#isabelasbooty

The Twit and the Conundrum

I walked down the aisle with my head held high, and on either side rows of prisoners sat or stood and leered at the guards escorting me as we passed. A dust storm had us cooped up, and bless them, without their daily walk they bristled like steel wool. We occupied the sort of backwater rural prison, sans water, that human rights organizations allowed to be brushed under carpet in favor of populous urban facilities. It wasn’t so bad if you could keep your head down and never expected visitors to make the trek out here.

Someone made the trek for me today. Two years without a visitor, without a letter, not even a whisper in the dark or morse code flashes from low orbit. Would hardly know where to send a letter myself, what with the nomadic lifestyle of my friends.

They must’ve thought I was dead.

The barren metal cells ended in a barren metal wall that contained what I guessed with a fair amount of confidence was a barren metal visiting room. Like everyone here, the wall paneling needed a good scrubbing. Patches of scaly rust flaked from the seams, stuff I thought was useful as a kid until my habit of faking rashes turned into a tetanus scare.

The guard’s gestures barely qualified as intentional motions, but I was introduced to a small, windowless room with a door on either side. She patted me down, all wiry five feet and three inches of me. And yet, I could probably knock her flat on her back with two or maybe three motions. Before she brought out the handcuffs, anyway.

The metal chilled my wrists.  I wouldn’t be able to hug Shae. “Do you think silver brings out my eyes?” Her eyes met mine for only a moment before she began unlocking the front door. I knew her, but in the vague way you know the guard who breaks up the food fights, or the officer who flies off the handle at nosy witnesses, or that guy who breaks knuckles if you come up short.

She entered, then implied with a jerk of the head to follow. I bounced into the visiting room, hands already snapping against the handcuffs as I attempted to pair a greeting with a wide motion.

Words caught and staled in the back of my mouth, the aftertaste bitter. Across the room, my visitor huffed. “You don’t have to look so disappointed.”

I caught up to my expression. Easy smiles, open gestures. “Nah - surprised, more like. Shocked even.” The prison had thoughtfully supplied the visiting room with a table and three chairs that would make any minimalist proud, and I pulled out my side to sit first. She eyed the seat as though she might not want to risk the eventful trip to the best tetanus doctor around, but joined me anyway.

God, I’d really grown into the family jawline. Must’ve been when I lost weight. “So tell me, did you draw the short straw last holiday season and have to make the prison rounds to entertain estranged family members?”

Under her gaze, I could empathize with gutted fish at the deli market. “You’re the only family member in prison, Matt. It’s not much of a ‘round.’”

“Hmm. Not even white collar criminals among the ranks? Or did they just get a slap on the wrist?”

She folded her arms over the edge of the table. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m assuming leadership of a division of a corporation which is in direct competition with your parents. I want your assistance in discrediting them.”

My first cousin, maybe, or first cousin once removed. It’s hard to keep track when your family relations span the length of soap opera credits. At least I remembered talking to her at childhood events, and we were roughly the same age, though I hadn’t resembled my age until my venture into prison. Thirty knocking at the bags under my eyes.

I shrugged, all shoulders and no hands. “I’ll write you a list of all the times they wouldn’t give me allowance until I cleaned my room. That’ll show people!”

Might as well have been joking with the guards. Unfazed, she said, “You’re already quite the scandal with your abrupt disappearance and criminal activity that your parents tried oh so hard to hide. But word always gets out, as you must know.” I leaned, cupping my chin in a tilted hand. Word got around, but not to the right crowd. She watched me a moment, that appraising look again. “You could cause quite the additional scandal by supporting my company and I. I’m prepared to get you out of prison in exchange.”

My hands dropped onto the table, startling her, and I leaned in with a conspiratorial, “Shhhh, not so loud! The guards are listening!” Comically exaggerated motioning to the guard still standing in the corner of the room.

