"It's only over the bridge, and my new employer says he has a way around that technicality."
Nate tightens his face in a way that I faintly remember. The way a father would if he's annoyed but trying to be patient with a child.
"That's not going to work. If you're staying under my roof then you're going to do everything by the book."
"Don't really have the luxury of picking and choosing where I work, Nate. I'm lucky if I find anything at all. Every basic application asks if I've ever been convicted of a felony. No one wants to hire someone who's done time."
"There's one place that won't ask you that."
"I know," I say to reiterate my point. "My guy in Camden won't ask."
"There's another option." Nate coughs. "A better one. You'll work with me in the shop."
I exhale sharply. I forgot about that. Nate owns a bike shop. If there's money, I bet it's tied up some kind of way in that shop. I've got to play it cool though. Can't look too eager to get in there.
"I'm not sure if that's the best place for me."
"I'm responsible for you for however long the probationary office says I am. So, while you are under my roof, you won't be breaking any laws or any rules by working in New Jersey."
"Can you actually afford to have me working at the shop? I'm going to need a real pay stub. You can't just pay me in room and boarding."
"I've been on this earth a lot longer than you, son. I think I know what you need to show them parole officers, and I definitely know how to make money in my shop. So yeah, I will be paying you a wage. It ain't a fortune, but it'll be fair."
I wish he'd stop calling me son. He's not my de facto father. If he was, I'd like to know where the fuck he was after Jack died. I didn't hear two peeps out of him.
"You're doing too much for me. I made a big mistake, and I want to turn my life around, but I need to be the one to do it. You giving me room and board is enough."
And the Oscar goes to...
"You know, son–"
I lean my body a little bit more into the passenger side door. Damn near cringing at his use of the word son for the zillionth time today. If he says it one more time I might punch a fucking hole through the window. How easily he lets that word fly out of his mouth when I haven't seen or spoken to him for more than five minutes since Jack's funeral.
"We've only been in this car for an hour, but I'm starting to get a handle on you. I'm thinking that things have been a lot tougher on you than I ever imagined ever since Jack died."
You think, Captain Obvious?
"I'm thinking that you were about to sell them drugs, because if you didn't you were going to end up on the streets alone and afraid. But I'm also thinking that you're in the position that you're in now, because you don't know how to ask for help or graciously accept any help. That's a mistake. Real men know how to recognize a hand up and not a hand out."
I sit and stew in my own whirlpool of fury. I hate it when people think that they have me all figured out. They don't. Especially Nate. I know I've got six months to get this money, but I may not last that long if I've got to sit around and listen to this drivel all day.
Nate's cell phone rings distracting him from our conversation.
Good.
I just need for him to be quiet for ten damn minutes. Talking is overrated. One thing I learned about my life as a thief as well as my time in prison.
Silence is golden.
* * *
