“Sunny. Hot.”
“Shocking.” He offers me a wry smile.
Despite my mood, I can’t help but chuckle. It’s always one or the other in the desert. A lot of the time, it’s both, and in July, it’s oppressively so. But the eternal sunshine is the main reason we moved to Arizona from North Carolina after my mother died. It’s a natural mood-booster, my father says, and he has always worried about me inheriting her depression. “I had to change in the parking lot.” The dented blue shitbox that I drive has never had working air-conditioning, so I pulled my T-shirt and jeans on over my shorts and tank top. “Figure I’ll leave these clothes in the car for Saturdays. It’ll be like my prison uniform.”
He makes a sound. “Good call. Maybe bring a paper bag to wear over your head too.”
“Dad.”
“Trust me, I’ve heard the way the men in here talk about women, especially pretty young women like you…” His eyes narrow on a guy three tables over whose dark eyes flitter curiously to us—to me—while a ready-to-burst pregnant woman sitting across from him babbles away. “I don’t want anyone giving you grief when you come visit me.”
“Nobody is going to give me grief.” Except that guard, Parker, but there’s no way I’m telling my dad about him. “And if anyone says anything, ignore it. They’re just words.”
He harrumphs. “How’s the new place?”
I avert my gaze, dragging my fingertip across the table in tiny circles. “Fine.”
He sighs. “That bad?”
“It’s… lacking charm,” I admit. Anyone who has lived in Phoenix for long enough knows which areas of the city to avoid, and when my dad’s conviction was passed and we accepted the fact that I’d need to downgrade from the two-bedroom apartment we were sharing—a downgrade from the house we had before that—we started looking for cheap one-bedrooms closer to work and campus. We found one. A relatively clean, quiet twelve-unit complex with decent management and minimal needles littering the parking lot. A diamond in the rough, my dad called it.
Turns out it’s more like a diamond in Mordor.
The couple two doors down—Bob and Rita—fight like they’re sworn enemies. I’ve watched her launch glass from their fourth-storey balcony, aiming for his head as he runs to his car. The cops have been there twice that I know of. It’s only a matter of time before an ambulance is wheeling someone out—my bet is it’s Bob.
And then there’s my next-door-neighbor, Glen, a hairy-chested guy who I hear every morning through the thin walls masturbating to the tune of my 7:00 a.m. alarm and who likes to knock on my door in the middle of the night, bleary-eyed and wearing nothing but his boxers. He always asks for Doritos. I tell him I don’t buy Doritos—I hate Doritos—but he keeps coming back. I’m beginning to think Doritos is code for something else.
I don’t open the door for him anymore.
And I’m not telling my father any of this. He has enough to worry about in here.
The guards come around, tapping several inmates on the shoulder to let them know that their time is up. That earns countless pained expressions from both prisoners and visitors alike. My dad and I watch as people embrace, some adhering to the rules while others hold on until they get a bark of warning.
That’ll be us before long, and then it’ll be another week before I make the hourlong drive up here.
My heart sinks. “So… what’s your cellmate like?”
Dad smirks. “His name is Crazy Bob. And yes, they call him Crazy Bob to his face. Haven’t asked what he’s in for, and I don’t think I wanna know. He likes the violin and NASCAR. Hasn’t tried to shank or rape me in my sleep yet.”
I frown my disapproval for the poor joke. “The violin and NASCAR. That’s an odd combination, right?”
“Yeah. You could say that,” my dad agrees. “But Crazy Bob is odd. He seems all right so far. Been in here over ten years now. Knows everything about everything. He’s been giving me the lay of the land, so to speak. Where the minefields are, so I can avoid ’em.”
“That’s good. And the food?”
“The peas are mushy, the potatoes are grainy, and I’ve fixed tires that had more give than the meat they served last night.” He chuckles. “So, kind of like your cooking. In fact, did you take a job in the kitchen that I don’t know about?”
“Har. Har. Har.” I roll my eyes. Leave it to my dad to try to make jokes in terrible circumstances. But he’s always had a natural ability to defuse any tense situation.