Portray

Prologue

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Cooper Street Correctional Facility

Shouts exchange back and forth between inmates. Heavy metal doors slam, echoing through the halls. This minimum-security state prison is common for the process of male state prisoners awaiting discharge, entering the community center or parole.

Seven to six inmates line up single file behind a paint-chipped yellow line, feet from the prison guard's desk.

Among the others was Tray Diggins. With a small checker-squared bag of belongings wedged in the pit of his arm, he reads the body language and faces of the men around him.

Few of the convicted inmates waiting release wore faces of bona fide confidence. And others were anxious and confused. Spending years, decades even, locked away from family after incarceration, the men share one mutual feeling; the discharge process was a dreadful waiting game. Some men ease the time by staring at photos of their kids or down at their shoes.

Tray encourages positive thoughts to pass the time, anything that exists outside the walls of this penitentiary. First to come to mind, his five-year-old son, Junior. It has been two years since he had last laid eyes on his lil' boy. He was at odds with his baby mama, Wanda. They were not even cordial to the point of her offering a ride to pick him up. Even with those burned bridges, he looks forward to seeing his kid. A slight smile forms.

Despite the reckless and poor decisions he's made throughout his adolescence—especially to the lives of those affected by his actions—the one thing he considers a blessing in his life is his son. His mama would be in that category, except she passed away around the second year of his sentence.

Not being able to see his son in over two years, he wonders how big he's gotten. How much his speech had improved and more importantly, what he thought of his biological father. The thought was haunting. The last four years of his life spent confined in a 8×10 cell, he grew reliant on the few relatives and close homeboys of his to be his eyes on the outside world.

Through the urban grape vine, several sources spewed out the gritty rumors of strange men seen hovering about his baby mama's place.

The exact painful memory that once plagued his mind & ate away his hope now tickles the emotional scars. The urge of lashing out! Crushing shit! Hurt! Anyone to gaze his way side-eyed resurfaces in a flash.

The nerve of her having Tom, Dick & Harry parlaying around Junior! The voice in Tray's head screams.

For some time, he racks his brain on how he'd handle the situation, when in reality, he was unsure how. The slightest thought of another man playing daddy to his child, causes his blood to boil. Seeing where he is now, he buried the unfortunate circumstances in a distant place in his mind. For it was to be settled once the time came.

"Step up here." The prison guard commands with authority in his tone. He was a white middle-aged man with a thick graying beard. He wore a close resemblance of Santa Clause.

Tray gives a casual head-bob, instead of acknowledging him back, the guard returns a disregarding stare before turning his head toward the computer screen. Tray peeps the guard's demeanor, blowing it off. For he knows it entails with the job. Between an inmate or guard, the slightest act of kindness or weakness, others consider that individual as a "mark"—a person known as easy prey or who is vulnerable.

"Inmate number?" The guard speaks.

"1-3-5-8-0-2," Tray answers.

"Let me see your release papers."

The man requests, reaching out his hand. He looks over Tray's information as both hands type away at the keyboard.

"Give me a minute."

The guard moves from his computer to a door leading to a storage closet, where all the inmates' possessions belong. The guard returns with a medium size manila folder in hand,

"Look through your belongings, make sure everything is there, once done, go ahead and sign where the X box is." The man advises.

Tray figures that the man has been through this procedure long enough for it to become a rhythmic pattern in his job.

Per request , Tray places a hand inside to expand the envelope wide enough to peer through it. Inside he sees his cracked Android smartphone; pack of zig-zag wraps, fake gold necklace; lip balm and an old pack of NewPort 100's along with a wrinkled wallet.

It ain't much, but it's all there, he thought. He snatches the pen, scribbling his signature next to the X. The guard quickly scans over Tray's indistinguishable signature. Shaking his head, the guard signs and dates the paper. Authorizing the inmate's release. He hands the paper back to Tray,

"In a week, you'll see your Parole Officer. They will need this release form and they'll help from there."

Tray places his vanilla folder inside the bag, then makes his way toward the "EXIT" sign.