text from Cal, "Neri cramps. Coming tomorrow." At Cal's everyone and everything runs on Neri-time. I am glad I have a bag with clean underwear and toiletries. I also have my old sleeping bag and pillow. Mom said I might need them. They have to come tomorrow. I have only given myself a three-day window before I need to report to my new job.
About two and a half hours into my journey, I take an exit and pull into a truck stop to fill the tank. I find a parking space and head inside to use the restroom and pick up a breakfast sandwich, hashbrowns and a large. I have a pre-bought credit card I put five hundred dollars on. Once I start work, I hope to finally get a real card. For the time being, this works. I scarf the burger inside at a small table while I check my phone to see if Alex has appeared on the BOP website. She hasn't. Picking up the remains of my fries and soda I head out to my parked car. I want to get into Cleveland before dark. I don't want to be driving around on unknown streets in the dark and since it is winter darkness will embrace the city and its surrounding environs earlier than I would like.
I drive several hours, making good time. I have already exited I-80 and am on I-480. The day has been cold, but clear. Bulldozers have removed the surface of snow. Traffic is heavy, but it flows. No accidents. So far. I am stoked. I make a pitstop and pick up a cheese hamburger, fries, and a large. Once again, I checked the BOP website for Alex. No news. I shove the last of the burger in my mouth and take my fries and coffee with me. I want to go. Insanely, I have come to believe when I reach Cleveland, Alex will be in Cleveland too.
Back on the road the sun has started its descent. It's already after three. I see signs to Cleveland. They started to appear a mile out from the 480 North exit. I have been most interested in the mileage signs. I love seeing the numbers decrease. Near Twinsburg, the sign says I have only 28 miles left. Well, at least to Cleveland. Excitement builds. I have to laugh, who would have ever thought I would be this excited about Cleveland. Not me. No. not me. New York, yes. Paris, yes. Cleveland? I have to laugh and I turn up the volume on the radio.
Suddenly, everyone ahead slows. I slow. We move along at a decreasing speed for about half a mile and stop. Miles of tail lights clog the northbound lanes. After several minutes, I check the map app on my phone. A long line of red follows 480 for a mile or so, over the I-77 interchange and up I-77. There, a red icon indicates a crash. Shit! After twenty minutes, I reach into my overnight bag for a book. The car remains at a full stop for two hours. I start to panic. The apartment manager's office closed at six. The sun is gone. It's past six. I have to pee and I am thirsty. My soda is long gone and so is the water in my environmentally friendly water bottle. I put my book on the passenger seat, lean back in resignation, and close my eyes. At 6:45, the line ahead moves. Time to pay attention. Like dominoes every car ahead of me moves forward. Finally, I start my engine and roll twenty feet and stop. After a while, another twenty feet. Stop. The rhythm continues. Over time the length of each stop decreases and I can move the car farther ahead. This continues for another hour and a half until we get to where 480 merges with 77. We feed in with the cars already stuck on 77. It's a slow shuffling of the cars. After a few more hundred feet the locus of the accident comes into view. Fire trucks, police vehicles, a generic big rig with two trailers, a blue mini-Cooper, squashed like a concertina, another two-trailer big rig, a mini van spun 180 and smashed in the center, a sturdy pickup's had its bed crumbled like balled tissue and engine shoved back into the cab, a third big-rig has jack-knifed, its cab scorched by intense heat, a burned out double gas tanker and several non-descript burned out sedans, minivans, and trucks and other vehicles in various states of destruction. Injury and death line the way. I try not to gawk. It's had to ignore though. Floodlights showcase the epic accident as I follow the instructions of the highway patrol and inch past. After forever, I am finally on my way.
I take the East 14th Street exit, go under an overpass and turn right. I drive I pass a stadium and other buildings, including the courthouse. I am downtown and drive slowly in search of my street. Luckily, the streetlights are decent. I turn and spy the name of the apartment complex and pull in. The drive curves around and goes into a parking structure. Like New York, I will have to pay for the privilege of parking my car. I park in front, but out of the way of those who need garage access. I race inside. It is eight thirty and as I suspected, the manager's office is closed and won't open until nine in the morning.
