Ladies Night Read online

  “Well, this is it,” Paul said as he got out of the car.

  Amp got out, grabbed his bag, and followed him into the house, up the stairway, then into a small bedroom. Amp looked around at the room that wasn’t much bigger than his jail cell had been. In spite of its size, he would gladly take this little room over that 11x6 cell where he had spent the last 1,600 nights. At least here he would have some privacy. No cellmates to worry about. The new spot where he would lay his head had four walls, and they weren’t cement. Amp would take staring at these four walls with the faded light-blue paint job any day.

  Paul walked over to the foot of the bed. He raised his arms as a sign to let Amp know that what he saw was all that he was getting. He began the mini tour.

  “Closet.” Paul pointed to a skinny wooden door. “Bathroom.” The small bathroom was right behind where Paul stood. The door was open just enough for Amp to see that the walls were painted plain old white.

  A closet and a private bathroom—now this was a true luxury indeed for Amp. Paul had pointed out a hallway bathroom on their way to his living quarters, and Amp had been almost sure he’d have to share a bathroom with his housemates. Considering the odor that had been emanating from that bathroom, this private one was an unexpected and much appreciated surprise.

  “And of course, bed.” Paul nodded.

  Amp looked down at the bed. The tan-colored linens didn’t look any better than the ones in his cell, but it would still be far more comfortable than where he’d laid his head the last few years. It had a real box spring and mattress set. In addition to that, it was a double size bed. Now maybe Amp could roll over comfortably in his sleep without fear of landing on the floor. And even if he did, at least now it would be a carpeted floor.

  The carpet on which they stood probably was the most recent upgrade in the room. That new carpet scent still permeated the air, which Amp breathed in deeply to savor.

  “All your hygiene supplies are in your bathroom,” Paul told Amp. “It’s just your basics to tide you over until you can buy your own stuff: toothpaste, deodorant, soap. The state is already covering your room and board and three meals a day. Don’t think they’re going to see to it that they wash your ass too,” Paul said matter-of-factly. “And please make sure you do just that. This place ain’t that big. If you stink, we smell it, so make sure you take care of yourself.”

  Amp walked over and sat down on the bed, his duffle bag hanging on his shoulder. He bounced on it a couple of times as if testing out a mattress in the store. He wasn’t trying to be picky to see if it was to his liking; he was just enjoying the fact that after so many years, he’d finally be sleeping on a bed that had some type of give to it—a bounce back. The smallest pleasures in life now brought him joy.

  “Curfew is at eleven p.m.” Paul walked over to the only window in the room and raised the blind, providing a clear view of the front yard. “Same time as lights out. Eleven o’clock, no exceptions, unless we can verify that you’re working third shift. Don’t come at me with that ‘I missed the bus,’ or ‘my ride didn’t show up.’ Like I said, no excuses. Period. So, if you plan on trying to play those kind of games, don’t even bother unpacking.”

  Amp continued to eyeball the room while Paul talked. He heard Paul loud and clear, but was still checking out his new living quarters. There wasn’t much to look at—just a bed, a dresser with a clock on it, a chair, and the curtain-less window Paul was standing by—but it was his own personal space, something he would never take for granted again.

  “Dinner is at six-thirty, and breakfast is at seven in the morning. Lunch, everybody is pretty much on their own. The goal is not to be here during lunch hours, but out working.” He gave Amp a knowing look then said, “I think that just about covers everything.” Making his way across the room, he stopped in the doorway and asked, “You need anything?”

  “A real meal and a shower,” Amp replied.

  Paul looked down at his watch. “I think we can handle that. It’s still a couple hours until dinner yet, but there’s plenty of food left over from last night’s meal.” He nodded toward the bathroom. “Wash your hands, come on down and make a plate.”

  As Amp stood up to head to the bathroom, Paul added, “Oh, yeah. Usually there’s a five-minute time limit on the showers, but you can take your time tonight.”

