All the Ugly and Wonderful Things(90)

Getting a job wasn’t easy, either. Old Man Cutcheon ended up closing the shop, and it wasn’t like anybody else in Powell was gonna hire me, so I got paroled to Wellburg, which was bigger than Garringer, almost a hundred-thousand people.

The quick lube place was in a strip mall on the other end of town from my apartment, but it had one thing going for it: the manager didn’t give me a hard time about my conviction.

Gary was my age, maybe a little older, and bald. He looked at my application and said, “The felony, I have to ask.”

“I dated this girl who was fourteen. Her aunt caught us fooling around. I pled guilty, so the girl wouldn’t have to testify. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not a child molester. It was this one stupid thing I did. I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. I won’t steal stuff. I’ll show up on time. I’m good with about anything mechanical.”

I kept talking, waiting for the hammer to fall, but Gary rubbed his head and said, “Jeez, a felony charge seems like a raw deal if the girl was willing.”

“I didn’t rape her. I just messed up.”

I got the job. It was more like a factory than a garage, just changing the oil in one car after another. Mindless work, which was good.

Four months after my parole, I was living in this damp basement apartment in an old boardinghouse. The sex offender registry, it was only supposed to protect other people from me. While I was living in that apartment, I had the tires on my truck slashed and somebody spray painted PEDAFILE on my door. I moved to a different building, farther away from the nearest school, but spitting distance from the train yard. For a few weeks, there was no trouble, but then somebody put up fliers to let people know a sex offender was living in the building.

A couple nights later, these two young guys stopped me coming up the alley.

“If you showed up dead, I bet the cops wouldn’t even care,” said the one who hung back behind his friend. He wore a gold cross on a chain.

“They might even give us a medal if we took care of you, you f*cking scumbag.” The braver one jabbed me in the chest with his finger. No big deal, but eventually somebody was gonna try something serious.

That’s what was getting ready to happen the night I met Beth.

I closed the shop some nights, which was more money, but it meant I didn’t get home until after dark. Being out wasn’t all that different from being in prison. I had to be on my guard all the time, especially since somebody put up those fliers about me.

So I wasn’t surprised when those same two douchebags came at me in the alley.

“I don’t think you got the message last time,” said the one with the cross necklace.

“We don’t want your kind around here,” the brave one said.

They musta figured two against one gave them an advantage. They didn’t know I could take two guys easy when I was sober. Drunk, I could take ten. When they rushed me, I didn’t demolish them like when I used to get in bar fights. I coulda put them in the hospital, but I didn’t want to end up back in jail, so I took a lot more punches than I gave.

“Hey! Back off, you *s! I already called the cops!” somebody yelled behind me.

That was enough to send the two douchebags running. As I was leaning up against the side of a trash Dumpster, trying to catch my breath, this woman walked up to me. She kept one hand in her purse, I’m guessing on a can of mace.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Yeah, thanks. Did you really call the cops?”

“No, not really.”

I figured she’d go back the way she’d come, but she stayed there.

“You sure you’re alright?” she said.

“Yeah, thanks. Have a good night.”

After that, I decided breaking parole was better than getting worked over. So the next day, I bought me a baseball bat.

A couple weeks later, going out to my truck, I passed the woman who saved my ass. I was gonna pretend I didn’t recognize her, but she stopped me.

“Hey, Babe Ruth. You have any more trouble with those guys?” she said.

“Not yet.”

“Looks like you’re ready for them, though. I’m Beth.” She held out her hand to shake. I guess she didn’t see the fliers.

“Jesse Joe.”

“You’re a mechanic?” She looked at my uniform shirt with my name embroidered on one side and the name of the shop on the other. “Would you mind giving me a hand with my car?”

I did it, even though it made me twenty minutes late to work. After all, I owed her one. That was my answer when she offered to cook me dinner as payment for fixing her car. We were even.

“No, come over at about seven and I’ll feed you.”

A month after that first dinner, I moved in with Beth. It made money sense for us to share her apartment. The night I moved in was the first time we had sex. We both got about half drunk, she told me what to do, and I did it. A lot less awkward than me trying to figure out what to do. I guess it made both of us feel less lonely for a while.

Beth was older than me, maybe fifty. Old enough she had a couple grandkids and dyed her hair red to cover up gray. Like my ma, she had a big scar on her belly from a C-section. The one time I touched it, she slapped me.

I knew I’d waited too long to tell Beth about my conviction, because when I finally did, she gave me a dirty look and said, “What is wrong with men? What’s the appeal of a fourteen-year-old? Are they just easier to control, is that it? They don’t talk back?”