A quick search on my phone and I locate a hotel only three minutes away for under a hundred dollars. Frustrated, tired, angry, hungry I go there and check in. Yeah, the hotel costs me eighty-nine dollars, but parking is thirty-four. Running to the bathroom I throw off my jacket and race to the toilet, just making it. Fuck! I've started my period and I've bled through everything. Fuck! Thank God I was smart enough to pack Tampons. I undress and shower quickly. I love hotel toiletries. Freshly dressed, I take my book and go down to the hotel's restaurant. It is nine forty-three. I am starving and need to relax. A grilled steak, frittes, crispy, a salad, and beer, I sit for an hour or so and read. A couple of times I check my phone for Alex. Still no word. It's after eleven when I pay my bill and return to my room and go to bed. Though I'm exhausted, I can't sleep. The pillow is uncomfortable. I should have brought mine up. I only have my overnight bag. I think about reading, but I am too antsy to do that. I had thought I would be in the new apartment, with maybe a couch or bed because we would have unloaded those from the truck or on the floor in a sleeping bag. Instead, Cal and Neri are still in fucking New York and since Neri and Cal are not early risers, they won't get here until after dark. I have searched the BOP Find an Inmate page more than a hundred times since my visit to Litchfield. It should show Alex is in Cleveland or at least somewhere in BOP custody. As it is, her location is unknown. Every time I see the search result I want to scream. Where is she? So what do I do, I perform the search again. I'm either a fucking masochist or OCD. Perhaps I am both. turn on the television and find a movie. It has already started and at first I think about changing the channel when I see a marine. My cell rings. I grab it. It's Mom. Shit! I forgot to call. I answer. "Hi, Mom."
"Piper, your father and I are worried. It's past eleven and we haven't heard from you."
"Mom, I'm thirty-three."
"I'm still allowed to worry. You'll always be my child."
I can't help, but laugh. "I know."
"Are you in the apartment? I know Cal and Neri were delayed, so did your old sleeping bag come in handy?"
"I hit traffic, a huge accident."
"You weren't injured?"
"No, Mom," I chuckle. "No. I was stuck, at a stand still for hours, miles back. I was late getting in. I'm staying at a hotel a couple of blocks away."
"Is it a good rate? That's going to eat into your funds."
"I'll manage. I was checking. I can walk to work, so I won't need to drive, and I've already paid the first and last months' rent, parking, so all I have is food."
"What about when school starts?"
"I can walk there, too."
"Honey, what if it snows. I watched the news tonight and a system's due later this week. Plus you have lake effect snow. I wish Cal and Neri had left when you did."
"Well, you know Neri. If it takes them as much time to get here as it did me, especially if they don't leave early, we'll probably be sleeping on the floor tomorrow."
We chat a minute or so more before Mom lets me go with a demand I call when Cal and Neri arrived. I close the app and check again for Alex knowing full well her status has not changed.
I returned my focus to the television. The marine was no longer a marine. He had a scruffy beard and a German shepherd. He was speaking to a young woman with blonde hair in front of a barn. I left the television on and watched the romantic comedy play out. I didn't see the end. Somewhere, I fell asleep. I wake with the television on. Groggy from sleep I check my cell. It's nine. "Fuck!" I'm late. I fly out of bed. I ask myself, "What am I late for?" The office will be open all day. I shower, blow my hair dry, and dress. I go down to the restaurant for a pancake, eggs, and bacon breakfast. Coffee is the big must. I have three cups and I finish reading my book. A thought strikes. I have a plan. I pay the tab and go back up to the room, brush my teeth, pack my belongings into the overnight bag and head down to the lobby, turn in the keycard and head out. The day is brisk, but clear. I head into the garage, place my stuff into the trunk, and drive to my apartment.
I park on the street. The spot where I parked the night before is occupied by a blue and white plumbing van. A second spot, which was also vacant the night before, has a painter's truck. I park close enough and the walk is not too far although in the short amount of time the chill leaves a biting pink blush on my cheeks.
The lobby is warm and I remove the insulated gloves I wear. The area is spacious and inviting. A desk, like a concierge at the hotel, stands empty adjacent to where I entered. An inviting seating arrangement with loveseats sits on the north-south axis and a pair of Victorian-styled high back chairs facing off west to east. A heavy square oak table sits in the center. Prints decorate the wall. I set my bag on one of the small couches and make a one eighty where I stand. A large clock dominates a nook filled by a tall white table with a brown top and matching square stools. Opposite of the entrance I used is a second entrance. To the left I see an open door. I walk there. A skinny white woman with stingy gray white hair and a pink Cedar Point sweatshirt sits at a desk. A small flat-screen TV rests on a bookcase. She is watching one of the shows where a bunch of overdressed women sit around arguing. It is the kind of thing some of the inmates in Litchfield watched. I knock on the jamb and she looks up. A scowl plasters her face. I must be interrupting something important.
"Hello. I'm Chapman."
"Yeah." She glances back at the television. She leaves the volume up. Her expression remains unchanged.
"Piper Chapman." I step into the office. "I'm a new tenant. I'm moving in today?" No reply. "I need to get my key?"
The television still commands her attention. Eventually she changes her focus to me, but only for a moment. Her eyes are back on the television. I look at the television and don't understand the draw of the women as they shout over one another. She finally looks back at me and turns the volume down. "So you're new?"
"Yes, ma'am. Chapman. I have apartment 926."
"Yes." She reaches behind and picks up a gray lock box, opens it without a key, and takes out a small little envelope. She dumps out two keys and hands them to me. She also removes a file folder from a stack on top of her desk.
"Yes. Chapman."
"Piper." I smile.
She doesn't smile. "Piper." She opens the file and removes a long form. "You need to sign this." She slaps the paper at the top of the desk in a clean area.
