Page 10 of Thick

“Who be?’

“Pee Bee. It’s an acronym, kind of. The letter P and the letter B. It stands for Pretty Boy. One of the fellas I ride with is 6’-8” tall, and he’s pretty, so we called him Pretty Boy. Pee Bee for short. Bones’ character is based on him.”

“Is Pee Bee funny?”

“He’s pretty quick-witted, yeah.”

“I can’t wait to finish it.” She rubbed her hands together and grinned. “Three o’clock can’t come fast enough.”

“You should stop with that one and get some sleep,” I said jokingly.

“I will.” She glanced down the cellblock and then looked at me. “Okay, I better go.”

She pushed the cart past my window. Before I turned around, she stepped in front of my window again.

“Couldn’t you write it from your cell? The last book? With a pencil and paper? If you tell me what to do, I’ll help you get it to an editor or whatever.”

I found the thought of writing a novel on a notepad with a golf pencil unnerving. I was going to have an inordinate amount of spare time, but not all of it was going to be spent in the facility I was housed in. More than likely, I’d be shipped out in less than two more months. Her offer to help would mean I’d have to complete the hand-written manuscript in a matter of four weeks or so. A real-world possibility from my desk at home, but I had my doubts I’d be able to produce anything remarkable from my prison cell.

“I appreciate the offer. I’ll think about it.” I stepped away from the door and chuckled. “After you read a few more of those rags, you might not want to continue.”

“I doubt that’s the case,” she said. “You’re a very talented writer.”

I clenched my teeth and gave a nod, hoping to hide the pride that was filling me. “Thank you.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “That’s it. I’m leaving now. For real.”

I watched as she disappeared from my field of vision. After hearing two more bean slots slam open, I flushed the oatmeal down my toilet, rinsed the bowl in the sink, and peeled one of the eggs. While I nibbled at the egg and sipped my tepid coffee, I considered how much my life had changed in the last six weeks.

I needed to embrace my incarceration, but it wasn’t coming easily. Having been locked up once before gave me an insider’s look at what was to come, and there wasn’t anything about it that I found appealing.

Writing novels with a pencil and a scratch pad could very well be my answer. I finished my egg, set the other aside for later, and grabbed my notepad. Beneath the tip of my pencil, the story began to come to life.

Becker Wallace was the next character in line for a book. When he was eighteen, his parents died in a car crash. An only child, he turned to the MC for comfort, guidance, and a sense of belonging.

He found that – and more – within the ranks of the club. A humble man with a thirst for simply living life, Becker adhered to an old-school philosophy that had been taught by his father, who was forty-nine years his senior.

I wrote a chapter, and then another. With aching fingers, I continued to scribble my thoughts onto the paper pad. Soon, the morning vanished. Before I knew it, a key turning my cell door’s lock caused me to divert my attention toward the metallic sound.

Much to my surprise, the bean slot didn’t open. The door did. Wearing a look of contention, Perry stood outside my cell door.

“Grab your shit,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Grab all your shit, Reynolds,” he barked. “You’re leaving.”

I was sure he’d devised a way to send me to the SHU. More than likely based on one of the other inmates claims that I’d committed an act of extortion for forcing them to give me their hard-boiled eggs in trade for protection on the yard.

“Your wife going to meet me up in the SHU? Give me a handy through the bean slot? Tell me she’s got soft hands. I love a soft hand stroking my cock, as long as it’s not mine.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “Prosecution dropped their charges. You’re going home.”

My heart faltered. “Excuse me?”

“Prosecution dropped their charges. Bad evidence or something. Your attorney’s in the cage, and he’ll explain everything on your way out.” He motioned toward my notepad. “Grab your shit.”

“You’re serious?”