  Amp watched Paul exit the room, then he gave the room one last sweep. “Ninety days,” he muttered to himself. “Ninety days.” He had waited for this day for a long time, and now that he was here with his entire future laid ahead of him, he wondered if he would make it. Would everything be all right? Did he have what it would take to survive—or maybe even thrive? Deep down in his soul he knew that everything would be okay, but fear of the unknown was beginning to creep into his head. He had to shake it off and lean on his faith.

  Amp walked over to the window, placing his duffle bag down in the chair as he stared out over the yard. The reality was just starting to sink in that he was a free man and could walk out the door anytime he wanted—as long as he was back by eleven. There was a whole world waiting for him to make his unique contribution to it. Amp just had to believe again that he had a greater destiny than the one his choices had granted him thus far.

  With a grumbling sound coming from his stomach, Amp was reminded of his need for a meal. He went into the bathroom and scoped it out before washing his hands. Sink, toilet, and shower: that was all a brother needed. That and whatever hot meal was waiting for him downstairs.

  Amp returned to his room about an hour later, planning to turn in for the night. Last night’s leftovers of baked pork chops, rice, green beans, and buttered bread had been plenty to satisfy him for the evening. All he wanted to do was take a nice, hot shower and lay it down.

  Amp closed his bedroom door behind him. It creaked just a little, and he had to lift it slightly to get it to catch in the door plates. Realizing that there was no lock on the door, he paused, frowning at first. How was he going to keep his belongings secure when he wasn’t home? Certainly out of all the ex-cons being housed there, somebody was a thief. Those types of old habits and lifestyles were hard to break. The last thing he wanted to do was catch a case and land himself back in jail, but he wasn’t going to let anyone steal from him either.

  “No lock on the door.” Amp sighed, shaking his head, but then a slight smile emerged when he realized that for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t locked up in a room. His frustration turned to gratitude. The worst times of his life were behind him.

  Amp picked up his duffle bag from the chair and carried it over to the closet. He opened the door and heard the melody of the creaking, rusty hinges. Clearly none of the home’s original doors had been upgraded. Inside the closet were about ten wire hangers and some linens on the top shelf. Amp hung up the few items he’d stuffed in the bag, then opened the dresser drawer to put away his undergarments. The scent of the old wood reminded him of the dresser he’d had in his room as a kid. His mother kept newspaper in the bottom of each drawer, perhaps as some sort of poor-man’s drawer liner.

  From the top shelf of the closet he grabbed a towel and wash cloth from the two non-matching sets that were left there for him, and then he headed to the bathroom. Placing the towel and washcloth down on the toilet lid, Amp pulled back the clear plastic shower curtain and turned the single knob, hoping that the temperature indicators weren’t reversed. The water shot out of the spigot, pounding onto the blue shower mat. While he waited for the water to hopefully heat up, Amp began to undress.

  He pulled his cap off his head, laid it down on the sink, and ran his hands through his unruly hair. He usually liked to keep it edged up, but these past couple of weeks, he’d had more important things on his mind—like being amped up about his release date. Amp ran his hands down his beard. He’d gone into prison clean-faced, like the college boy he was, but he’d had to grow up fast in the joint. His grown-man beard reflected such.

  He unbuttoned his sky blue denim-type sh
irt and slid each muscular arm out, leaving only a white wife-beater underneath. There weren’t a lot of mirrors in the joint, so now that he had the opportunity, he took a good look at his reflection. The wife-beater clung to his well-shaped chest and shoulders. His arms were strong and well defined.

  Amp was proud of how sculptured his body was. He’d entered the joint at almost twenty-four years old with pretty much the same thin physique he’d had in high school, but he was all man now. Pushing up on thirty years of age, he would definitely not be mistaken for some kid in high school anymore.

  He lifted the wife-beater over his head, revealing a chiseled six pack, thick fan-shaped muscles in his chest area, and a large cross tattoo on his chest. He’d had the cross done in prison to remind him that through it all, he was a child of God, and if nobody else was there for him, God always was.