"Do you have a pen?" I ask.
She stares at me like I have lost my mind. She opens the top right drawer and removes a pen. She hands it to me.
"Where?" I ask rhetorically as I angle myself to see the document.
She stares at me some more and by the time she says "here", I have located the line and have started to print my name.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your show," I say.
"It's a rerun," she says.
"Oh."
She clicks on her mouse and types on the keyboard of an old Dell. She reads the computer screen. "You've paid first, last, deposit, parking."
"Yes," I hand her the pen and paper.
"Cat or dog?"
"No. No time or extra cash flow.
"Everyone should have a cat or dog."
"Only if they have the time," I reply. "I have work and law school."
She gives me a hard stare now. "You don't look like a lawyer."
"Not yet." I smile.
"Not married."
"I am, but she's not with me yet." Another harder stare.
She hands me the keys, a copy of my rental agreement, and a hard copy of the rules I was sent when I paid my rent. "Follow the rules. Any maintenance issues, fill out the request on the link there." She points at the list of rules. "Might take a couple of days depending on how much of an emergency it is."
"Got it." I take the keys and paper. I wait in case she has something else to say, like goodbye, but she returns to her show.
I leave.
While the lobby looked clean, the elevator is older and shabby. The floors need vacuuming; the tiled hall on the ninth floor is worse. Miss Claudette, my first permanent cubemate, would have raised hell. The drab cream institutional colored walls need painting. In many ways I expect the same with my new home and am glad I have decided to spend my day cleaning and preparing for Cal and Neri's arrival,
I unlock the door with a mix of trepidation and excited butterflies. The door opens into a short hallway, exactly as shown in the floor plan on the website. To my immediate right is a closet with venetian-styled doors. On the left is the kitchen. It is small. Directly ahead through the kitchen's entrance I see a double sink and a not new dishwasher. To the left on the adjacent wall is a four-burner electric stove with a microwave over the top and a refrigerator . All of the appliances are white and the countertop is gray with oak colored upper and lower cabinets. The floor is a faux white-beige marble linoleum. On the right is a bar with lower cabinets and an opening into the living room. The paint is off-white. Not the prettiest kitchen. If everything works, it will suffice.
The living room has faux wood floors and the same institutional off-white paint job as the kitchen. The far end of the room is dominated by the HVAC closet and windows. I walk over and look out at what is going to be the apartment's main highlight, the view. Like yesterday, the day is clear and as I look across I see a myriad of buildings. Most look like old warehouses. From my research about the neighborhood, many of the warehouses have been converted into apartments and condos. Farther out I see an icy river, the Cayuga, snow-plowed parking lots, a couple of bridges, and Lake Erie. This window nook is where I am going to put my study area/office. I turn back and scan the room. I visualize where the couch, tables, and other items will go. To the left is a short hall. On the left is a closet with a stacked washer and dryer and shelves. Next to that is a three-piece generic bathroom. Everything is white, off-white and the floors have the same linoleum as the kitchen. Utilitarian. Across the hall is the bedroom. The bedroom is also off-white. Brown carpeting covers the floor. To the left is a double-wide closet with folding doors. I drop my overnight bag on the floor. I walk to the single window and look out. It has the same view as the living room. I can see by the outline on the carpet where the last tenants placed their bed. I think I am going to place mine on the wall the room shares with the living room. This will make access to the closet and bathroom easier.
I sigh.
This is my new home. It's not Gramercy Park or Fifth Avenue luxury or some other real estate porn Alex and I like to dream about, but it will do. Once Alex is out, we'll probably go somewhere else. It all depends. My phone buzzes. Maybe it's Alex. I am so stupid and have got to stop this wishful thinking, especially when I see it is a text from Neri, "Leaving NYC." I look at the time and want to scream. It's ten-thirty. No bed tonight. At least I have my sleeping bag and pillow. I make a short documentary of the apartment and send the ninety second clip, with narration, to my parents, Cal, and Larry and Polly. Why not? I still want Larry and Polly's friendship.
According to my research there is a Shake Shack less than a mile away from the apartment. So are the homes of the Cleveland Indians and Browns, CVS, a couple of supermarkets, and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Cal and Neri want to go there. Right now, I go out for cleaning supplies and rags. When I get home, after a couple of trips from the car, I bring up my sleeping bag and pillow, I get down to work. I scrub the kitchen: cabinets, counters, stove, oven, microwave, floors, and refrigerator. I turn the refrigerator on and set it so it gets cold. Next is the bathroom. I scrub everything. In the bedroom, I wipe down the closets and windows. I take a break and look at my accomplishments. Everything looks better. I am quite pleased with myself and need food.
I look out. Night has fallen. I check my phone. It is five-thirty. I have a message from Cal. "Neri doesn't want to sleep on floor. Stopping in Richfield for the night. Tomorrow."
I snigger. Yeah, of course. I check on Alex. No change.
