Chapter 3 #2
This was harder than the personal-hygiene aisle.
I’d spent years being served meals without any choice.
Now the shelves of canned food, potato chips, and soda were too overwhelming to consider.
There was a variety of Doritos flavors. Pretzels in every shape imaginable.
I caught myself staring when a young boy turned the corner and broke me from my reverie.
He didn’t notice me, or didn’t care, his eye scanning, looking for something.
When he found it, he rose on his toes and grabbed it—a bag of barbeque chips.
The crunch of the plastic echoed as he ran, the bag bouncing in his hands.
It was that easy. That simple. He knew what he wanted, what he liked.
I didn’t know that anymore—what I liked or what I would like.
Blink, breathe, be. My heart skipped at the fact that I could even have the choice, that one day I would know what I wanted.
I would taste everything, experience everything, if I had to get to that point.
I filled my basket with a six-pack of ramen noodles, several cans of Vienna sausages, Ritz Crackers, and cans of tuna.
Prison-commissary food. I threw in a bottle of Aleve and several bottles of water.
Just before the counter sat a rack of clothes.
T-shirts of every color and size, as well as several types of pants.
There was a heavily discounted gray Fourth of July shirt with large red, white, and blue stars stamped on the front, and a pair of navy joggers.
From a teetering pile on top of the rack, I found a cheap navy hat and a backpack for several dollars each, and added them to my basket.
The cashier had not moved from her spot, half sitting on the counter, her long nails tapping the screen of her cell in rapid succession. I swallowed as I stepped closer, my eyes on her. Her gaze flicked to me, then back to her phone as she sighed in exasperation.
“You have to use the self-checkout,” she said, pointing.
I nodded, perhaps the only customer to feel relief at this girl’s rudeness. She wouldn’t remember me to identify me because she never saw me in the first place.
I understood the words she’d said but not the machine in front of me.
Our tiny town did not have such modern technology.
I realized the monitor could guide me. I scanned my items and divided them evenly between two bags.
I was buying a backpack, but the plastic bags could always come in handy.
As I left the store, I slipped on the hat and tucked my head into my chest just as another customer entered.
Once again, the girl greeted them without making eye contact.
I returned to the woods and stripped. Paying no attention to the pungent smell that radiated from me, I swiped on some deodorant, slipped on my new clothes, and stuffed the old ones into one of the extra bags.
I would discard them as soon as I could.
Leave no trace: the motto of both the person living off the grid and the one running from prison.
I brushed my hair and pulled it through the back of the baseball hat.
Stepping out of the woods, now in soft, cool cotton, felt again like stepping onto a new planet, but I didn’t look back.
I was refreshed, ready to play the part of a new person.
A few steps from the Dollar General, I noticed a sign nestled among three bushes and flanked by lights that read WELCOME TO NINETY SIX.
HOME OF STAR FORT NINETY SIX HISTORIC SITE.
I felt calm despite knowing nothing of this town.
I walked with confidence. I was a normal person.
To my left, a row of trees, green and thick despite the season, bordered the road.
Ahead, streetlights flickered to life along the sidewalk leading deeper into town.
I reached a Mexican restaurant first, Las Casadas, followed by a Family Dollar and a Shell gas station.
To my delight, across the street stood a library housed in a brick building, lights already dark.
I hurried toward it, my Dollar General bags swinging, and made note of the opening time before continuing walking.
My feet began to ache just as I approached the Dove Point Motel, the first motel I’d seen and I feared the only one in Ninety Six.
Whether it was the outskirts of a bigger town or the heart of a sleepy, one-light one, I couldn’t tell.
The hotel sat in a quiet row with a line of rooms facing outside.
Each one had a yellow door, the paint chipped and faded by years of sun and rain.
I knew not to expect five-star comforts, but I had lived the last five years in a six-by-eight box.
Whatever awaited me inside would be heaven.
More importantly, I knew this was the kind of place where questions weren’t asked and anonymity was valued, where cash was king and records were filed in ledgers, not computers.