  As he kicked off his shoes and socks, he noticed a sheet of steam wavering above the shower curtain, indicating the water was hot. He unbuckled his belt, let his pants drop to the floor, then slid down and stepped out of his boxer-briefs. Standing there naked, Amp Anthony was all man indeed.

  He reached down, grabbed his washcloth, then reached into the shower to test the temperature. Pulling back the curtain, he stepped into the warm spray.

  He stood there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the water raining down on his torso. For the first time in years, he could feel the real warmth of a hot shower and savor it. In prison, he always had to be aware of his surroundings in order to protect himself and survive. Too many cats had been caught off guard and lived to regret it, so Amp had learned to get in and get out fast. Here, he could actually cherish the moment. He closed his eyes and imagined the drops were instead the fingertips of a beautifully skilled masseuse and he was being meticulously massaged, muscle after muscle. Slowly, he placed his entire body under the water and allowed it to pour onto his head like rain, washing away yesterday. Today was a new day.

  Opening his eyes, Amp grabbed the generic-looking bar of soap and rubbed it into his wash cloth. Just like in prison, there was no shampoo, so he used the bar to clean his face, his body, and his hair. He didn’t mind, though, because the scent was refreshing. Just like everything else he’d experienced this day, it was a hell of a lot better than what he’d grown accustomed to over the past four and a half years.

  After his shower, Amp dried off then wrapped the towel around his waist. He put on deodorant, brushed his teeth with the brand new toothbrush and toothpaste that had been supplied, then grabbed a bottle of lotion that sat on the back of the toilet tank.

  Walking back into his room, Amp’s feet sank into the beige carpet. It didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated by Amp that he was now able to shower and walk around barefoot. Good thing, too, because what wasn’t in his duffle bag were those prison-issued flip-flops that he’d purposely left behind. How the outside world managed to turn socks and flip-flops into a fashion statement was beyond him. That was a statement Amp never wanted to make again.

  As he sat down on the bed and rubbed his body down with lotion, he noticed the open duffle bag he’d left on the floor. The large brown envelope sticking out of the bag was luring him over. Setting the bottle down on the bed, he picked up the envelope and sat back down with it.

  Amp held the envelope in his hands for a few more seconds. Was he ready to take his mind back, when his goal was to move forward? He stared at it for a while, until he could no longer resist the urge, and he emptied the contents of the envelope onto his bed. There were several pictures and letters, some unopened and marked “return to sender.” Looking at them, he remembered all of his attempts to reach out to his family and to Shannon Ellis, who was injured badly in his crime. He also remembered the sting of each letter being rejected and sent back.

  Most of the pictures were of him and his parents, before he went to prison. The photos always left him torn between the joy of the moment in the picture and the reality that he hadn’t spoken to them for years, and it wasn’t due to a lack of effort on his part. They had made it clear from the returned mail that they wanted nothing to do with him while he was in prison. Amp wondered if he would ever be able to repair the broken pieces within his family and life. Only time would tell.

  The one picture that wasn’t of his family was of him and Jesse, a childhood friend. When his father put him out, Jesse hadn’t hesitated to let Amp crash at his place for a couple months until he could save up enough money to get his own spot. He was a good friend, almost like a brother, the coolest white guy Amp had ever met, but after a while Amp had to keep him at a distance too. Jesse sold dope back in the day, and Amp didn’t want anything to do with that.

  Amp wondered how Jesse was doing. He prayed for him and for his family often. Hopefully God hadn’t been writing “return to sender” on his prayers too.

  Inside the envelope there were also a few newspaper clippings. He flipped past these quickly; they were the toughest for Amp to look at because they reflected the darkest times in his life. He had made a choice that he would have to spend the rest of his life trying to make amends for, even after prison. He wasn’t ready to face his demons just yet, so he kept it moving.