I clean up, grab my coat, gloves, wallet, and a book required for and head out. I don't want to drive. I saw a Mexican restaurant on my supply run. It's across the street from the apartment and up a couple of streets. According to Google Maps, it's only a couple hundred feet away. The food is cheap, the app shows a single dollar sign, but four and a half stars. Sounds good, and it is. Though icy cold, the walk is easy. The door is wooden and I pull it open. I open the second door, also wooden, and enter a wide space. The air is warm, but the room is dimly lit. Booths line the near and far side. Long high-top tables, five per side, fill the center. Large televisions hang from the walls. All of them have sporting matches, mostly basketball. Mariachi music plays in the background. In back, two large boards. One lists beers and the other a variety of tacos, nachos, enchiladas, and alike. I take off my gloves and stuff them into my pocket as I go up to the bar. I order a Sweet Baby Jesus, a local beer while I scan the tacos: pollo, chile verde, carnitas, carne asada, chorizo, al pastor, pescado, lengua, napales, shrimp. I order four: carnitas, pollo, chorizo, and carne asada. I receive an order number and step over to where the bartender hands me a mug.
The place is moderately busy with customers in booths and at the tables. Many of the customers are my age or younger. I spy a handful of older customers. Some are Hispanic, a couple black, and the rest are white. Most of the men wear tee-shirts and genes. So do many of the women. This is an establishment for the working class, entry-level professionals, and students. I take a seat in an empty booth. I open the contract law text and read. The tacos arrive and I order a second beer and give her my card. I put the book aside and dig in. Flavor explodes in my mouth and I am in love. Alex will love this place. So good. The waitress returns and I sign the receipt. I eat the third and then fourth taco. Yes, Alex would love these. She loves spicy food. When we went to Thailand, she was in heaven. As I think about her I close my book and once again place the search. Once again, the BOP doesn't know where she is.
"Looking for a date?" I guy sits across from me. He has a ruddy complexion and wears a nondescript metal blue-gray tee shirt, black jeans, and a Browns wool cap. I see fringes of dark brown hair poking out.
"No," I say.
"I see you searching for Alex." He grabs my phone. "On a prison website no less."
I grab the phone back and put it in my coat pocket. "Alex is my wife."
"Now that's a new one," he laughs. "And she's in prison?"
I grab my things and stand. "Yeah." I stand.
"You must be desperate," he says with sarcasm. He slides out of the booth and blocks my path.
"Get out of my way." I step around him.
He follows me. "You know, if you're that desperate we could." He blocks my path again.
"Listen, I'm not interested." Once again I step around his
I turn to go. He grabs my arm.
I shrug him off. "I don't think you get it. I am not interested. Go away. Leave me alone."
I walk down the street and around the corner and cross St. Clair mid-block back to my apartment. A quick glance over my shoulder and I see him. He is at the corner, watching. It's my first night alone in my new neighborhood and what started out as a nice relaxing evening has ended creepily. I can take care of myself, I think. I proved that in prison, sort of. Still, in a new city, on my own, I unlock the outer door and escape into the arctic entry and then the lobby, where it is warm and I feel safe. I look back out the two layers of doors. The darkness hides any hint he is still watching. Unsettled, I go to the elevator. On my floor, I walk quickly and unlock the door to my new apartment. I enter and immediately fasten the locks. Thank goodness, a deadlock. I lock that too. I let out a sigh.
The next morning, I take the car to the grocery store and pick up an assortment of fresh fruit, vegetables, some chicken, oatmeal, pasta, bread, eggs, English muffins, coffee, teas, peanut butter, jam, cheese, juice, and such. No more eating out. No going out at night, except for work and school. I get some paper plates and bowls and plastic picnic cutlery, in case Neri and Cal decide to change plans again. I hope not. I start my new job tomorrow.
I check my phone when I get home. Cal has texted. They are on their way. The text was sent twenty minutes ago. It must have come when I was schlepping bags of groceries from my car. I'm going to need to get one of those carts. I take a sip of coffee. The grocery store had a coffee shop. I needed my caffeine. I take a new mystery I found at the grocery and sit on the floor. I am reading chapter ten when my phone buzzes.
"Hey, Cal."
Cal gives a cheer. "We're here!"
"I'm coming out now." I put my phone in my back pocket.
The truck is pulling closer to the front door when I enter the vestibule and push the door into the chilling cold morning. Perhaps I should have put on my coat.
Cal jumps out of the truck and comes around the front end. "Hey, Piper." He takes me into a bear hug. "Where's your coat? It's freezing out here."
"The apartment, where else?"
Cal turns and helps Neri. "Where is Goodall?" She's not in the cab.
"Mom offered to babysit."
"Generous." I nod my approval. We can get the truck unloaded without disruptions.
"We're treating this like the honeymoon we never took," says Neri.
"That's the real reason we stopped in Richfield."
"Cal!" Neri slaps his arm.
