The Mormon Renegade

Chapter 15

There are precisely three hundred and forty five etchings of words and phrases on the cell block wall.

How would I know?
I've been counting each individual scribble for the last ten hours.

An indistinguishable clank of what I assume is plastic tapping against metal brings my daydreaming to an end.

I've been restricted to two feet worth of space in the shaded corner, furthest away from other convicted criminals sharing the area with me... Or rather I'm sharing with them.

"You can always share my corner, baby." A butch woman winks at me, puckering cracked lips in the air and padding an area beside her while in a suggestive pose. "Thanks man--"

"Not you, bitch!" She snarls, baring her rotten teeth to imitate a rabbid dog biting where the young Asian girl —who spoke— could see.

The poor thing jumps back, shielding her head as if a thunder strike landed close by. I don't answer, nor do I dare look in the general vicinity when I can see her picking dirt covered nails out the corner of my vision. Blegh. 

Strangely, Andy's testosterone smelling vest is a great buffer that comforts me even if the material is snug around the chest region.

Since my arrest early this morning while it was still dark, a solid block of pure fright mixed with curiosity keeps me sane for the length of my custody.

The sky is aglow in the yellow and orange hues of sunlight. I estimate its approximately mid afternoon judging by the angular rays.

"Sweet Caroline. Bum, bum, bum." The occupants who populate the blocks either side of us sing along to the tune. "Good times never seem so good." We form a collective volume somewhat decently orchestrated.

Unknown faces have been entering and leaving the Police station left, right and center. Initially I was afraid of the concept having never committed a prior crime —aside from stealing the hoodie— but now... I'm so bored it's sickening.

"Compton?" There goes another lucky bastard who probably deserves to be locked up behind these bars unlike me. Technically.

"Compton? You alive in there?" Oh wait.

"Mm? Yeah that's me." I spring up, the other jailbirds don't bat an eyelid continuing the melody, "...to believe they never would..." I forgot I gave the Officer's who arrested me Scout's surname.

Since I said it aloud it felt natural to me. Tristan Compton, sounds professional and unique. So I spent most of the last six or so hours imagining our lives together, sharing the same last name, adopting a dog. There was a lot of room for delving into a thorough made up timeline.

"You made bail, you're being released." The tan female Officer talks in a drowsy manner, every word takes significant effort to expel.

I don't know what possessed me to respond, "Really? That can't be right? Are you sure?" What is wrong with me? As if she would be kidding.

She looks five coffees short of a proper wake up barely able to make eye contact through droopy eyelids, yet she manages to appear more annoyed cocking her eyebrows.

"Well If you're so comfortable in here you can always stay and—"

"No! I'm good." I answer intrusively crossing the cell floor.

"You leaving baby?" The flirtatious, burly woman asks hungrily, moving as if she is on the prowl for her next victim.

I jump through the small gap in the sliding cell bars before they slam shut preventing her swiping hands from extending to their intended spot, forming a claw in front of my startled face.

"Back off Gills." The Officer says monotonously as she whacks Gills hand using the nightstick from her utility belt. She growls at us, literally, then retreats to her humble corner.

The long shadows casted on the littered floor create lines similar to those made by venetian blinds in the setting sun.

"So... what happens now?" I ask absolutely lost in regards to the process that occurs post bail and all that.

"You can leave. Don't care how or where you go, the person who paid your bail is outside." That must be Scout, I'll love her forever after this.

We walk through some twists and turns, every corner the same block, clinical structure as the last but gradually brightening in colour and atmosphere as she opens the final door into the Police Station.

"Thank you again, Officer..." Her name is bold against a silver rectangle border.

"Fat hoe?"

"It's Phah-though!" She booms, snapping awake like a rubber band. My profuse apologies are disregarded, backing away from her intimidating advances. "Sorry, I don't spend a lot of time around Mexicans--"

"I'm Filipino!" Her nostrils flare and silky hair quakes from outpouring anger. If she was a latino I'd be the Matador about to get gored by her deadly horns as she takes form of the enraged bull charging my hind full throttle. 

The other Officers continue their duties apparently accustomed to these types of vocal disturbances, some casually yawning while they stand.

Phatho abandons the pursuit once I've ploughed through the glass door entrance, hurrying down the slope steps.

There's no sign of Scout on the premises. I double, triple and quadruple check, she's not here. No Ashley either, have I been ditched? I'm answered by the presence of someone familiar. I recognise those defined tattooed arms anywhere, they refuse to leave my mind alone.

"Surprised?"