Scowling, my cousin leaned back in her chair. “I meant legally. I’ve already had my legal team review your case, and it would be a simple matter to get it declared a mistrial.”

Case Files of the Wayward Cousin must’ve been light morning reading for the extended family, right after checking their stock portfolios and before the morning acid bath. “My case, huh? Didn’t figure this place kept records. Did you blow a mini sandstorm off it first?”

“Figuratively speaking,” she said, humoring me for the first time. “Your public defender hardly lifted a finger for you. Perhaps his legal qualifications also need the sand blown off them.”

“I think everyone was lifting fingers for me back then.” I wiggled my left hand under the fluorescent light, but the scars were almost faded. Had I even made a statement? Appeared in court? The opportunity to read my own case nagged at me, but in the morbid sort of way you continue reading personal attacks on vitriolic internet threads.

She leaned over the table again, hands folded, her best impression of a public defender probably unintentional. “You’ve been here for twenty-two months. Do you really want to spend another eighteen years in prison? Or would you like to be freed, spend a year making public appearances with me, and then be on your way?”

A laugh. I laced my fingers, half as elegant as hers with my handcuff handicap. “How do you know I won’t run?”

“Luckily, the legal system takes care of that for me. You’ll have to stick around while your case continues going through the system, or you’ll be incarcerated and I won’t lift a finger to help you. Actually,” her tone dipped, “If you embarrass me like that, I’ll bury you.”

“Aww, there’s the familial love I missed so much!” Tone and expression light, but I broke eye contact to stare at the chipped corner of the table, and she let the silence stretch out. I’d left a nuclear family rich in politics, business, inheritance, I’d left in favor of a band of criminals.

Friends were family. Family was something else, something I didn’t touch save for distant, shallow jokes.

“Okay.” Met her gaze again. “I’ll be your social statement, but I have one condition.” She nodded like negotiating the cooperation of a criminal cousin ranked somewhere between business merger meeting and getting the board to fire a member. “My friend Miles is here too, plucked from the same explosion. Whatever legal stuff you do for me, can you do it for him too?”

“Miles O’Sullivan? Very well.” I exhaled, catching myself off guard, and attempted to run a hand through my hair. The handcuff chain tightened in protest, but I committed to running both hands awkwardly through my hair anyway.

Would still be fun to deliver the news to Miles as if the deal excluded him. Just for a minute.

“I think that’s good progress for today. I’ll come back next week if you haven’t already heard news on the legal front.”

She stood and I straightened. “Ah, actually - could I ask a favor?”

An eyebrow lifted. “Two conditions now?”

“No, just… if possible, could you track down Shae Reynolds? You can give her, uh.” Turning to the guard, I asked, “Is there a box with my belongings from when I was brought in?”

“We throw out all personal items on prisoners.”

They’d probably been charred anyway, but I’d at least had a recognizable necklace on. “Well then, you can give her a verbal message. Tell her I’m cool with a long distance relationship, but this whole no-communication relationship is a little too modern for me.”

She nodded slowly, processing something or other from the exchange. “I’ll look for her. And you’ll hear from me again next week.”

the other day I was thinking that it might be interesting if Kiles happened as an on and off again sort of relationship in the beginning? She likes to think she’s all grown up and all, but she’s v much still maturing emotionally, and it’s her first serious relationship, and we all know how great she is at starting arguments lmfao. It’s weird to imagine her trying to date anyone else… I mean unless we did the bigger crew thing, but nah it’s more like Kate hasn’t determined how romance/sexual relationship figure into life on the whole. Even once she’s genuinely attracted to Miles, she doesn’t like feeling out of her element or like someone is taking care of her. And it would take her possibly a long while to realize how unfair she’s being to Miles re: on/off again and/or jealousy.

Simon’s face every time they break up and then get back together again though. Matt losing track of their current status and making the vaguest statements possible when talking about them. Levi sitting her down like “you know you don’t have to break up every time you have a fight, right” ” : | “