Out of Nowhere (Middle of Somewhere 2)

I went back to Books Through Bars, where I’d been with Rafe, and talked to people there about what his options might be for working with queer youth. They were full of righteous indignation about him getting fired, which was at least satisfying, but they explained in no uncertain terms the realities of how having a record made you nearly unemployable in any job involving youth. Of course it was delivered alongside impassioned monologues about racial disparity in incarceration, the school-to-prison pipeline, and an ex-inmate shadow economy that rivals that of undocumented workers—not to mention several articles that someone e-mailed me from their phone. Still, the takeaway was clear. There wasn’t much I could do.

Now I’m here. At Rafe’s apartment, where I’ve never been invited. To tell him that I fought.

And that I lost.

The pounding of my heart in my ears is louder than my knock, and it speeds up as the door squeaks open and Rafe fills the doorway. He looks awful. His hair is dirty and coming out of its hair tie, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Worse, he looks defeated. Every muscle is slouched inward like they’re curling around him, a last-ditch protection against the world. In his threadbare gray sweats, he looks like he’s back in prison.

Worst: he does not look pleased to see me.

“I told you I needed time.”

“I know,” I say. He’s blocking the door. “You look like shit.”

He narrows his eyes at me but backs up just enough to let me in, like he doesn’t even have the energy to tell me to fuck off.

His apartment is an efficiency, with a kitchenette that connects to the living room-slash-bedroom, and a bathroom off to the other side. It’s dark and musty and everything is brown and a yellowish color that was probably once white.

He has a couch backed against the kitchenette, with a card table in front of it and a small TV on an upended wooden crate. On the card table are his phone and a beat-up old laptop. Taking up most of the rest of the space are a mattress and box spring pushed against the far wall and a small dresser next to them, stuffed to capacity. There’s no closet, so a few dress shirts and a suit are hung from a hook next to the window and his shoes are lined up along the wall. A shelf between the kitchenette and the living room holds a few stacks of books, some DVDs, and random odds and ends piled among framed photographs of what must be his family.

Several posters for political rallies and groups hang in the living room, among them one for Books Through Bars. Other than the posters, the only decorations look suspiciously like craft projects. Maybe things his nieces and nephew made him? But no, looking closer at the amount of glitter and the preponderance of rainbows, they have to be from the kids at YA.

Rafe drops down on the couch and I sit next to him, sinking deeper into the worn couch than I expect to.

“Are you… okay?” I ask like an idiot. He’s clearly not.

“Nope,” he says flatly, staring straight ahead. “I’m exactly what I never wanted to be. An unemployed ex-con addict who sits around his apartment all day wishing he could get high and forget everything.” His voice is so blankly hopeless that he doesn’t even sound like the same person.

“No,” I start to say, but he turns to me and grips my forearms.

“Yes,” he snarls. “Those are true things. You can’t hide them by keeping me a secret from everyone. I’m a fucking loser. So why are you here? I didn’t call you.” He drops my arms and turns away.

Rafe is pushing hard. I’ve done it so many times but never quite seen what it looks like from the other side: forcing someone to see you the way you see yourself. Forcing them to press their face right up to the ugliness inside and then make the decision about whether they want to go or stay from there. Most people go. But Rafe saw me at my ugliest and he didn’t go. He asked for time and I gave it to him, but now I’m done. Done messing around. Done sneaking around. Done making excuses for either of us.

“Okay, yeah. You are unemployed. You went to prison so you are an ex-convict. You had a problem with drugs. And maybe you have been sitting around thinking about getting high. God knows you smell like you haven’t left your apartment in weeks. So sure, those things are true.”

His shoulders soften a little bit.

“Listen,” I tell him, deciding to jump right in to what I came here to say. I’m not much for comfort at the best of times. “About YA. I’m so fucking sorry, man. I really tried to get them to give you your job back. The kids did too. Jesus, the shit they said. But….” I shake my head.