Ladies Night (4 page)

Amp took a really hard look at his overall appearance and concluded that Paul was right. He did not look like he was there to get a job. “I guess not.”

Paul opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out a pair of clippers, and extended them to Amp. “You know how to use these?” Paul asked.

Amp took the clippers from him. “Yeah. I was a barber on the inside. That's the only thing that kept them fools off my back.”

Amp thought back to his first year in prison. An old inmate by the name of Martel had told him that he better get a hustle or a trade fast. Making yourself valuable was the only surefire way of not having your manhood taken. Amp had years of experience cutting hair, and he knew right away what his trade should be. He had been saving his money from his prison job, so when another inmate was being released, Amp bought his clippers. He had to clean them, fix them up, and sharpen the blade, but they did the job.

Amp's timing couldn't have been better. One afternoon, Bull, the number one guy in the biggest black gang in the prison, stopped by Amp's cell with two equally menacing members of his clique.

Bull stepped inside the cell, and Amp could tell right away that he was not to be fucked with.

“Word is you're the new barber,” Bull said, looking Amp dead in the eyes. Amp knew he had to look him right back in his eyes. It was a respect thing, and whatever happened next, it was going to be said that Amp was not a punk.

“I am,” Amp replied. “I'm cold with the clippers. You need a cut?”

“Yeah, I do, but I don't pay for haircuts in
my
prison.”

Amp's heart was now damn near beating out of his chest. He knew this situation could go bad fast, so he glanced around the cell for a weapon. Finding nothing, he faced Bull, struggling to hide his nervousness.

Then Bull surprised him with a deal: “I'm going to offer you the same deal I gave the last barber. Twenty percent of the money you make cutting heads gets kicked back to me. Also, me and both of my generals here get a free cut once a week.” His tone was all business.

“What do I get out of the deal?” Amp asked, maintaining his confident air but still being respectful.

Bull replied without blinking an eye. “We guarantee no one tries to rape you in the shower and nobody fucks with you on the yard. Deal?”

Amp didn't need long to think it over. “Deal,” Amp said, never breaking his eye contact with Bull.

Bull nodded in agreement, then just as quickly as they had entered, they were gone.

For the rest of his stay, Amp kept his end of the deal. He paid Bull his twenty percent every week and made sure Bull and his two generals always had a fresh cut. In return, nobody messed with Amp. The one guy who was dumb enough to try it ended up beaten half to death in the shower. After that, no one else looked twice at Amp.

Amp looked at the clippers with admiration. They had saved his ass, literally.

“Yeah, I'm handy with these,” he said with a little smirk.

“Good, use them,” Paul said, nodding at the clippers.

“One more thing: Part of the reason that most of those stores wouldn't give you an application could possibly be your energy. When most guys are first released from prison, they are standoffish and defensive, like they're waiting for something bad to happen—or like they are the bad thing that's going to happen. You're not in prison anymore, so if you are serious about finding a job, you need to keep that in mind.”

Amp nodded in agreement. He had to admit that pre-jail, he was a far more outgoing and likeable dude. Sadly, his life had been drastically changed, mainly due to the fact that he had drastically changed someone else's.

Paul gave Amp a nod of support and turned to leave.

Amp stopped him. “Hey, can I, uh . . . I need to borrow a shirt with a collar. Please.”

Paul crossed his arms. “I thought you were cashing your check.”

“I did. That's all the money I got. Didn't wanna spend it on no shirt.”

Paul let out a breath. “I got one you can borrow. I'll bring it to your room.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. And hopefully you'll have better luck tomorrow,” Paul said then left.

Amp plugged in the clippers. Looking at himself in the mirror again, Amp thought,
I don't need luck. I need a job
.

The sound of the clippers buzzed for the next few minutes as Amp cleaned up his appearance, hoping his transformation wouldn't be in vain.

“You look like you work at Best Buy,” Brad said to Amp when he entered the kitchen.

“I wish,” Amp replied as he looked down at the polo shirt, tucked into jeans that were now pulled up to his waist. Amp ran his hand down his clean-shaven face to his nicely trimmed beard. No skull cap today, as his hair was shaped up and brushed.

Paul walked in the room carrying the day's newspaper. He spotted Amp and did a double take. “I see the shirt fits.”

Amp tugged at the navy blue polo. It wasn't an oversized tee, that's for sure, and he wasn't one hundred percent comfortable in it, but hopefully it would serve its purpose. This wasn't about being comfortable. This was about getting employed.

“You must have been tired,” Paul said. “You slept right through breakfast. Brad took your chores this morning, so you have his tomorrow.”

Amp looked at the cleared stove and the clean breakfast dishes drying in the rack. “It's cool. I'll just grab some fruit and a bottle of water real quick.”

