HYDE
Eddie Hyde told Ms. Gates the twenty-eight months at Mansfield Correctional Institution he’d pulled for B and E plus grand theft auto had convinced him. Crime sucked. Ms. Gates sat there at her desk chewing a thumbnail and nodding like she’d heard it before.
“Just remember, the conditions of your parole. Do not associate with criminals, do not purchase firearms...”
“Listen, Ms. Gates, I’ve done lots of stupid things, but carrying wasn’t ever one of them.”
She nodded some more, her earrings bouncing up and down. She wasn’t bad looking if only she didn’t wear those hiking boots. “I’m just reminding you.”
Hyde said sure he understood, and let her go on with the list while he gazed out the window. From her office on the fourth floor of the State Office Building he could see Lake Erie and a couple of sailboats coasting inside the breakwater. Maybe someday he could afford one, go cruising down to Sandusky or up to Ashtabula. He saw himself tanned and barefooted, wearing cut-offs, trimming the jibs or whatever they called it.
“...and remember to report in every Friday. Are you with me, Mr. Hyde?”
“What? Oh, sure.”
Hyde meant it. He was through. No more. Arrow straight from here on. Social Services had gotten him a job, if you call bussing tables at a Denny’s for minimum, a job. But it would pay his rent at the fleabag residential hotel. Two meals a day he’d get at the restaurant, maybe sneak out a little on the si... Hold it. He wouldn’t heist so much as a paper napkin.
“You’re what, twenty-eight?”
Hyde nodded.
“Never married?”
“Nope.” Not that he wouldn’t like to settle down if he found the right girl. Maybe, if he stayed straight this time, maybe got a decent job, maybe...maybe... maybe.
Ms. Gates glanced up from the paper on which she was making notes. “You understand I don’t mean to be personal, but these are things I must¾.”
“Sure, sure I understand.”
She smiled and held her gaze on him. Hyde smiled back. Waited for her to say he reminded her of John Travolta. But she cleared her throat and quickly dropped her eyes to her desk as though she was embarrassed.
She squared the papers. “That’ll be all for today, Mr. Hyde.”
“Eddie.”
She nodded but just gave him a fleeting smile.
Hyde took a deep breath as he strolled down the steps of the building in the sunlight. He couldn’t get enough of the clean air in his lungs. Even dust-filled, the Cleveland air beat the dank smell of the ancient walls in his cell in Mansfield.
Feeling the warmth of the pleasant June day and the tightness of his clothes, he removed his tie, stuffed it into the pocket of his suit jacket, and opened the top button of his shirt. The suit was the one they’d tossed to him when he checked out of Mansfield, and if the State of Ohio had paid more than fifteen bucks for it, they’d been snookered. If Ms. Gates noticed that his broad shoulders and chest strained the seams of the jacket, and for a guy six-feet tall, the trousers rode up to his ankles, she was polite enough not to say anything or laugh. But buying a new suit was not at the top of his shopping list, besides when he wasn’t in the white uniform with the Denny’s logo patch, he wore one of the two pairs of jeans and checkered shirts he’d picked up in a second-hand clothing store.
Gus Cruz handed Hyde a broom, told him to make sure he swept good under the tables. Cruz was about five-ten, two hundred pounds, shaggy black eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead and biceps that bulged out of his white uniform shirt. He said right off he didn’t like ex-cons, didn’t trust them, and if Hyde got an inch off line he was gone. Hyde said yes sir and as he was putting the broom away, Cruz pointed to the bucket, told him to mop the floor even though he had mopped it twice in the past hour and it was already fifteen minutes past the end of his shift.
It didn’t get any easier, and even after a week, Cruz rode his ass constantly. Bussing dishes was the least of his jobs. He hauled garbage, swept and mopped, helped unload delivery trucks and swept and mopped, swept and mopped until his hands were blistered. The two meals he was entitled to, he wolfed down while standing alongside the dishwashing machine. Chairs and tables were for customers, Cruz growled, not sleazy ex-cons.
At nine-thirty the evening of the second Friday, he stood waiting in the kitchen for his paycheck. Cruz pushed through the swinging door, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “What the hell you standing around for?”
“My check.”
“Yeah? Well the toilet in the Ladies is stopped up, go unplug it.”
“Hey. My shift ended at eight.”
“Your shift ends when I say it ends. Go unplug the toilet.” He turned from Hyde, and stood gazing through the small round window in the swinging door looking out into the restaurant.
Hyde glared at the back of Cruz’s sweat-stained shirt; clenching his jaw so tight he thought he’d break a tooth. A six-inch double-edged knife sat on the counter of the dishwashing machine so close to his hand he wouldn’t have to lean over to grab the handle. He saw himself plunging it into Cruz’s shirt, saw blood spurting from around the edges, heard air whooshing from the man’s chest. His hand crept toward the knife, fingers barely an inch from the hilt.
Cruz turned to face him. “What the hell you waiting for?” He didn’t seem to notice the knife or Hyde’s hand.
