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Finger Food by Gary Ives

Finger Food

by Gary Ives
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Page 3

In the morning Mrs. Nixon phoned to tell me of my interview with Belleview Hospital’s Human Resource Office. Right off I was feein’ lucky. The interviewer was this fat assed woman who looked like she could whip my ass. On the wall was a framed print of Jesus looking upward, His hands in prayer, so I tried my best to look like some pansy saved-in-jail Christian dipshit. She looked at the papers Mrs. Nixon had sent along and looked me over real hard then smiled.

“You’ve paid your debt, Anthony. I’ll skip the speech ‘cause you know that returning to a normal life is no easy thing. But Belleview can offer you a very good first step. We are huge—7 separate hospitals really, all combined into one giant care facility. We’re like, well, our own city. What we want here at Belleview is an honest day’s work. We have 153 men and women employed here who, like you, are ex-felons. So, how do you feel about working here?”

“I especially would like to work here, in the hospital ma’am. Working in Attica’s infirmary was the best thing ever happen to me, ma’am. Helping people is… is… well it’s satisfying, isn’t it? And I want more than anything to get my life together.” And set me up some sweet, fat racket, bitch.

“Well Anthony we have a position in transplant surgery. It’s mainly as a messenger: you would bring up and return medical records, X-rays, and the likes. You’d be on your feet the entire shift. How do you feel about that? Would that be a problem?”

“I’d be pleased to work there, I would, ma’am, and grateful too for the chance.” And you can bet your holy rollin’ fat ass I’ll have me an up and runnin’ money-makin’ scam prontissimo, baby, prontissimo.

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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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