A Criminal Mind Is All I've Ever Had

George Raymond ran into the alley. The car had been following him ever since he’d left prison. At first, he thought he was paranoid, but the more he watched, the more he saw that car. A dark blue Chevy Nebula. License plate UFNT 37847. 

He went for coffee.

The car was there. 

He went to work.

The car was there. 

At night, he would look out the window of his rundown apartment.

The car was there.

One time, he got a glimpse into the vehicle. He saw four people before the car sped away.

After ten years behind bars, he felt the sweet freedom of leaving those four walls and his cage. But the feeling was temporary. George got on the bus and immediately felt anxious. His clothes were a decade out of date. People looked at him and he was self-conscious. He was sure they knew he was an ex-con. There was no doubt in his mind. 

That was before. He had volunteered for the training. He wasn’t that thug anymore, running schemes or hurting people. All George wanted was to try to live a good life.

George went shopping. He had his first paycheck and needed to buy some clothes. He felt lost in the now. The city had grown so much. The technology, how people talked, it all had moved forward while he was away. Salespeople had to repeat what they said like he was an idiot. He knew eyes were everywhere. Staring at him,. Judging him. Criminal, convict, crook, gangster. In the grocery store, he walked away from his cart and automatically assumed someone had stolen it. But then he remembered he was on the outside and just forgot where it was. George kept looking at all the people leading their lives and could only feel one thing: isolated.

Except for that car. It kept circling him day and night.

Did the car think he knew criminal secrets? Identities or information from a heist?

Was it someone looking for a ‘secret stash’ he had left some place?

Were they looking for revenge?

Was it real or lunacy on his part?

Paranoia walked him into the pawnshop. Instead of new clothes, he bought a gun. When he looked at the display, he knew which one was the best. He didn’t know why or how, he just knew. He tucked it into the back of his pants under his coat.

Outside, the car was waiting.

His hands were shaking. Were they friends of someone who he offended in prison?

He was sweating. Part of him wanted to unload the pistol on the car. The other part wanted to run.

George calmly walked along the street, pretending not to notice. He came to an alley, turned down it, and ran. 

He heard the squeal of tires making the turn to follow him. There was the sound of the car scraping against the walls, hitting garbage cans and whatever else was in the way. George ran past a dumpster. There was a crash as the car hit the industrial bin. The space was too small to make it through.

”George!” a voice yelled. “George! Stop, man! It’s us!”

George heard the car doors open. He turned and froze, a spike of pain going through him. He saw a blonde man scrambling over the hood. Automatically, it seemed, George let off a few shots from his gun and ran back onto the main street. George got a headache. The prison treatment was trying to kick in, telling him he was doing something illegal. He tucked the gun away and didn’t look back. He was breathing so hard that he nearly passed out.

George slept that night in a hotel, constantly looking out the window. He looked at his gun. Buying more than six bullets would have been a good idea. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and he fell asleep in the chair.

George woke up in a panic. He looked out the window. He couldn’t see the car. But they would probably have a new one now. He paced the room, not knowing what to do. The only thing he could think of was disappearing into the city while he could.

Something came back to him. A storage space. There was something in a storage space that could help him. But what space and where? Whatever the case, it was time to move.

As George walked through the lobby, he saw an overcoat on a chair and grabbed it. As he snatched the coat, There was that headache again. Putting it on, he pulled up the collar and went walking, looking for this hidden cache.

He walked all day, following a feeling he had. As night drew near, he looked at his money. He was running low. Not enough for a hotel, so it would be a chilly night on the street.

A light rain woke him up. There were two others in the alley, wrapped in packing paper and another in a garbage bag, but they showed no interest in him. He had heard enough stories about guys getting out of jail and ending up on the streets homeless. He didn’t want to be one of those guys. If he wasn’t careful, he soon would be.

George stepped onto the sidewalk. He looked side-to-side but noticed nothing unusual, so he started his hunt again.

Once more, he walked all day. The streets became rougher looking, but things started to look familiar. Soon, George noticed people staring at him. Were they whispering about him? Paranoia and fear set in.

“Reaper!” someone hollered, using his fingers as pistols. “You back man?”

George walked fast. Why did he know him?

Then he stopped. This was the building. He just knew it.

Inside, it was a wreck. Graffiti, broken stair railings, shit, and the smell of urine. He could hear people upstairs. Looking at the stairs, he pushed the third step with a stick. A board came swinging down with a knife tied to it. Meth head booby traps. Why did he know that? George turned to the basement.

A wretched smell hit George as he opened the door. He pushed the spider webs away while keeping an eye out for rotten wood on the stairs. Realizing he needed light,  he felt around for a switch or chain. He found a chain and pulled it. The light buzzed and flickered to life.

The room was a garbage dump. He pushed his way through the refuse and filth. Rats scrambled as he moved about. It wasn’t long before George found body parts buried in the trash. He nearly puked.

And there it was. A loose brick in the wall. He wiggled it free and found a tin box behind it. In it were cash, a loaded gun, loose bullets, and ID papers. George took the money, the gun, and stuffed the bullets in his pockets. He looked at the papers. They were for a Bruno Parker. He left those behind, closed the box, and returned it to the wall.

George made his way upstairs onto the street.

“Jesus Christ, George, you sure don’t make it easy, do you?”

It was the blonde man with three others.

George went for his gun, fumbling as he did. The blonde man brought his.

“George, just get in the car,” he said waving the gun towards the car.

George dropped his gun and let two of the other guys push him into the car.

Am I dead? George thought.

Once everyone was in, the blonde man kept his gun on George.

“Don’t play around. It’ll all make sense in a few minutes.”

One of the guys in the back placed a silver ring around George’s head. He struggled but to no avail.

“This won’t hurt, Georgie Boy,” the man said as he nodded.

Someone pushed a button on a device. 

George took a deep breath as a flood of information overwhelmed him. Faces, actions, events, and feelings, all came like a tide drowning his mind. He closed his eyes, taking it all in. When he opened his eyes, the blonde man smiled because he saw a different George.

“You back with us, man?”

George gave a sly, half smile.

“Hendrix! What took you guys so long?”

“You, bonehead. We had to make sure the cops weren’t watching you and then you ran. Even with that brain drain from the feds, you still got some moves.”

“Yeah, but it’s a good thing we made a copy before I went in.”

“So,” the blonde man asked, “What do you feel like doing to celebrate?”

“Let’s do some misbehaving.”