Chapter Forty-Five

Brent and Joe found spaces on the bench as the cell door clanged shut behind them. The cell was a little cleaner now, having been hosed down while they were gone. Brent couldn't sit still. "Man, that was just too weird."

"What was?"

"Court. The judge. You didn't think it was strange we only got charged with trespassing?"

"Suits me," Joe said with a shrug, leaning back against the wall.

"Yeah, but what about breaking and entering? Destruction of property?"

"They didn't charge us with those. You want to go back there and argue about it?"

"Well, no."

"Then shut up." Joe closed his eyes. "Unlike you, I wasn't able to sleep when we first got here."

Brent looked around, still agitated. "Maybe since the door frame was so obviously rotted..."

"Maybe."

"Or maybe the owner just didn't want to press charges."

"Perhaps."

"Do you think it's possible--"

Joe opened his eyes. "I think just about anything is possible at this point. Even you letting me get some sleep."

"So you're not the least bit curious?"

"Nope." Joe closed his eyes again. "They charged me with trespassing, I pled no contest, judge fined me $500 and I put it on MasterCard. Once they've taken their time about validating everything, they'll let me out, probably sometime this evening. That's all I need to know." He fidgeted a little, trying to find the best spot for his head against the wall. "Ought to be enough for you, too. Take a nap. Nothing else to do around here."

Brent wadded his coat behind his head and tried to do as he was told, but the sounds of other men stirring, getting up to urinate, and making the occasional monosyllabic comment to each other made his eyes flicker open every few minutes. Finally the distant rumbling of the food cart gave him an excuse to sit up. "Wake up," he said, shaking Joe's shoulder. "They're bringing lunch."

Joe opened his eyes. "I don't know why you're so interested. It won't be any better than breakfast."

"Yeah, but I think I'd eat just about anything at this point," Brent said, getting to his feet.

Both men got in line. This time the guard was passing out sandwiches in plastic bags and a red beverage in little paper cups. Brent got his, sat down on the bench and examined the sandwich with dismay. "Plain processed cheese on white bread? They call this food?"

"I thought you were hungry enough to eat anything.”

"I may have been wrong." He sniffed at the cup of red liquid. "And what's this? Kool-Aid?"

"I think so." Joe took a sip. "It'll do."

Brent pondered his sandwich again. "What time do you think they'll let us out?"

"Probably around four or five."

Brent nodded. "I can wait that long."

"We won't have a ride," Joe reminded him. "We'll have to call a tow truck to go out there with us and get the truck out of the ditch before we can do anything. And there's no guarantee the truck won't need to go to the shop before we can drive it."

Brent sullenly took a bite of the sandwich.

Joe laughed at the expression on his face. "You'd think someone was trying to poison you."

"It sure tastes like it."

"Welcome to how the other half lives. There are people who eat like this every day."

Brent didn't answer, and the two men finished their lunch in silence. Then Brent adjusted his coat, trying to find a suitable position for a nap, but couldn't get comfortable.

"What's the matter?" Joe finally asked.

"Just this damn sweater. It shrunk after getting wet, and it feels like a straightjacket."

"Wasn't bothering you last night."

"Nothing bothered me last night."

"Take it off."

"Maybe I will." Brent pulled the sweater off and examined it regretfully. "Too bad." He heaved a sigh and wrapped himself in his coat. "That was a nice sweater." A few minutes later he appeared to be sleeping, leaning back against the wall, his long legs sprawled out in front of him.

Joe tried to sleep too, but couldn't manage it. He glanced around the room from time to time, but saw nothing in the sleeping drunks and sullen petty offenders to hold his interest. As the minutes passed however, his gaze returned to the teenager huddled in the corner, hugging his legs tightly to his chest. From time to time he rubbed his bare arms. Joe frowned and fingered his own warm jacket. Then his glance fell on Brent's abandoned sweater. He got to his feet, picked it up and went over to where the boy was sitting. "Kinda cold in here."

The boy looked up. His expression of vague distrust softened a bit for the man who had given him breakfast earlier. "Yeah."

Joe tossed the sweater at him. "I thought this might fit you. My friend can't wear it any more."

The boy looked over to where Brent was now sitting up, watching the transaction.

"You sure?"

"If you want it. I don't care. We can throw it in the trash."

The boy examined the sweater, stroking the damaged but still-soft wool. Then he pulled it over his head and fished around for the arms. He tugged it into place, and it was a perfect fit. "I bet I look like a preppy now."

"Nothing wrong with that," Joe shrugged. "Life seems to be a little easier for folks who play by the rules. Maybe you'll fool someone."

The boy darted a glance at Brent. "You sure he doesn't mind?"

"If he does, he'll get over it."

"He a friend of yours?"

Joe hesitated. "God help me, but I think he is."

Brent was watching when Joe returned to the bench and sat down. "What'd you do that for?"

"Kid seemed to need it. It sucks to be that young and in jail. Sucks even more if you're cold. I hope you don't mind. I assumed you didn't want that sweater any more."

"What was I going to do with it? I probably would've just thrown it away. It never occurred to me to give it to someone who needed it." He looked a little abashed. "I'm glad it occurred to you."

They sat in silence for several minutes. "The kid asked if you were my friend," Joe finally said.

"Yeah?"

Joe looked away. "I told him yes."

For a long time Brent said nothing. There was time for a guard to walk past the cell, shoes clomping on the concrete, time for a man on the other side of the room to stand up, stretch his arms overhead and yawn. There was even time for the derelict near Brent's feet to roll over and begin snoring. Finally Brent said quietly, "If he'd asked me that question, I would've told him the same thing."