PAST LIFE DIARY 2 - Story 412 - Locker boy (Jeremy)

LOCKER BOY (Jeremy)

I see a wooden desk in the middle of a rather dark room. I'm scared, cautiously walking towards the desk, glancing to my left. I'm in my late teens. I'm here to take some papers from the desk drawer, intent on signing it on my brother's behalf. I don't even wanna think what kind of trouble he'd be in if I didn't do this for him. It doesn't matter to them that he's not clever. They think he's a crook, a master mind. He did nothing wrong, just played with a dog, someone's household pet. The dog was on the porch, and Jason approached it to play with it. A man came out, threatening him with a rifle. Jason put up his hands and said: "No harm." A couple of police cars arrived, and Jason ran away. They initially lost him cause they weren't sure who they were supposed to be chasing. They asked the guy about what happened. His son, upon encountering Jason in front of the house, ran away to his aunt's place, and called home from there, telling his father that there's a man outside the house. The boy's father must have gotten the wrong impression, perhaps thinking Jason was a child molester. The police interrogated Jason, but I know he can't verbally defend himself, consequently leaving them to interpret things any way they see fit. We don't have money for an attorney, let alone a good one. Now, here I am. Mama made me apply for a temporary position as a locker boy, - technically, a night guard – in this place, replacing my cousin who's supposedly on a leave of absence. She put me up to the task of finding the paper that contains the police report in order for me to add something to Jason's written statement, assuming it's dangerously inadequate as it is. Jason and I have the same handwriting. Basically, I'm to write a testimony on his behalf. Just a few lines would be better than the police interpreting his silence to mean that he has something to hide. I was thinking of writing that the dog was threatening Jason, and that he was scared to move. I don't know what to do or where to look, but I hope I don't have to work here for more than three days cause this place creeps me out, being here on my own in the dark. I try to calm my nerves, telling myself there ain't nobody here. The desk drawers are locked. I panic. Now what? Is Jason going to jail? At this notion, I instantly decide to visit him every day. But no - there has to be a better way! I know how to open things that won't open; my dad taught me. It's a matter of finding a weak spot in the panel and prying your way in with a hook or a rod. I got all night! Well, technically, I have until midnight when the other guard takes over from me, but it's only some time past seven or eight now. Suddenly, I feel brave and cunning. Ain't no brother of mine going to jail! I'll do whatever it takes! But wait… It occurs to me that I could also try to manipulate the keyhole. That doesn't seem to work, though I can feel the unevenness inside of the hole. I then move my left hand under the bottom drawer, and pat the wooden panel, trying to force it upwards. This maneuver not proving to be efficient enough, I then knock it with my fist, and finally with my elbow. No, if I break this, they're gonna look at me as the first suspect. Do I just go back home and tell mama? I only have about a week here to try and get my hands on the paper. I go and sit on the ground for a while with my back against the wall, trying to come up with inspiration on what to do.

Q: What is on this paper? And how did you know where to look for it?

Jeremy: Why, we was here (my mom and I) under the pretense of getting some papers with my school grades approved so I could go to college. She told the middle-aged man she wanted me to do better than "his brother", thus fishing for clues about Jason's case. The man was rather complacent, and said he had "some knowledge" about the case. In fact, he seemed almost proud to admit that he was in possession of the file, gesturing - albeit probably unconsciously - at the drawers of his desk. Mama seemed sure the papers were in there. Apparently having fallen asleep, I wake up with a start. I get up abruptly and take a deep breath. I see people and lights from the window. Oh, this can't be good! As the locker boy, I'm not even supposed to be inside this office. I listen and try to hear what is being said. I hear some names and the word "captain". I sneak out of the office and stand by the window of the outer hall, acting my part as the person that's guarding the place. The group of about 4-5 men enter the building. One guy, a young fella, puts up his hand at me. They head for the office. Meanwhile, I keep thinking. I don't know what to do, but I reckon with a religious type of trust that this situation is way too suspenseful to have a poor ending. Feigning innocent concern, I ask if something's the matter. One guy turns towards me, grins and puts a hand on my arm as if to say: You stay here, son. They sneak around in the office, and find what they're looking for: some bottles of liquor and beer. Then they leave, the same young guy looking at me and putting his finger over his lips in a silent order not to tell anyone. Should I... report this? Are these guys in charge of this place or not? Well, let's not get distracted from why I'm here! In fact, since they were here… I can claim that one of them - no, two of them! - broke open the desk… looking for liquor and cigarettes, and that they were drunk - which they were. I get a better idea now, namely, to insert the pin through the upper slit, then moving the pin around to loosen the drawer. In fact, if I come back tomorrow, I can fix the dent with some putty and shine. If they ever discover that it has been tampered with, they won't know when it happened or by whom.

