Joe by H.D. Gordon Read Free Book Online Page B

had learned how to play the game with these
people; that is what it was all about.
    The secretary, a Latino woman with
large, curled bangs and a slicked-back ponytail, sat behind a glass barrier, so
as to keep her separated from the lesser forms of society, like Eric. She
stopped filing her nails long enough to tell him that Mr. Jackson would see him
now.
    Eric stood, wiping his palms on his
jeans once more, and entered the P.O.’s office. Behind a poorly-crafted desk
sat the poorly-crafted parole officer, the man who had been making Eric’s life
hell for the past three and a half years. Ryan Jackson was a prick without the
rose.
    Eric took a seat opposite his P.O.,
reminding himself to be as friendly as possible. There was a lot riding on this
visit. He put a smile on his lips.
    Mr. Jackson stared at him for a moment.
“How’s it going, Eric?” he asked.
    “Very well, sir, and yourself?”
    Mr. Jackson laced his stubby fingers
together and rested them at the peak of his mountainous stomach. “Oh, just
keeping an eye on convicts, as always,” he said.
    Eric crushed his tongue between his
teeth. This man was gifted at pissing him off. Smiling again, he nodded. “Noble
work, sir,” he replied.
    The P.O. blew out a breath. Eric gave
himself a mental pat on the back. Jackson was always testing him, challenging
him to slip up and lose control, but Eric wasn’t as stupid as Jackson thought.
Spend three years in prison and you’ll learn how and when to keep your mouth
shut and take the high road.
    Mr. Jackson began sifting through papers
atop his desk. Eric rubbed his palms against his jeans.
    “Well, I’ve got the results of your last
test,” Mr. Jackson said. He looked up at Eric and was silent for a moment.
Always testing. When he didn’t continue, Eric smiled and nodded in response.
Finally, Jackson said, “They came back clean.”
    This time Eric’s smile was less forced.
“Knew they would, sir.”
    Jackson didn’t reply. He stared down at
what Eric assumed was his most recent drug test results, scrutinizing them as
if there had to be some mistake. Eric’s jaw clenched, and he directed his focus
elsewhere, but the small office didn’t offer much for distraction. In fact,
Eric hated the room itself as much as he hated the man who worked in it. The
sparse posters on the off-white walls proclaiming things like, Friends don’t
let friends drive drunk and Three strikes, you’re out! rubbed Eric
the wrong way. The florescent lights, one of which flickered occasionally, gave
him a headache, and the fat, sweaty aroma permeating the room that belonged to
Mr. Jackson made his stomach hurt. Plus, there was so much riding on this. Eric
couldn’t help but sweat.
    “You been getting your community service
hours in?” Jackson pressed.
    “Yes, sir,” Eric said. “Thirty hours a
week, every week.”
    Jackson shuffled some more papers. The
previous question had been pointless. Eric had turned in all of his hours and
Jackson knew it. Play the game, Eric. Just play his game.
    Finally, the P.O. looked up. “Well, then
I’ll make the arrangements for Monday, as I can’t find any reason not to.”
    All of the anxiety seemed to melt out of
Eric, and real happiness filled up his chest. He had waited so long for this
and worked so hard. For the past six-and-a-half years he’d been paying for one
mistake and now things were finally looking up. There had been times when Eric
had been so depressed he felt like running from all of this. The time he had
spent behind bars had been the worst three years of his life. He had been
terrified, lonely and half-mad the whole time. It wasn’t a place where he
belonged, and he had vowed to never end up back there.
    But if he was being honest, he hadn’t
made just one mistake. He had made a lifetime of them. He’d just finally
been caught for one of them. Looking back now, that part of his life,
the pre-prison part, seemed to be a haze. The memories of it all had dream-like
qualities