"Piper's smart. I'm sure she probably figured it out … Come, let's get hauling. If we get everything unloaded, maybe we'll have time to go over to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and maybe dinner."
"Guys," I protest.
"Our treat," says Cal. He unlocks the back padlock and rolls up the door to the back.
"Okay," I say.
"Also, we hope you don't mind, but we decided to stay at a hotel tonight," says Neri as she jumps up into the truck and pushes a box marked "Linens" to the lip.
"Oh, no problem."
"We can get breakfast tomorrow."
"Can't," I reply. They stare in disbelief. "I start my new job at 6 tomorrow morning."
"Starbucks, right?" asks Neri.
"Yeah."
"We'll eat there," replies Cal.
"You can get us a discount?" asks Neri.
"I don't think so," I say. "Besides, it's my first day."
"Well, we'll come by anyway,' says Cal. "Say farewell and get a coffee to go."
We spend the rest of the morning and the first part of the afternoon unloading the truck. Neri drops each box and item in the living room. I insist on putting the bed together and putting it, the dresser, couch, and other pieces of furniture in the proper rooms in their places where I want them. Neri has her own ideas, but I know what I want and insist on doing it my way. Once the furniture is in place and everything is out of the truck, I pay for Cal to park in the lot across the street. We pile in my car and head to the museum where we spend the rest of the day having fun.
I tie on the iconic green apron. It covers my long-sleeve black shirt and jeans. At the top of the apron goes my new name tag with PIPER on the top. It's my new uniform, my look, at least on the job. It is 6 am. Thank goodness for prison. Six is nothing. I was used to getting up by 5 am to beat the shower rush or to meet Alex in the chapel.
Margot Devoux, the twenty-something morning shift leader, tells me, "I'm going to have your shadow Kurt this morning and help out where you can." She is short and a bit of a roly-poly with a flawless copper complexion and frizzy black hair pulled back in a bun. Her makeup is lightly done and so tasteful. In many ways she reminds me of Taystee. She has an infectious effervescent smile. "I need to get you in as the rush is starting," she says as she leads me behind the counter, past the pastries and register, to the barista station. The line at the cash register has a handful of customers. A single barista is in the flow, producing beverages for the four waiting customers. Most of the customers are young. At this time most are also professionals dressed in suits or clean pressed slacks or dresses. One is in khaki, plaid shirt, and a heavy parka. He looks like someone who might be a plumber or drives a snow plow. Almost everyone is on their cellphones. Most of the store's round tables are empty, but one of the professionals, I hear the young black barista, he's maybe nineteen, call out "Cynthia". She takes her vente-sized latte with a double shot and low whip to a table, where she sits down and opens a case carrying a laptop, which she pulls out.
"Kurt," a young black kid looks over at us as his hands continue working. He is tall and bone-skinny with dreads that spring from his head like the white dahlias my mother has in the backyard. Except, this kid has added touches of red and orange dye for effect. "This is Piper. She's going to shadow you."
"Sure thing," he gives Margot and me a smile.
"Kurt's the best barista in the shop," she says, patting his shoulder and a great teacher. "He'll have you ready to go by ten and when it slows a bit we'll have you switch."
"Okay," I say. "What about the schedule," I say before she walks away.
"That's Nancy. She comes in at nine-thirty, usually. She has an eight o'clock class this semester."
"Oh, okay," I say.
"She hired you."
"Yeah, but the interview was over the phone. I was still in New York."
"Wow," Margot says. "So you've never met."
"Only on the phone. She told me when she needed me to be here and with law school starting next week, the timing worked out."
"And you've reviewed the Passports and Green Apron Book?"
"Yes. She sent me everything electronically and I've been studying."
"Well, good. You'll fit right in. Most of us are students at Cleveland State or some other university. Need to open a second register." With that she walks the length of the counter displaying mugs and packages of various flavored beans back to the empty register. I see her remove keys from her pocket and unlock the register. She calls for the next customer.
"Doug, Caffè Americano short." Kurt places the small cup on the counter for the client. He is already working on a new order as he speaks to me. "So it's Piper?"
"Yeah," I answer.
"Law school?"
"Film school. Writing and Directing. Cinematography."
"Sounds fun."
"It is."
"I'm making a simple espresso right now. Have you done anything like this?"
"A couple of times. I had an espresso machine a couple of years ago." I think of the one Larry and I had on the counter when we were together. He's probably using the machine with Polly now. Regrets? Only about the pain I caused him on my crazy journey. Truth be told, he and Polly should have always been together just as I should be with Alex.
"Great. My girlfriend has one, too. This is industrial size." He tamps down the grind in the portafilter and places it onto the machine and situates a demitasse cup to catch the elixir which flows out moments later. While he waits for the coffee to flow forth, he starts a second batch. I watch and with great interest take note of what he does, especially as he gets into some of the more complex recipes. After an hour, he puts me on the machine next to his and I start making espresso and my first simple drinks. Surprisingly, after an hour I have developed a rhythm and can actually make Caffè Americanos, Caramel Macchiatos, Passion Tea, Hot Chocolate, and a couple of cold brews without mistake. Before I know it, when I look up, it is eleven. The morning has flown by.
