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Finger Food by Gary Ives

Finger Food

by Gary Ives
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Page 2

“Well, our office has a good record in placing ex-convicts. Mind you, Anthony, one leaving prison seldom finds anything above minimum wage. I’m sure you understand. Now I see you’ve worked for the past eleven years in Attica’s infirmary. You were a nurse’s assistant? That right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s fortunate. I’m setting up an interview at Belleview Hospital. I’ll send a memo to your probation officer. I’ll call in the morning, Anthony. I hope you have a white shirt and dress slacks, do you? Your black shoes will do just fine, just be sure to polish them.”

I realized how important the interview would be so I immediately caught the bus for Flatbush and hit The Men’s Wearhouse. So easy. It was prom week; the place was crazy with pimply-faced teenagers renting tuxes. Spotty jerk offs were all over the store yakking with their buddies, gawking in mirrors, driving the clerks crazy. I took me a nondescript, white bread, cheap khaki suit into a changing room and slipped it on right over the scrub civvy prison industry threads issued to parolees. When the Jew at the till was called over to help one of the clerks, I walked outta there as easy as kiss my hand. Next door, Levenson’s Shirt City donated two button-down oxfords, a necktie and a plain black leather belt. Look-a-me, look-a-me, hey man look-a-me. New suit and I still got the $50 get outta jail money. Freedom Street, I was back on Freedom Street playin’ the suckahs. I remember thinkin’, “Ain’t life sweet.”


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About the Author

Gary Ives

Gary Ives lives with his wife and two big dogs far, far away where he grows apples and writes. Publishing credits at garyives.wordpress.com.

Story Discussion

Stories by Gary Ives

Finger Food by Gary Ives

Finger Food

My second day outta stir had gone down so smooth, like greased tracks smooth. The Social Services lady, Mrs. Nixon, had liked me. I could sense it. Twenty-two years at Attica was equivalent to a Ph.D. in reading emotions. Yeah twenty-two years served on a life sentence. Me, I’d gone down hard for offing a shitbag Puerto Rican who’d burned me for two kilos. I played up to the near-sighted old hen.

“Yes ma’am, whatever it takes, ma’am. All I want, really… what I need… is employment. I understand that’s the key, Mrs. Nixon. You get me a jay… oh… bee, job, and I swear by the Holy Bible ain’t no way Tony Spallano is ever gonna go back to them bad old ways. No ma’am.”

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