And From the Fruit Bowl Ye Shall Rise

He couldn’t rent a car because of his drug conviction, so he bought a cheap seat on the earliest train to Buffalo. Vanessa answered the phone call from the train; she didn’t say much but she said it was okay to visit, as long as it was after 6, when Anthony would be home.

He waited at the train station downtown until it was time to call a cab and get out to Williamsville.

Jon and Kenny were waiting in the front yard. The cab came to a stop by the curb and Martin got out and stood there, watching his children look at him and smile. After a moment of reflection, the three ran to a hug and started laughing.

It took months for Martin to be allowed to spend time with his children. Not much had changed since he was a boy and his parents had divorced. It was still impossible for a father to be considered a parent in the full sense of the word. But the timeframe for these proceedings had been cut down significantly. In short, the pretenses of justice were gone. No more were there drawn-out conferences, negotiations or hearings. Dads who requested time with their children received 30% of the kids’ time. If there were any criminal convictions in their past, they received 15%. Martin got 15%. One night a week, his kids slept over at his house, a run-down duplex in the old Fruit Belt of South Buffalo.

Martin sat down in front of the television and turned on the football game. The only thing he still had from before he went into prison, the one unchanged luxury, was Monday Night Football. The boys were tucked in their beds, he had his milk and his pretzels, and the one new luxury he afforded himself, a single shot of Maker’s Mark.

An hour later and the Packers were up by 10. Martin finally took the last sip of his shot, and he closed his eyes to rest during halftime. That’s when he heard the crying that changed his life again. It was Jon; Martin recognized him right away. He ran upstairs and into the boys’ room.

Jon was curled up, laying on his side, arms folded tight over his belly, crying. Kenny was just waking up from the noise and rubbed his eyes, craning around at his little brother. Martin picked up Jon, who felt on fire.

The only requirement for success in this country, outside of sheer luck, is that one’s penchant and ability to be dishonest must not exceed his intelligence. The first is crucial but must be properly managed if one does not wish to end up beaten, in jail, destitute, or all three in rapid succession.

These thoughts ran through Martin’s mind as he held his burning and shivering child in his arms and tried to plot a way to get him to the hospital as fast as possible – faster than it would take for an ambulance to even arrive at his house, if one would come at all.

Because the police and the government were pretty smart. They hadnt disabled his vehicle, exactly. Because that would prevent them from locking up someone with the intent to commit a crime. Instead they outfitted his 2025 GMI with an elaborate alert system designed to do just what it was doing now – tempt him into breaking the law even though he was sure to get caught.

Instead of shutting off at the first indication, through skin contact with any part of the console or steering wheel, of drugs or alcohol in his system, the car would start normally and then proceed through a sesries of increasingly humiliating and dangerous events.

Martin realized this, and saw that the only chance his son had was for Martin to be smarter than his enemies – the ones out to get him and restore him to his prison cell, even though it was already occupied, with a line of criminals already waiting in line for it. This inherent and obvious clue that they werent reallyl that smart gave Martin all the false confidence he needed.

He quickly told Kenny to get dressed. He threw a change of clothes into a small bag along with some bottled water, and brought his sons out to the car. He wore gloves, knowing this would delay the car’s intoxicant receptors. He was fully clear-headed; nothing kills a buzz like your son feeling like he’s dying. Martin also knew that, anyway, he was physically fine – one shot of alcohol in his body plays like a meager heckler to his liver. Dismissed immediately as a fraud, a gnat. But to the car, a drink was a drink was a line was an overdose. It was all the same to the car.

He buckled in his sons, Jon whimpering in his car seat, a wet washcloth resting heavy and limp on his forehead. Martin started the car, said a prayer, and gunned it down Apple Avenue.

- posted by seanmh @ 11:28 AM