Paul nodded and then went back into the living room.

Amp walked over and opened the fridge, grabbing a couple of small plums and a bottle of water before he headed for the front door to go get started on putting in some job applications. He was feeling good and had renewed energy this morning.

“You going to get 'em today, huh?” Paul asked Amp as he walked through the living room, taking a bite of a plum. Paul could see the fight and determination on Amp's face.

“Yep. I'm going back to every store that wouldn't give me an application yesterday, and I'm putting in an application this time.” Amp figured with his change in appearance, they wouldn't even recognize him from the day before. “I'll be back later.” Amp walked out to the porch, then stopped and looked back through the screen door, the corners of his mouth raised into a grin. “I'm coming back here with a job.” Amp just felt it in his bones that today was the day, and even though he hadn't verbalized it, he appreciated Paul's help in making it possible.

“I'm sure you will.” Paul nodded in agreement.

 

 

Hours later, Amp was making his way back up the cement steps to the porch of the halfway house. He stopped on the faded gray concrete porch with his teeth clenched, wanting to break something. Amp felt like a failure, even more deflated and frustrated than he had yesterday. Today he had done everything right, but as soon as each employer found out he was an ex-con, he encountered the same rejection, which made him feel hopeless. He began to think about some of the guys in the prison who were released only to return again because they resorted to stealing when they struggled to make a living the legitimate way. Amp knew that would not be his fate, but at this moment thoughts of doubt and fear began creeping in.

The sound of someone snickering disturbed his thoughts. He looked up and saw Brad.

They locked eyes through the screen door, but when Brad saw that he was caught clownin' Amp, he swiftly got off the couch and left the room. Amp just gritted his teeth and shook his head. That Brad guy needed to chill out before shit got real.

Amp went inside, where he saw Paul sitting on the faux suede couch and another housemate in one of the chairs, watching TV. There was an open file on the oval-shaped coffee table in front of Paul, like he'd been doing some paperwork. Paul rested back on the couch, giving Amp his full attention.

Amp could tell that Paul was waiting to get the details of his day's efforts, but he was not in the mood to talk. He just kept walking, final destination his bedroom, so he could shower and call it a day—a not so good day at that.

“Any better luck today?” Paul asked, not letting Amp get away without providing an update.

Amp stopped halfway through the living room. “No. I filled out thirteen applications and had a few on-the-spot interviews. I was honest. Told them I was a felon on my applications. They couldn't get me out of the store fast enough after that.”

“It may take a minute, but you'll find something,” Paul said, and then went back to his paperwork. His affirmative words were far more confident than Amp felt.

“Nah, Brad was right,” Amp said. “Ain't nobody going to hire me.” Feeling mentally exhausted and dejected, he continued his trek to his room.

“I put a plate in the refrigerator for you,” Paul said without looking up from his file.

Amp wasn't hungry, not for food anyway. He was hungry to start a fresh life, to get a job so that he could get out of the halfway house and make amends for what he had done. He had wasted too many years in the pen, and his need to be a productive part of society again was within reach, if only he could catch a break. For now, though, he just had to worry about tomorrow, hoping its results wouldn't mirror those of the past two days. That glimmer of hope in Amp's eyes was getting smaller by the day.

 

 

The next morning Amp came down the steps wearing a wife-beater, basketball shorts, and some running shoes. The house was pretty quiet and empty. Everyone must have been on their daily grind. The front door was wide open. Amp walked out onto the porch and saw Paul sitting there in one of the white plastic chairs on his right, reading the morning news.

“Is there a park somewhere close by?” Amp asked.

“Atfield Park is about a mile up the road,” Paul replied. “Opposite direction of the shopping center.”

“Cool. I'll be back.” Amp stepped down off the porch, did some quick stretching, then took off up the street.

He wasn't a quitter, and he wasn't going to give up after just two days of job hunting, so he wasn't completely washing his hands of finding a job. He just needed to take a breather to get his mind right. He figured he'd get his workout on.

Amp started out with a light jog. The wind seemed to be pushing him along. Not bound by thirty-foot tall fences, he decided to turn it up. The faster he ran, the more free he felt. In his mind he was sixteen again, with no cares, no worries, so he let his legs carry him as fast as they could. His breathing was rhythmic, and he was in a groove now, to the point to where he almost ran past the park.

The run had definitely helped, giving him great clarity and tranquility, just as it always did. It was his therapy. Before going to jail, Amp had been a star athlete at school, excelling at basketball, cross country, and track. This morning run reminded him of days when he was a winner, when championship trophies were regularly displayed on his living room mantle. He was ready to live in the light of greatness again, but right now, with no one trying to give him an opportunity, he definitely needed to figure out what his next move should be. It was going to take more than a jog for Amp to get his life back on track.

