Page 2 of Bull Rush

Ramsey

The only thingstanding between me and freedom right now is the sky-high pile of paperwork sitting on the table in front of me. The five-month-long sentence for my assault charge has been commuted to parole, and as soon as I finish the last of this exit interview, I get to walk out the doors and finally start living again. But the tired-looking processer currently swishing the last of his stale coffee around in a Styrofoam coffee cup is taking his sweet fucking time, going through every single question like I’m an imminent threat to society.

You’d think I killed some—I keep forgetting that I actually did, in fact, kill someone. In part because I’m still missing time from that day, something the in-house therapist has been working through with me, and another item on my long list of things they’ve suggested I continue through my parole. Isuffered my way through a half dozen pre-parole meetings and checklists that made my eyes twitch from the inanity, packed up everything remotely sentimental in my cell, gave away everything extra I had from the commissary, and arranged to have someone pick me up today. If I don’t get to take a long breath of fresh air outside these four walls by dinnertime, I might just lose my mind.

“I see your home of record is in Purgatory Falls, Colorado—is that correct?” The man taps the paperwork in front of him with a blue ballpoint pen that’s seen better days.

“Correct. Or rather, it was. I live in an RV now.”

“An RV? You need a permanent residence for the period of your parole. Your lawyer should have explained that to you.” He rears back like I’ve told him I hate stuffy pencil-pushing bureaucrats. Which I do, but I have the good sense not to say it out loud. A few of the things my mother taught me stuck.

“I’m moving in with some friends. Parking on their property and using their hookups. I can give you the address. I’m sure they’ll give me a bed indoors if that makes a difference.” I try to stomp out any semblance of irritation from my tone. I’m happy to be headed for parole, but the idea they can control my life this closely when I’m not behind bars chafes.

“So you’re estranged from your wife at the residence of record then?”

I have to pause to process his question. It’s been a long time since someone has mentioned my wife to me. Anyone who knows that history knows better than to bring it up.

“My ex-wife lives there.” I keep my answer terse.

“Ex-wife?” He flips the page up and then pages through several more. The resulting flutter nearly blows a few of the pages we’ve already completed onto the ground. I press my palm to them, pinning them to the beige linoleum surface. The last thing I need is to spend thirty minutes watching him pickthem up and sort them back into order, checking and rechecking while I wait.

“Ex,” I confirm.

A flash of her comes to mind like she’s standing here in the room with me. I can’t imagine what she’s thought about all this. That I’m a murderer now—justified or not. That I’m a felon, and my career playing ball is likely over, at least barring the Chaos is willing to take me back on a discount. Which seems unlikely, even if my last season was my best yet.

I can see her standing in front of me, arms crossed over her chest. Long, soft deep-brunette hair flowing over one shoulder, the rest tucked behind and cascading down her back. Her pale-blue eyes look me over and find nothing but disappointment in their wake. Her lips purse when they fall on the out-of-control five-o’clock shadow I have—the kind she loved and hated in equal measure. A lot like she felt about the rest of me. Until the hate overtook everything else.

“No. It says here she’s your current wife. Still married.” The processor taps his pen on the desk.

“We’ve been divorced for five years. Give or take. I don’t know the exact date.”

“Because there isn’t one,” he says sharply.

He turns the paper around, taps the blunt end of his pen to the marriage certificate, and then flips to where it shows a bold “M” next to my name. “You’re still married. You know lying in this interview could get your parole rescinded.” It’s half-threat, half-empty irritation on his part. I think he wants me out of here, he just seems to want to take all day doing it. Nevertheless, the threat has me sitting up straighter, and my lawyer puts his phone aside when he senses the tension and turns his attention back to us.

“My client is divorced to his knowledge. If you havedocuments that say otherwise, I’d like to see them,” my lawyer says before I can speak.

My heart skips a beat. A mistake in paperwork sounds a lot like I go back into a cell, and we start over on another day to be determined. Everything about this place is bureaucracy and piles of paperwork. I’m fairly certain there’s an employee just printing duplicates and crossing t’s and dotting i’s. That might be the first rung on the corporate prison ladder before you get to whatever this guy’s title is—somewhere in the inner circle of hell.

I’ve already been imagining the freedom of driving on the open road again, tasting the chili dog and steak I’m going to eat, the cold beer I’ll drink at Cooper’s, and the feeling of sunshine on my face when I walk out of here later today. Now they’re all fading away into the distance like the dreams I have of her when I first wake up. All because of a little black M where there should be a D.

Fuck.

“I’m not concerned about a mistake like that. I’d just like to get out of here today.” I look between the two men who seem more concerned about record-keeping than my freedom.

“You’ll have to look into that on your own time. All I can tell you is our documentation is never wrong. We don’t make mistakes. If it says he’s married, it’s because there’s still an active marriage license registered in the state of Colorado.” He flicks his eyes in my direction before he jots something else down in a highlighted box in front of him.

My lawyer turns to me, a question lingering in his eyes, and I shrug. I don’t have any answers. I didn’t want to air my dirty laundry in front of prison officials. All I know is she asked for a divorce and rode my ass for months to get my signature. Eventually I caved. I signed the papers and gave them to her. Hazel’s always been the responsible one of the two of us. I assumed shetook care of it, and we never spoke about it or anything else again.

“She filed the paperwork, but I signed it. There’s no way she didn’t submit it.”

“Well, we need to know the exact date so we can get them the updated paperwork, and we’ll have to look into the records department for the county in Colorado.” My lawyer looks at me thoughtfully, always calm and calculated. I suppose that’s why I pay him so much.

I nod.

“I’ll make a call. Maybe we can settle this right now. Do you mind?” My lawyer nods to the door and waits for the processor’s response.

“Sure.” His eyes practically roll, and the sarcasm licks over the word. A few moments later, he excuses himself, and I’m left sitting and staring at the peeling paint on the cinder block walls. My mind’s obsessing over the possibility of being put back in my cell. Every hope and excitement I have for leaving this place is wavering in the balance as I imagine they’ll use any excuse they’ve got to make this difficult. It might be one of the nicer prisons, lax security and lots of perks you wouldn’t get if you didn’t have six figures behind the first number in your bank account, but still a miserable cage I’m desperate to escape.

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