3:18 a.m. and my eyes slowly begin to open. Lazily, they focus on the ceiling. The ceiling’s white, the light fixture’s brushed nickel, the mattress is made of four-inch-thick memory foam and the neighbors’ two dogs bark and cause early morning havoc. This time I don’t cuss the dogs. They’re not “those damn dogs” like they were almost five months ago and the year before that. I LOVE them dogs and you know why? I love them because they are my neighbors’ dogs. The same neighbor whose house is right beside mine. The same neighbor who drives a SUV. This is a real neighbor I’ve lived beside for nearly two years. She’s doesn’t stay in the cell next to me, she doesn’t wear a state issued jumpsuit, I dare not say that she should have to report to a probation officer or is currently awaiting trial for pending charges.
Guess what? I’M HOME!
No more industrial doors controlling my movements. No more waiting in line to use the phone. No more pathetic guard singing Christmas carols as if to taunt inmates as he ransacks cell after cell after cell. No more being treated like a child. No more horrible meals. No more no mores. And not for nothing, because I certainly have not forgotten, but WOW, women sure are beautiful!
So listen, y’all, this whole mess that I’ve created for myself isn’t over. Truth is, now is the scariest time for me. Hm. Scary. That’s not a word that I’m used to saying. I, like many men, don’t fear much. However, I’m ready to move on with my life, and this old charge is like a jealous girlfriend . . . it just doesn’t want to let go. It controls my movements, my thoughts, my emotions, my . . . me! I, in the past six years, have fought endless civil wars within myself, all of which stem either directly or indirectly from ghosts of times past. Wars that have changed the landscape of my free-spirited demeanor. Battles that have left my individuality warped. Conflicts that have made me question the very answers that I know deep down are morally right. I’ve done all of this to meet a set of sub-laws that are solely reserved for felons of the state of Tennessee. A set of laws that are seemingly counterproductive by nature, mere pitfalls for those who have already fallen.
On the nightstand beside my bed lies a book, Mandella. Now, fully awake, I don’t reach for it. I don’t turn on the light. I just lie in the dark and think about it. I think about true freedom, one life, justice and its evil twin. I think about right and wrong and what or who decides the difference between the two. I think, to whoever it is I think to, let this chapter of my life come to an end. Let this “Green Mile” that I have walked become yet another set of footprints in the sand. And I think, MY bed is comfortable.
It’s now 3:27 a.m. Nine minutes have passed since the early morning tomfoolery of the neighbors’ dogs. There’s a knock at my door and the neighbors’ dogs were right, it’s a stranger. I can tell by the authoritative knock that it’s not just a drunk friend. In fact, it’s not even a friend. The explicit part of it all is, I gotta answer. I reach down for the $150 dollar pair of jeans that at one time I could afford, but because at one time I could afford them, now I gotta answer the door. The jeans, like the felony drug charges, are now a couple of years old. The pounding at the door gets louder because unlike your door, my door is always open to the board of probation and parole.
“Good morning Mr. Fleming.”
“Good morning Mr. Probation Officer, it’s good to see you.” I nearly choke.
To Be Continued . . .