"I think you can handle this," says Kurt. "I have class now."
"Oh," I feel unsure. "So I'm on my own?"
"Margot, Nancy, and the others are here. Jewel should be here shortly. She's very good. Not as good as me or as nice, but she'll answer any of your questions. See you."
"Thanks," I say as he removes his apron and leaves.
I finish the half-calf cappuccino and call out, "Tall, half-calf cappuccino, Bev."
A tall lanky woman in her forties in a tight black skirt, black silk blouse and black blazer with a single button takes the drink without looking upor saying anything. All the while, her entire attention is focused on a blue cell phone she holds in her left hand. Still, with her eyes glued to her cell, she walks between several customers, through the warren of shelves stocked with merchandise branded with the familiar white on green siren without incident. I would have run into something.
I take the next order. "What?" I take a couple of steps over to the guy at the cashier. Ben says his name tag. It has been too busy for introductions. He is short and looks like he could be cast in a Scorsese movie. Very Italian. "What's a Cali Style?"
"Secret menu item. Add an extra shot of espresso and an extra pour of flavor." He speaks with an accent, but it is not Italian or flavored by the Bronx or Queens. It is difficult to describe yet, but I've heard it everywhere I've gone so far. Whether it's Cleveland's own way of speaking or endemic to Ohio or the Great Lakes region, I haven't figured out it yet. It is interesting and I like it.
"Okay," I take in his answer.
"I know. Cali Style. Lame name. I'm Ben."
"Piper. Thanks."
I take care of the order and keep working. I receive another perplexing order. "Ben?" he looks up from the register, where he is putting in a twenty dollar bill. "Sorry? Green Eye?"
He laughs. "Green Eye Irish for Larry?"
"Yeah."
"It's noon. Three shots of espresso."
"Wow!"
"Owns a small software company off Superior. Makes video games."
"Thanks."
Five minutes later a gal in her twenties, medium height, long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, steps into the station vacated by Kurt while tying her apron on. Her name badge confirms this is Jewel.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi," I say back as I add blue and blackberries to the Purple Drink. Jewel is already working on an order.
Back in Brooklyn and in college, I frequented Starbucks more times than I can count. Strange phrase, because, if I were to think about it, or better yet remember all of my visits, which would be the real problem, the number of visits might be in the hundreds. Of course, when I'm in my support local business owners way of thinking, I might go to the Ugly Mug, Java Hut, or Coffee to Go-Go and avoid Starbucks or Peets. Being downtown and close to a number of colleges, including Cleveland State and my law school, traffic to this Starbucks is constant.
"Have you had a break yet?" a woman I do not know yet asks. This is Nancy. I remember her from the phone interview.
"No," I reply.
"Jewel, I'm taking your partner for a few minutes."
"Okay." Jewel continues working.
"Let me," I indicate the drink I am finishing. I drizzle chocolate across the top of my twentieth hot chocolate for the day. "Venti Hot Chocolate no whip for Karen." I place the drink on the counter. A heavy-set woman picks up the drink. She smiles and says thanks.
"Let's go back to the office," Nancy gestures.
"Sure." I follow her.
"I've been watching you. You caught on quickly."
"Remembering the recipes was a little daunting at first, but Kurt helped."
"He's great."
We go through a small door into a hall with a bulletin board filled with posters and notices: Employee Rights , Safety, and the crew schedule. Two doors stand open. One leads to a medium storage room filled with shelves and boxes loaded with a variety of supplies and products. The other is a closet Nancy calls her office. It consists of a small desk with a laptop, a chair, and a side table with a printer. A bulletin board hangs over the desk. It has a calendar with kittens, pictures of two young elementary school kids, and various papers. She takes the chair..
"Your kids?" I ask.
"Yeah." She replies. "Spencer and Brandon."
"They look like twins."
"Close enough. They're fourteen months apart. That's Spence. He's eight; Brandon's seven."
"They're cute."
"You have kids."
I shake my head. "No."
"You have a ring?" She points at my left hand.
"Wife," I say.
"Oh," she says. "No problem with me or with the university. Beware though. Ohio's a red state. Now Cleveland is blue as is this neighborhood so you shouldn't have too many problems. Now let's talk about your schedule. I try to keep it steady. Work around classes. When I hired you, you said you wanted to work as many hours as possible."
"Yes."
"Do you know your class schedule?"
"Yes. I start on Monday. Mondays through Thursdays one to six."
She writes the information down. "So you can work mornings, Fridays, and weekends."
"I," I start. I am new and I worry about special requests. At least I no longer have to go see a probation officer. "Yes, I can work weekends, but I need either Saturday or Sunday off. Not both, only one day."
"You know everyone wants the weekend off ."
