It was another day of job searching. The usual thing. The only thing that was different, and made the ordeal a little more bearable, was that Landon had an interview at a local café. He’d dressed in a pair of black trousers and a white shirt. The last time I saw him dressed like that was at Diego Santiago’s funeral. And before that, was when Landon was still in school.
When Landon returned around midday, I was out in the back garden. It wasn’t anywhere near as big as the other house, but it was enough to call mine. Most of it was grass, the part nearest to the back of the house was tiled. I was sitting on a garden chair that we’d bought. We’d gotten the four chairs, but opted out on the table and large, shady umbrella that it came with. Summer would be over soon, and the shed wasn’t big enough to house too many bulky things.
Landon slid open the back door and popped his head out. His shirt was already undone to halfway down his chest.
“How did it go?” I asked him, my laptop on my thigh.
“I don’t really know,” he grinned, as if it was funny. “They said they’d call me to let me know if I’ve got the job.”
“I hope you didn’t undo your shirt like that whilst you were there,” I muttered dryly.
“No,” Landon chuckled. “Well, maybe the top couple of buttons.”
“Landon,” I stared at him.
“Relax,” he laughed some more. “The manager was a woman, and she was definitely into it.”
“You can’t flirt your way into a job,” I scoffed.
“Yes, I really can. And I have to,” Landon said. “I’ve got a criminal record and shoddy school grades.”
I sighed out. He didn’t have to remind me.
“Well, if you think I’m flirting my way into a job, then you’re wrong,” I said.
“I never said that,” Landon had a playful glimmer in his brown eyes. “I don’t think you’re any good at flirting.”
He was probably right about that, not that I’d admit it aloud.
“Well, I’m gonna head inside now, get something to eat,” Landon said. “Want anything?”
“No thanks.”
“Cool,” he replied as he disappeared back into the house.
I shut my laptop, feeling a headache coming on. Staring at a screen all the time was my new form of torture. I wasn’t into the social type jobs that Landon was applying for. I didn’t want to talk to customers or smile at anyone. I didn’t want to be part of a bloody team. But there was little that was independent. And the few jobs which were, consisted of driving all night making deliveries from warehouses to stores. I was no delivery boy anymore. Those days were over.
When our parents left us at the house, I was fifteen and needed to find income fast. I joined a local gang and did their dirty work. But not for long. By the time I was eighteen, I walked away. It wasn’t easy. The gang was ‘blood in, blood out’ and the second beating was twice as long as the initiation. Carlos had been part of that gang too. We’d tried to work together for a while after we left the gang, but I couldn’t tolerate that. Compromising and sharing the leadership role was a no go. So we ended that and started our own separate, rival gangs. We both recruited young men to make our deliveries, using the skills we’d learnt from being in that role ourselves. Both of us and our families were shielded for the most part. The delivery boys were the ones who took the rap whenever there were any arrests. And it worked. I liked being on top. I liked making so much money. So there was no way I was going all the way back to the bottom of the chain by driving around and doing heavy lifting for pocket change just to line the pockets of some bigshot. Even if it was legal (and paid much less).
I looked out across the empty garden space. The grass was more brown than green, baked by the sun and surprising lack of rain this last month. My mind drifted back to jail, my brows automatically inching together. The blaring sound of the alarm, more like a siren, that woke us up every morning at 7am. The feel of the rough, worn cotton of my uniform against my skin. The final clunk of the bars being shut across our cells and locking us in for the night. If I closed my eyes and thought about it hard enough, I could still taste the lukewarm, watery coffee they gave us and the peculiar aftertaste that I could never put my finger on. If I pushed myself to remember things I’d closed off, I could hear the sound that the shank made as it was plunged into my body. The pain was only registered when it was pulled down my side, slicing me open like a piece of fruit. Except it was so much messier, bloodier. And there was shouting. My voice. And Eddie’s. Eddie’s groans as they rained down the kicks and punches. The muffled sounds of just the kicks and punches after Eddie had stopped groaning.
I opened my eyes with a start. Walter was standing in front of me, a frown on his face. The scar from Ario Santiago was prominent on his cheek.
“Are you okay?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I answered without thinking, on autopilot.
“You were about to drop this off your lap,” Walter said, raising my shut laptop that was now in his hand.
“Thanks,” I muttered, taking it back.
A broken laptop may have saved me from having to job search for the next couple of days, but it wouldn’t help me once I had to dig into the savings and buy a new one. Or pay for repairs. It was hard to spend money when I knew nothing was coming in to replenish the pot.
“How was boxing?” I asked Walter, noticing he was wearing his shorts and a damp t-shirt.
“It was good,” he replied. “Just training still, but it helps.”
He didn’t describe what exactly the boxing helped with, but I could take a good guess. For a guy like Walter, letting off steam in a controlled environment was probably the best thing that had happened to him. And even better, was that he was good at it. Good at fighting. He had trouble playing by the rules sometimes, but he nearly always won. The only time he’d lost so far was against that Greek thug back in London. Apart from that, any other time Walter hadn’t won, it was because he’d been disqualified.
I stood up and cracked the bones in my spine.
“I think I’ll do the same,” I said.
“Boxing?” Walter arched a brow.
“No, just…something to blow off some energy,” I replied, heading inside the house.
It would help calm my racing mind. I hated being at home all the time, and these days it felt endless. I stuck with my running on most mornings, but I still felt restless. My mind could never keep still, and as a consequence, my body was tense almost all the time.
We didn’t have a home gym anymore. There was no space for it all since we had no basement in the new house. I still had some weights, but there was no more treadmill (for the rainy days), rowing machine, or leg press. So, running it was.
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