The Last Days of October by Jackson Spencer Bell Page B

getting back
together—but a sad Kayleigh was better for his health than a mad Kayleigh.   Maybe if he’d done that, things would have
gone differently.
    Maybe then she
wouldn’t have called the police and claimed he’d hit her.  

 
    The in-processing
office at the Morgan
County Law
Enforcement Center
looked so much like his old guidance counselor’s office that the blast from the
past nearly gave him whiplash .   The same asbestos tile slapped the bottoms of
his slippered feet, and when he sat down he found himself staring at the same
off-white cinderblock wall.   The only
difference was that instead of goofy inspirational posters of inspirational
mountain ranges and inspirational phrases (Unleash Your Dreams, Don’t Kill
Yourself On School Property, Even White Trash Like You Have A Purpose), this
wall wore a whole lot of nothing.   Not
even a cheesy calendar from the local funeral home.
    In another
parallel, Justin did his in-processing with Deputy Petey Starnes, who’d sat
behind him in third-period European History senior year.   In class, Petey had read hunting magazines
packed with birds, bears, deer and different ways to kill all of the
above.   One time, Petey tapped Justin on
the back and said check out this motherfucker , and when Justin turned around
he found himself looking at a centerfold, an honest-to-God centerfold like in Playboy , of a twelve-point buck.
    Now, a year later,
Petey wiped his nose and pushed a telephone across the scuffed wooden desk at
Justin.  
    “Go on, man.   At least give it a try.”
    “She ain’t gonna
come get me,” Justin mumbled.
    “She’s your mama.”
    “She’s a bitch.”
    “Maybe so, but if
she can go your bond tomorrow, who gives a shit?   Let her know you’re here, and as soon as we
can get you in front of a district court judge, your ass is out.”
    “I don’t need
anybody to go my bond.   My dad left me a
little something; I can get the cash.”
    “Yeah, but you’re
going to be in leg chains tomorrow.   How’re you going to get to a bank?
    Justin looked at
the phone and sighed.   Thank God the rule
about a single phone call turned out to be fiction; he had made about ten calls
already, trying to find somebody to come bridge him with the bondsman tomorrow
so he didn’t have to rot in here until his next court date.   The response was predictable and uniform: I feel you, dog, but I’m a little, uh, short
this month, why don’t you call (fill in name of some other broke
“friend.”)   Folks couldn’t even spare it
long enough for him to process out of here and get to a bank, pay them back.
    Because he was
alone.   Because with his father dead, he
didn’t have anybody.   Nothing but a bunch
of “friends” who wouldn’t loan him enough to pay a bondsman for even an hour or
two because at the heart of it, they didn’t really trust him.   They worried that he’d come up with a reason
he couldn’t pay them back on time, because that was what they did every time they owed somebody money.
    “Go on,” Petey
repeated.   “I’m telling you, man, you do not want to stay.   We can keep you in holding overnight, but if
you’re not out come morning, they’re gonna stick you in a bunkroom.   There’s guys sleeping on the floor in there.”
    “And somebody’s
going to try to fuck me in the ass as soon as the door closes, right?”
    Petey shrugged.
    “Never know,” he
said.
    Justin sighed and
took the phone.   He dialed his mother’s
number.   It rang.   It rang again.   On the third ring, her carrier’s robo-answer
picked up.
    “The Cricket
Wireless customer you are trying to reach is not accepting calls at this
time.   Please try again later.”
    “Shit,” he muttered,
hanging up.
    “Voicemail?”
    “Sounds like she
ran out of minutes on her phone again.”
    “That sucks,
man.”   Petey took the phone and shook his
head.   “Listen, I go off shift at seven
in the morning.   You tell me where you
think