"I can work, but on Saturday or," I emphasize, "Sunday," I emphasize, "I can't," I pause to take a breath, "work. Maybe late afternoon and evening, but I need to have time off."
"Can I ask, why?"
"It's personal. If you don't mind me asking, when do you put out the schedule?"
"Wednesdays or Thursdays."
"Okay," I sigh.
"Is there a problem?"
I take a breath. "You know, I'm an ex-felon."
"Yes. We spoke about that."
"Besides law school, there is another reason I've moved to Cleveland. My wife is at Cleveland FDC." Nancy doesn't know what I'm talking about. "It's a federal prison for women. She was transferred from Litchfield. That's in New York."
"I see."
"Visitations are Saturday and Sunday. I need to see her."
"Of course. I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you. Thank you so much, and once I know my appointment time. The prison has morning and afternoon sessions. Once I know which one I get a slot for, I'll let you know. I can still work, but I need to make sure I see Alex."
"Of course."
"Thank you."
"What about this Saturday?"
"I don't know. Alex," I choke up a bit, "Alex isn't here yet."
"Huh?"
"She's still in transit. I don't know where she is."
##
I type . This is the webpage for the Federal Bureau of Prisons. I mouse over the Inmates tab and select Find an Inmate. Name or number. I can input a BOP registration number or name. Neither has been working. For the last three and a half weeks, Alex has been in transit. I drove to Cleveland in sixteen hours, including stops for gas, to eat, and the accident. Why isn't she in Cleveland? Where is she?
I type in her BOP number and again all I see is, NOT IN BOP CUSTODY. I am going to scream. Where is she? I call the Bureau of Prisons and demand answers. "Where is my wife?
"I'm sorry," says the voice at the other end of line. "I can only release that info to a close relative. Our records don't show Alex Pearl Vause as having a spouse."
"We're prison married."
"Huh?"
"Our best friend married us."
"Did you get a state license?"
"A license? No. There wasn't time. I got early release and then, then," I'm not going to explain anything else. "she was transferred."
"I'm sorry, but the BOP doesn't recognize your marriage. You must have the proper paperwork."
I press end and sink into my couch. I blink back tears of frustration and sadness. I scream and stare at the blank wall across from me. I am tired and should be hungry, but I'm not. So I sit. Outside the sky is black. Clouds obscure the stars and the sliver of moon I saw last night. I heard it might snow. Fuck! I hate driving in snow. Or walking, especially in a blizzard, another blizzard. A light snow, not so bad.
I go to my laptop and bring it to life. I open the file folder where I have downloaded the material for my Civil Procedure class. Four credits. It starts on Monday at 1 pm. The professor, Monique Jackson, has already sent out our first assignments. I purchased the book after work yesterday and spent the night and my breaks today reading. I also have four cases to learn. I open those narratives and read them over. My goal is to commit them to memory.
I spend the rest of the week going to work, unpacking the boxes, and the rest of my "free time" reading and memorizing information for my classes: Contracts, Legislation and the Regulatory State, Civil Procedure, and Legal Writing: Research and Advocacy, which I will need to take for two semesters.
"Why are you working so hard if classes don't start until Monday?" Kurt asks when I return to the barista station after my break the next day.
"Homework."
"Already?"
"Yep."
"Wow, I guess it's like a film. Lots of pre-production."
"Tall chai for Bonny," I call, as I set the beverage on the counter for the customer to take. I hear "thanks." I give the short young coed a smile. "Is that what you're doing?"
"Yeah," he says, tamping some grounds and snapping the cup into place.
"I don't know. I want to be ready. You like movies or old TV shows?
"Of course. I love movies."
"Ever see Paper Chase?"
"No."
"It's a film about a group of students in law school. It's based on a book by the same name. In the movie and the book, the first day of class can be majorly embarrassing. The professor walks in and immediately asks questions about the readings from the homework he gave before class. Since many of the students, especially the protagonists, didn't bother with the assignment they are caught unprepared. The professor gives them hell. Embarrasses nearly everyone, especially the protagonist. I don't plan to be that person. I plan to be ready."
"You don't want to put too much stock in a movie."
"I know, but if you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a bit nerdy and a control freak, drives my wife nuts."
"You're married?"
I hold up my left hand and show off Luschek's keyring. "Yeah," I say, regretting I've said anything. It's not that I want to hide Alex. I love her, but what if she still doesn't want me around, tells me to go away. What if everything I've done since she "gave me my freedom" has been a waste? I don't know what I'll do. I've let the cat out of the proverbial bag.
"She here? You're here for law school."
"I am. That's why I came," I say. "She has some things to finish up before she joins me."
"What does she do?"
What can I say? "She's on a road trip."
"She a musician?"
I laugh. "No." She and I definitely do not have any musical talent.
"So what does she do?"
"She was an importer, but right now she's been on a business trip."
"And you?"
"I have law school."
"Sucks."
