Bus Stop Outside Apartment Window

I live in a walkup.  My apartment is small and contains little more than a toilet, sink, bed and a minor few possessions.  The bed has only a thin mattress covering a concrete slab, which for an old guy like me, does not do much to help my back.  A red fleece blanket neatly covers it.  The room is simple, but it is not like I have many options, everyone has to make do with the accommodations.  My neighbors are loud and at night can get rowdy.  Sometimes during the day I get together with a few of them downstairs at the indoor courtyard to play cards, or on rare occasions watch a movie.  

I wake up before dawn every day and look out of my window.  My view is obstructed by two vertical metal poles and although they can be distracting, at times they have become invisible to me.  Today I see something unusual.  A white school bus comes to a stop just outside the entrance of our building.  I count as each man steps off the bus.  They all are wearing the same brightly colored jumpsuits and have their hands held behind their backs.  Some are short; some are tall.  Some are heavily tattooed with skin acting like a canvas.  All of the men mean the same thing: more crime, more wrongdoings, more neighbors for me.  

After spotting the bus, men in uniforms came around to do a count at five thirty this morning.  No one was missing so we were allowed to prepare for the day ahead.  I dressed in a fresh set of clothes and combed my hair back.  All of our doors were opened and we left our rooms.  Breakfast this morning consisted of deep yellow scrambled eggs, two tender sausage patties, and buttery stone ground grits.  Morning meals are my favorite because they rarely involve any produce.  The only vegetables I like are corn and potatoes because healthy foods are nasty.  I ate by myself this morning because on every Monday, I eat alone.  My Momma worked all day on Mondays when I was a kid and would not come home until after I was asleep.  She said everybody needed a day to reflect so Mondays were my day.  

My job is in the laundry room.  I was supposed to report there after breakfast, but a female approached me and instructed me to follow her.  She led me into the landlord’s office and he instructed me to take a seat.  He told me something unusual had happened.  I began thinking about what I possibly could have done wrong, but no big incident came to mind.  I was told the detectives who had been working with the police chief on my case had withheld vital evidence that would prove my innocence in court because they needed to reach certain quotas.  I sat in shock and tears started streaming down my face.  Aside from my mother’s funeral, I have never remembered crying.  I gave up the thought of being able to leave this place after my second court appeal failed.  I accepted the idea that this would be my home for life.

My conviction was overturned.  I am a free man.  I gathered my belongings and was lead into a room where I stripped my clothes and put on the outfit I wore here 11 years ago.  I walked out the door knowing I would never return to prison again.