Pushing open the lobby door, the sounds of a football game—grunts, cheers, and the shrill of a referee’s whistle—greeted me.
Behind a long desk sat a man with his feet propped up on the edge, his posture relaxed but his eyes locked on the Clemson Tigers game, following the action with an almost-hypnotic focus.
His brown hair, cut short, made a hard stop at the crown of his head and he wore an orange shirt with a huge white paw print on his chest.
The lobby was quiet except for the game. Wood paneling stretched across the walls and a narrow slice of light filtered through a single window, casting slanted beams across the worn carpet. Behind the desk, a clock on the wall marked the time with a steady rhythm.
“Good evening, sir,” I said evenly. I wanted him to assist me and then forget me the second I walked away. “I’d like a room for the night, please.”
“It’s seventy cash, eighty if you pay with a credit card,” he said with a measure of practiced nonchalance. The noise on the screen increased and erupted in a roar. The man pumped his fist twice in excitement.
“I have cash,” I said, reaching into the purse. My fingers brushed Officer Madison’s driver’s license, and I prayed he wouldn’t ask for it. I thumbed out the exact amount, hoping he wouldn’t notice my shaking hands.
A commercial for a local furniture store came on the screen, and he finally turned his attention away from the television, grabbing a pencil and dragging the ledger close to him just as I laid the bills on the counter.
“Name,” he said, looking at me at last, his lips creasing into a straight line.
I swallowed hard. “Deborah Madison,” I said, as normal as I could muster with held breath.
There had been a time I felt guilty about lying. But like so many things, that feeling had been worn away.
He scribbled it down in the ledger, the pencil scratching against the page, the name unreadable.
“Checkout time is at twelve,” he said, turning and grabbing a key from the wall of keys behind him.
Then he looked at me again, his eyes burning into mine, his mouth set hard.
“And I mean twelve. Not five after. Not twelve ten. Twelve. Any later, and we have to charge you for another night.” He pushed the key in my direction.
“The front desk closes at ten and reopens at eight. You paid for a single room. No visitors. If I find out you had visitors, I’ll charge you for another night. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” I said, taking the key from his hand.
“Your room is at the end.” He waved a finger dismissively just as the game returned. “The lock gets stuck, so you have to turn it hard.”
I thanked him once more, though whether he heard me remained uncertain, as I didn’t wait for a response. In my heart, I silently wished the Clemson Tigers victory, hoping he would celebrate and never spare another thought for me.
My fingers clumsily fumbled with the gold key and its weighty key chain.
True to the clerk’s word, the ancient lock resisted twice before yielding with a satisfying click, allowing the door to swing open.
The room lay still, suspended in time and anticipation of its next guest, almost as if holding its breath.
It reeked of stale cigarette smoke, masked unsuccessfully by the sharp scent of bleach.
A worn and discolored carpet absorbed my steps.
The small space was made smaller by the queen bed, nightstand, and desk that all seemed to huddle along the wall, taking up more space than necessary.
I slid the backpack off, setting it on the floor beside me, as I sat on the bed. The mattress springs creaked. I reached for the remote and turned the TV on. After flipping through the channels, I stumbled upon the news story I had been searching for.
Prison authorities, alongside local and state police, have begun a statewide search for a missing transport bus.
The bus, carrying three guards and two prisoners, departed from the Camille Griffin Correctional Institution in Columbia at one p.m. and was scheduled to arrive at the Leath Correctional Institution in Greenwood at four p.m. It never reached its destination.
Prison authorities are urging anyone with information regarding the missing transport bus’s whereabouts to call law enforcement at the number displayed at the bottom of the screen.
While the broadcaster spoke, the screen flashed to footage of police officers sweeping the scene with flashlights, their beams cutting through the dark.
State troopers walked alongside search dogs beside the busy interstate.
A team of volunteers moved in a line, their heads scouring the ground while cars zoomed past.
They were looking in the wrong place.