Amp slowed his pace and jogged over to the monkey-bars, where he stretched out a little more and did an array of push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups. With every set, Amp visualized all of the “no's” and brush-offs he had been subjected to over the last couple of days. Then his thoughts traveled further back in time, and Shannon's face popped up in his mind. He double-timed his push-ups, trying to erase the image. Her face disappeared, only to be replaced by flashbacks of the disappointed expressions of his mother and father in the courtroom. Amp drew in deep, angry breaths and went even harder with each exercise. It felt good to take his frustration out on something. He needed this.

A few people watched him from a distance, including a woman pushing her infant in a stroller, who could barely keep her eyes on the pathway as she admired Amp's immaculately sculpted frame. Amp was too focused to notice. As far as he was aware, it was just him and the trees.

Amp was covered in sweat as he stood up, dusted off his hands, and caught his breath. He felt better now—calmer, stronger. The determination was back in his eyes. He didn't care how far he had to search; he was going to find a job. His life depended on it.

He also decided that in order to move forward, he would need to let go of the past. He could only do that if he talked to Shannon and tried to make things right. First, he would have to find her.

After an intense workout, he headed back toward the house. On the way he noticed a small, run-down convenience store. Thirsty as hell but unwilling to drink from the filthy fountain in the park, he stopped in to grab something to drink.

“Get out! You steal from me!” an older Asian guy shouted out. He was ushering a young black man out of the store, nearly running Amp over as he entered.

“Come on, Mr. Lam,” the black dude pleaded. “You know I wouldn't play you like dat.”

“You steal from me!” Mr. Lam continued. “You fired. No come back here again. Fired! You come back, I call police. You go to jail.”

Amp watched the young, alleged thief walk away while Mr. Lam stood there pointing, ranting and raving, now in his native tongue. If Amp had been a cartoon character, a little light bulb would have hung over his head as an idea popped into his mind.

Mr. Lam reentered the store, still fussing under his breath.

“Excuse me, sir,” Amp said, trying to get the store owner's attention.

Mr. Lam was too busy muttering to himself.

“Uh, excuse me . . .” His eyes happened upon the man's name tag. “Excuse me, Mr. Lam.”

Upon hearing his name, Mr. Lam turned and faced the customer he was noticing for the first time. “Yes,” he snapped, still very much agitated.

Instinctually, Amp was about to snap back, but then he remembered what Paul had told him about his attitude. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Uh, I'm sorry to bother you.”

Mr. Lam's eyes traveled down to Amp's workout clothes, which were now covered in sweat. Another one of Paul's lessons—the one about appearance—came to Amp's mind. He wasn't exactly dressed professionally, but at least it wasn't saggy jeans. He straightened himself up as best he could before sharing his idea with Mr. Lam. “My name is Amp Anthony. Forgive my appearance. I was out jogging.”

Mr. Lam nodded and said in broken English, “Come on and get on wit' it. I very upset right now. This not good time.”

“If you just fired him”—Amp pointed toward the door—“does that mean that you have a job opening?”

A look came across Mr. Lam's face, as if for the first time he was realizing he was in a fix. He was pissed, but there were a lot of empty shelves and racks that needed inventory placed on them before the neighborhood kids got out of school. He looked Amp up and down again, sizing him up.

“Look,” Amp continued, “I'll work hard. I'm reliable, and I don't steal.”

Mr. Lam still didn't seem too sure about taking Amp up on his offer.

Amp looked around the store. It was the average corner store with a few aisles, a large cooler, candy and gum rack by the register, and a doorway leading to the office and storage in the back. “I can stock the shelves and the cooler, sweep, mop, take out the trash, and work the register. I can do it. I need a job, sir.” Amp's voice didn't relay the desperation he was feeling in his heart, but his eyes did.

Mr. Lam took one more look at Amp, then glanced around his store at all the work that his former employee would no longer be doing. It was definitely more than one old man could handle by himself. He finally said, “Can you start today?”

“Yes! Yes, sir,” Amp said, wanting to burst at the seams. Finally, the break that he desperately needed.

Looking down at his soggy workout gear, he asked, “Can I shower first and put on something more appropriate? I live like five minutes from here.” Amp was eager to impress his new boss. He wanted him to know that he had made the right choice in trusting him.

“Be back in thirty minutes,” Mr. Lam said.

“Thirty minutes,” Amp assured him and then quickly dashed out the door.

“Hey!” Mr. Lam stopped him in his tracks. “And no play me like dat.” He pointed, squinting his eyes for emphasis.

“No, sir,” Amp said, trying to keep from laughing at the Asian man's misuse of slang. “I wouldn't play you like that.” He turned and raced happily back to the halfway house.