Mr. Clarinet

First thing Max did was open his door, step out of his room, walk back inside, and close it behind him. He liked it so much he did it again and again half a dozen times until he'd taken the shine off the novelty of being able to come and go as he pleased. Next thing he did was take off his clothes and check himself out in the wardrobe mirror.

Max hadn't seen himself naked in a mirror since he'd last been a free man. Seven years on, he looked good from the neck down, dressed in just his two tattoos. Big shoulders and bulging biceps, chunky forearms, a short, wide neck, a six-pack, thick thighs; put him in trunks and body oil and he could have won a Mr. Penitentiary award. There was an art to working out in prison. It wasn't about vanity and fitness; it was about survival. It was wise to be big—if you cast an impressive shadow, people thought twice about fucking with you, and usually kept out of your way—but you didn't want to get too big, in case you stood out and became a target for young first-timers out to get a rep; there was nothing more ridiculous-looking than a cellblock hulk dying from a toothbrush shiv rammed in his jugular. Max was very fit before he'd gone into prison. He'd been a three-time Golden Gloves middleweight boxing champion in his teens, and he'd stayed in shape running, swimming, and sparring at a local boxing gym near Coral Gables. Exercise wasn't a quantum leap to him; he had the built-in discipline that comes from learning to swallow a punch whole. He'd been allowed half an hour in Attica. He'd hit the weights six days a week, upper body one day, legs the next. He'd done three thousand push-ups and crunches in his cell, every morning, five hundred at a time.

Although still attractive in the blunt and brutal sort of way that deceptively appealed to women with a taste for rough men and kamikaze relationships, his face wasn't too handsome. His skin was tight, but it was wrinkled and waxy pale, almost ghostly from the lack of sunlight. The needlepoint scars around his lips had faded. There was a new meanness in his blue eyes and a sour downturn to the ends of his mouth, which he recognized from his mother who, like he, had been left alone at the onset of her autumnal years. And as had happened to her at the same age, his hair had gone completely gray. He hadn't noticed the transition from the dark brown he'd been on the day of his incarceration, because he'd stayed bald in the joint, to appear more forbidding. He'd let his hair grow out in the last few weeks leading up to his release—a mistake he intended to rectify before he left town.

* * *

The next morning he went out. He needed to buy a warm winter coat and jacket, and a hat, too, if he was going to lose his old-man's hair. It was a bright, freezing-cold day. The air burned his lungs. The street was swarming with people. Suddenly he was lost and didn't know what he was doing or where he was going. He'd walked slap-bang into the middle of rush hour, everybody on their way to earn money and take shit with a thank-you and a smile, and build up a backlog of grudges and resentments in the process. He should've known better and prepared himself for it, but he felt as if he'd been beamed in from another planet against his will. A seven-year stretch of time slipped its leash and rushed at him, jaws wide open, belly empty. Everything had changed—clothes, hairstyles, walks, faces, brands, prices, languages—too much to take in and absorb and break down and analyze and compare. Too much too soon after prison, where everything stayed the same and you were on at least face terms with everyone you saw. Now he was straight in at the deep end. He could float but he'd forgotten the strokes. He plodded along, keeping two steps behind the people in front of him and two steps in front of those behind, chain-gang style. Maybe no matter how free we think we are, we're all prisoners in our own way, he thought. Or maybe he just needed time to wake up and get with the program.

He slipped out of the crowd and snuck into a small café. It was packed with people getting a caffeine fix before hitting their offices. He ordered an espresso. It came in a cardboard cup with a holder and a warning printed on the side that the drink was VERY HOT. When he tasted it, it was lukewarm.

What was he doing in New York? It wasn't even his town. What was he doing even thinking of traveling the world when he hadn't been home, got his bearings, and readjusted himself to freedom?

Sandra wouldn't have wanted him to do this. She would have said it was pointless, running away when he'd have to come back eventually. True. What was he scared of? Her not being there? She was gone. He'd just have to get over—and move on the best he could.

Fuck it. He'd go back to Miami on the first plane out.

* * *

In his hotel room, Max called up the airlines. All flights booked solid for the next two and a half days. He got a seat for the Friday afternoon.