"It does. Venti Americano for Rich." I put the completed order up on the counter. Looking at his phone a guy wearing a fraternity jacket under his parka takes the drink without looking up and walks away.
"Miss her?"
I close my eyes for an instance, thinking of her – her hair, her eyes, her skin, her touch, her mouth, her lips, her tongue, her fingers, her smell. "So much."
I have Sunday off. I spend the day unpacking and doing laundry in my apartment. I study and I go down to the fitness center. I run on one of the treadmills for an hour. Back in my apartment, before I shower, I check on Alex. The apartment is quiet. The storm that was supposed to bring a shitload of snow has decided to go north. Michigan, Ontario, the Great Lakes, and areas along the St. Lawrence Seaway are having whiteouts. Thankfully, Cal and Neri are back in Brooklyn. Cleveland's having flurries. I can see it dancing in the streetlights below as I put the desk I assembled so it abuts the HVAC closet. I added one of the dining chairs. It will do. Tomorrow's weather shouldn't be too bad. Cold, maybe icy, but no snow. I'll wear my galoshes, dress warmly, and drive.
At ten, I turn off Netflix and return to the Find an Inmate webpage and type Alex Pearl Vause. Under the search, her name appears in large capital letters. Register Number: 1975-0425. Age: 37. Race: White. Sex: Female. Located at: FTC Oklahoma City. Release Date: 10/18/2019. For a long time I stare, my toothbrush in my mouth. I sniff and wipe my eyes. I am so happy. Finally, I know where she is. Oklahoma City. Fuck! It's been a month and she's only now gotten to Oklahoma. Where has she been?
When Alex went to Chicago for Kubra's trial she left while I was still in the SHU. She made a week-long stop in Oklahoma City at Conair's transit center. Anyway, because the U.S. Marshal Service picked me up from Litchfield closer to the trial date, the marshals put me on a plane with a stop in Chicago. I was taken off and taken. I was there a week before I was called to testify. After my perjured testimony – I am surprised the U.S. The Justice Department never filed new criminal charges against me – and three more weeks in Chicago, I had a two week holiday at the Conair transit center waiting for a flight with enough room to take me home, if one could ever call Litchfield home. At the time I did. When Lorna picked me up down at Max and brought me up to camp with Soso I felt a rush, which exploded when I walked into the cell where Anita and Yoga Jones were talking. I gave them the biggest hugs. I felt at home.
So Alex is in FTC Oklahoma City waiting for a plane to Cleveland? Or will the BOP send her somewhere else? I think about calling in the morning, but angrily remember Alex and I are not legally married. I cannot get information without a valid marriage registered with the Bureau of Prisons. I turn and go back into the bathroom. My mouth full of saliva from my resting toothbrush, I spit. I give my teeth one final angry brush, gargle, and spit again. I am ready for bed, but now I am wired. All I can think about is Alex. She's in Oklahoma City now. Maybe I should be happy, but I am angry. A thought hits. I go to and fill out Alex's information: Company Name, I type Federal Bureau of Prisons. City & State, Washington, DC. Receive Code? I put the information on my phone somewhere. Here it is. 7932 Beneficiary? Alex Pearl Vause I press send. Commissary. Alex will have money. She'll know I am with her in spirit and that she is still in my heart.
The next morning, Monday, first day of law school, Kurt asks, "What's bugging you?" The store has been non-stop since Margot unlocked the doors at 6 am.
I yawn. "Tall dirty chai for Barb. … Didn't sleep well."
"Worried about your classes this afternoon? Because if you want my opinion, I saw how quickly you learned this job. You make fewer mistakes than Jasmine and she's been here four months." I look at him. "It's true. You have nothing to worry about."
"Thanks," I tamp the grinds.
"So what's worrying you?"
I place the portafilter back on the machine. "Worried?" I am not going to tell him. "I'm just excited."
"Nah, you're wearing worry lines. I've seen them off and on, usually when you're checking your phone on break. You always look disappointed and worried. Your wife not calling?"
"Yeah, but it's not what you think," I say. I add hazelnut syrup to a short..
"So what is it? Your wife." I almost cringe. I don't want Alex and my shit made public.
"I don't wanna talk about it," I nod at the customers.
"Okay. I get it, but if you ever need an ear, I know you have no one else in here, I'm a great listener."
"Thanks, but I'm pretty good at dealing with my own shit." I think back to Litchfield and my many mentors. Nicky would set me straight; Red, too, if she ever got over her anger. I miss them. I think about Alex. "Short vanilla cappuccino for Alex–" I catch myself, and cross out Alex, the name I've written on the cup. I write Petra. "Short vanilla cappuccino for Petra."
(This is a work of fanfiction based on the Netflix series Orange is the New Black. The story begins at the point the series ended. I do not intend to make any money from this endeavor. If you make any comments, please do so. I enjoy relevant feedback and critiques. I apologize for any mistakes in any foreign language, especially my Spanish. Please let me know of the proper usage. I hope you enjoy the story. I plan to upload updates at least every week.)