I finally manage to open the drawer. It's unstable now. The paper I'm looking for is not here - just unimportant stuff like newspaper clippings of crossword puzzles with notes and numbers scribbled on the sides. The guy must have taken it home with him or, knowing that I might try to find it, hid it somewhere else. I then try the lower drawer. Oh, my God… I can't believe it when I read my brother's name. It's all here. Not much mention of anything more than "menace" from a "young negro male, aged 21" - he's older, in fact. It says they talked to his aunt who was "no help". She denied to know of his whereabouts. The single paper has barely been filled in. I don't believe it would be smart to write on it; it would be too obvious. My mother must have thought they let him give a written statement. Knowing Jason, it would probably be very short. But there's not even a single word written by him, only his signature. Fortunately, the paper being as it is now, he didn't sign to having done anything in particular. I decide to write a letter of my own, pleading on his behalf to please leave my brother alone cause he doesn't mean any harm and just likes dogs, like a little boy.

I'm at home now, starting with the letter. I write that I know my brother looks big, but that he's a tiny man with little words. I tell them that his mother died when he was young, and that he has a sister (Lisbeth) who can speak on his behalf. She has a way with him, asking the right questions to get him to talk. I tell them Jason is a hard worker and a good citizen, that he just liked the dog and was greeting the animal. I argue that there is nothing more to look for cause there is not a whole lot in that big head of his. I end with: Sincerely, his loving brother Jeremiah.

I bring the letter into the office of the man, and hand it over, crying. "Sorry, sir" I say, "This is for my brother. Please don't make him go to jail." He takes the letter, studying its appearance rather than reading - it's written on both sides of a page which is obviously torn from a spiral notebook. "Jeremy..." he starts, his voice shaky. "Please… sit" he says, gesturing at a chair. I sit at the edge of the metal wire chair. Another guy enters the room. He's tall and robust, seems about 35-40 years old, and is wearing a navy-blue uniform. "This is Jeremy" the older man says to him. The guy casts a quick glance at me, ignoring me further, then puts his hands on the desk, bending over a bit towards the older man, talking quietly. The older man gestures in my direction, asking him if he would take me to the police station. He looks up, a big happy smile appearing on his face, and says: "Why, I'd be glad to! Come on, little fella!" Not sure what to do with the letter, I look at the older man by the desk. He hands it back to me. I leave the building with the eager police officer who seems to think I'm just some kid who wants to see the police station in order to write a school essay or newspaper article. Before getting in the car, I stop and say: "Have you heard about my brother? - Jason?" He looks like he suddenly can't remember what day it is. "Jay… son?" he says. He tells me to sit over there on the bench, and goes back into the building. Maybe I ought to leave. But no, mama wouldn't want me to be a coward. The guy comes back immediately with a couple of other guys, pointing at me angrily, apparently thinking these two coworkers of his put me up to what he perceives to be a prank. Turns out, as I hear one of the guys call him by his name, the police officer so happens to be also called Jason. "Sir!" I say, getting up and walking towards the three men in uniform. I hand him my letter. "What's this?" he says, angrily. He rips it open, rubs his nose, and reads part of the letter, then tosses it at the guy standing closest to him, and says: "I ain't got time for this!" He then promptly leaves, his temper apparently still increasing. I give it all I got now. I talk and talk and talk, communicating whatever I was trying to convey in the letter. The two guys reassure me that, if my brother's case was of any importance, they would have been informed about it. As it is, this is probably another case for the bin. "Nothing to be worried about, kid" one of them says, putting his hand on my shoulder. They turn around and wave goodbye. I feel real lonely now, standing here with my letter. And Jason won't even give a damn what I tried to do for him. I wish he wasn't my responsibility. I feel really sad now, but I'll go home and tell mama that they didn't even care.

I pretend my father is still around (i.e. alive), and tell him about what I did. He listens. Nobody else listens cause they're all too busy. I did that night shift five times, and I will never do a night job again! My stomach is all tied in a knot from it, and now I have to eat oatmeal and apples all week! Damn you, Jason, you oblivious farm boy! He's supposed to be my older brother, not the other way around!