He tried to stop doing what he was doing when the baby came. I was there, and he tried. He tried Family Dollar, CVS, Shoprite, Rite-Aid, a laundromat down the street from us who said they wanted a woman only, a restaurant down the street from us who said they needed someone who could speak Spanish. He tried dishwashing links on Craigslist, lawnmower applications, movie theaters. He cleaned the bathrooms at a strip club for one day for $100. He spent $200 to take a two-day security guard class. Afterwards he got a call that said, well actually with your record you can’t get the license. Oh, and no refunds. I think that was the last one.
After that the packs in the closet were looking even more sweet than before, I’m sure. I didn’t say anything when he started going out more. He left early and sometimes wouldn’t come back until late. I still didn’t ask. Even as he returned with stories of getting ran into a store that would let him hide in a bathroom stall. Or ran down on in the building. Or like he’d be sitting on the steps and would see someone take a picture of him out an apartment window. They had their eyes on him. All I could really tell him was be careful.
And after so many months, you know, he’d end up back in jail and they’re still trying to keep him there. No bail. Now we all try to smile through the thick plastic window in a small white room Sunday or Wednesdays between 10 and 2. Two knocks and we’re gone. Two warnings and they hang us up. I still have an unfilledout baby book. I told him to do the dad page first. I think the baby wasn’t even born yet. At the bottom he confessed that he’s not sure he’s ready, and I never did the rest.
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