Hyde felt his eyes boring through Cruz’s skull. His breath scorched his throat. Suddenly, the heat left his body and he dropped his glance to the floor. “Where’s the plunger
Eddie Hyde told Ms. Gates the twenty-eight months at Mansfield Correctional Institution he’d pulled for B and E plus grand theft auto had convinced him. Crime sucked. Ms. Gates sat there at her desk chewing a thumbnail and nodding like she’d heard it before.
“Just remember, the conditions of your parole. Do not associate with criminals, do not purchase firearms...”
“Listen, Ms. Gates, I’ve done lots of stupid things, but carrying wasn’t ever one of them.”
She nodded some more, her earrings bouncing up and down. She wasn’t bad looking if only she didn’t wear those hiking boots. “I’m just reminding you.”
Hyde said sure he understood, and let her go on with the list while he gazed out the window. From her office on the fourth floor of the State Office Building he could see Lake Erie and a couple of sailboats coasting inside the breakwater. Maybe someday he could afford one, go cruising down to Sandusky or up to Ashtabula. He saw himself tanned and barefooted, wearing cut-offs, trimming the jibs or whatever they called it.
“...and remember to report in every Friday. Are you with me, Mr. Hyde?”
“What? Oh, sure.”
Hyde meant it. He was through. No more. Arrow straight from here on. Social Services had gotten him a job, if you call bussing tables at a Denny’s for minimum, a job. But it would pay his rent at the fleabag residential hotel. Two meals a day he’d get at the restaurant, maybe sneak out a little on the si... Hold it. He wouldn’t heist so much as a paper napkin.
“You’re what, twenty-eight?”
Hyde nodded.
“Never married?”
“Nope.” Not that he wouldn’t like to settle down if he found the right girl. Maybe, if he stayed straight this time, maybe got a decent job, maybe...maybe... maybe.
Ms. Gates glanced up from the paper on which she was making notes. “You understand I don’t mean to be personal, but these are things I must¾.”
“Sure, sure I understand.”
She smiled and held her gaze on him. Hyde smiled back. Waited for her to say he reminded her of John Travolta. But she cleared her throat and quickly dropped her eyes to her desk as though she was embarrassed.
She squared the papers. “That’ll be all for today, Mr. Hyde.”
“Eddie.”
She nodded but just gave him a fleeting smile.
Hyde took a deep breath as he strolled down the steps of the building in the sunlight. He couldn’t get enough of the clean air in his lungs. Even dust-filled, the Cleveland air beat the dank smell of the ancient walls in his cell in Mansfield.
Feeling the warmth of the pleasant June day and the tightness of his clothes, he removed his tie, stuffed it into the pocket of his suit jacket, and opened the top button of his shirt. The suit was the one they’d tossed to him when he checked out of Mansfield, and if the State of Ohio had paid more than fifteen bucks for it, they’d been snookered. If Ms. Gates noticed that his broad shoulders and chest strained the seams of the jacket, and for a guy six-feet tall, the trousers rode up to his ankles, she was polite enough not to say anything or laugh. But buying a new suit was not at the top of his shopping list, besides when he wasn’t in the white uniform with the Denny’s logo patch, he wore one of the two pairs of jeans and checkered shirts he’d picked up in a second-hand clothing store.
Gus Cruz handed Hyde a broom, told him to make sure he swept good under the tables. Cruz was about five-ten, two hundred pounds, shaggy black eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead and biceps that bulged out of his white uniform shirt. He said right off he didn’t like ex-cons, didn’t trust them, and if Hyde got an inch off line he was gone. Hyde said yes sir and as he was putting the broom away, Cruz pointed to the bucket, told him to mop the floor even though he had mopped it twice in the past hour and it was already fifteen minutes past the end of his shift.
It didn’t get any easier, and even after a week, Cruz rode his ass constantly. Bussing dishes was the least of his jobs. He hauled garbage, swept and mopped, helped unload delivery trucks and swept and mopped, swept and mopped until his hands were blistered. The two meals he was entitled to, he wolfed down while standing alongside the dishwashing machine. Chairs and tables were for customers, Cruz growled, not sleazy ex-cons.
At nine-thirty the evening of the second Friday, he stood waiting in the kitchen for his paycheck. Cruz pushed through the swinging door, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “What the hell you standing around for?”
“My check.”
“Yeah? Well the toilet in the Ladies is stopped up, go unplug it.”
“Hey. My shift ended at eight.”
“Your shift ends when I say it ends. Go unplug the toilet.” He turned from Hyde, and stood gazing through the small round window in the swinging door looking out into the restaurant.
Hyde glared at the back of Cruz’s sweat-stained shirt; clenching his jaw so tight he thought he’d break a tooth. A six-inch double-edged knife sat on the counter of the dishwashing machine so close to his hand he wouldn’t have to lean over to grab the handle. He saw himself plunging it into Cruz’s shirt, saw blood spurting from around the edges, heard air whooshing from the man’s chest. His hand crept toward the knife, fingers barely an inch from the hilt.
Cruz turned to face him. “What the hell you waiting for?” He didn’t seem to notice the knife or Hyde’s hand.
Hyde felt his eyes boring through Cruz’s skull. His breath scorched his throat. Suddenly, the heat left his body and he dropped his glance to the floor. “Where’s the plunger