  Amp picked up a couple more pleasant pictures and looked at them, trying to focus on better times. He had read a couple of self-help books in prison that taught him how to have power over his mind by visualizing and focusing on the positive. He often practiced this philosophy in jail to keep his sanity, and was utilizing it now for the same reason. Pulling out a few of the opened letters, he read them over again, just as he had done on more occasions than he could remember. It was no surprise that he practically had them memorized. Reading the “good” letters was almost like hearing his family and friends’ voices. Maybe that was why Amp insisted on doing it so often. He sometimes needed to hear voices other than the ones that often taunted him in his head.

  When Amp finished reading one letter, he placed it to the side, revealing another newspaper clipping. He froze, staring at the headline as the paper trembled in his hand. Why couldn’t he just put it down? Why did he insist on going back in time when he knew all of the hurt and pain it caused? He tried to keep it together by being emotionless, hard, and strong. That is what had protected him while he was in prison.

  Yet he was no longer in prison and no one was watching. His eyes filled with tears of shame as he thought back to that night that changed everything. He hadn’t mean to hurt her, but he did. He let his family down, his friends, and most of all himself. Amp didn’t want to keep revisiting that night. He wanted to stay positive, hopeful for the future, but his conscience wouldn’t let him forget all of the damage he had caused in an instant. So much regret.

  Amp heard Paul shouting from downstairs. “Lights out in ten minutes.” He hadn’t realized so much time had passed. He’d sat there reliving his past, almost down to the second it seemed.

  Laying on the bed, he closed his eyes, hoping to turn off the barrage of guilt he often unleashed upon himself. He wanted to think about something else, anything else. He was emotionally and spiritually drained.

  There was a knock on his door, and then he heard Paul repeating, “Lights out in ten minutes.”

  “Cool,” Amp replied.

  He sat up and put all the items back in the envelope, except for a picture and a newspaper clipping. The envelope went into the top dresser drawer, underneath his underwear to conceal it. He stood the photo against the clock.

  Pulling out a pair of boxers and a wife-beater, he dropped his towel to the floor. It was nice not to have to look over his shoulder while he got dressed. He hung the towel over the bathroom door to dry, then hit the lights and got into bed.

  Picking up the one newspaper article he had not placed back in the envelope, he stared at it, using the light from the moon that was sneaking in between the blinds. Amp knew that one day he would have to right this wrong. He just didn’t know how.

  It wasn’t long before Amp had drifted off into a deep sleep, final
ly in a bed other than one fit for a seven-year-old, with an inch-thick mattress on top of some wire coils. Unfortunatley, his sleep wasn’t as restful as he had hoped for.

  Every few minutes Amp shifted from side to side, tossing in the bed, moaning and groaning. The word “No” escaped from his lips. His eyes were closed and there was nothing but darkness, yet they seemed to be wide open to the past. Amp could see everything in his mind’s eye happening now—all over again. It was a nightmare. It was a nightmare then, and it was a nightmare now.

  Amp’s body tensed up as if he were bracing himself for impact. He took in a deep breath. He could hear the screeching sound of tires and then the sound of a loud crash.

  Amp shot straight up out of the bed, eyes now wide open. His chest was rising up and down rapidly as he breathed heavily. The things he had just seen in his dream were so vivid, so real. Momentarily, he wasn’t sure where he was. He was haunted by the darkness.

  The room was black and silent, with the exception of the sound of Amp’s breathing. There was a blur and a stinging in Amp’s eyes. Slightly dazed and confused, he ran his hand across his forehead and caught the persperation before it could drip down his eyelids and into his eyes again.

  He looked down at his shirt, which was stuck to his skin with moisture. He began to calm down, realizing that he was in his room at the halfway house. It was just another bad dream.

  Amp’s eyes made their way over to the clock that revealed that it was three a.m. Next they landed on the picture he’d leaned up against the clock. Amp walked over, picked up the picture, and then laid it face down. He had beaten himself up enough for the night. Reading the article had worn him out mentally. Remorse and guilt filled every crevice of his being.

  He walked over to the bedroom door and slowly opened it, sticking his head out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. All of the other three upstairs bedroom doors were closed. The fifth bedroom in the house, which was Paul’s, was downstairs.