Living Right on Wrong Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

other state, regional, and local papers. He picked up a copy of the Courier-Journal , hoping that Stinson would be able to decode his buddy talk is over signal. It didn’t work.
    â€œYou probably get better stock market info from the Wall Street Journal , big shot,” Stinson said.
    Delvin heard him, but offered no response. His eyes did a quick read of the articles on the upcoming Juneteenth observances and the Louisville arrest statistics per capita, but halted on a small notice in the Real Estate Transfers:

    Joseph B. & Monica Wright to Nathan & Edwina Robinson, 4213 N. Lakespur Dr., June 2, $565,950.

    He reread that section of the paper like the Cliff notes for an SAT exam question. His muscles contracted. Internal eruptions threw all his body functions off-base. Job Wright had sold his home for a fresh start; there Delvin was, standing still and going nowhere fast. His conscience wanted Job Wright dead. Delvin slowly and methodically ripped the newspaper to pieces, until they were smaller than if they’d been run through an electric shredder. He swept them off the table onto the floor.
    â€œStorm,” a guard said, pounding his baton into his massive fists, “you better have that cleaned up before you leave. Do it!”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you, Storm? Are you trying to go back in the hole? You’ll be in solitude for a month next time. These guards are crazy, man. Calm down,” Stinson said.
    Delvin looked around and saw that a few more guards and some nosy inmates had congregated in the library. He began placing the scraps in the garbage.
    Stinson bent down beside Delvin and helped to gather up the scraps. He whispered, “Don’t let the Ashland fool you. Minimum security doesn’t mean they’ve got their backs turned. They’d find your silver-haired butt in these Kentucky hills blindfolded.”
    â€œNobody’s thinking about escape.”
    Stinson brushed his fingertips on his forehead. “I know what your problem is. It’s coming to me,” he said, as if he was clairvoyant.
    Delvin rose out of his seat, determined not to be disturbed any further. What he imagined was far from anything they could speculate .
    Delvin sat in his cell, realizing that he had spent more time in solitary than in his personal space. For his library exploit a few hours ago, he was ordered to the thirty-day task of dishwashing duty in hopes that he would, according to the warden, “Learn to do positive things with those bones and muscles.”
    He sat on his bunk, an iron object welded to the wall with a generic mattress less than three inches thick, with his head buried in his hands. Delvin screened out the random hollering that rung out into the dead space of the three-story cell block. He garnered more hostility toward Job and the past events that had landed him in his present situation.
    He stood, kicked the bowl of his stainless steel toilet-paper holder-sink combo, and walked over to the metallic square on the wall that posed as a mirror. Delvin peered into it. Maybe he would see that he was dreaming or that his release had been sped up by several days or years.
    His tan was gone and his chiseled facial features had withered. He needed an exfoliating treatment. His Clark Gable mustache was in need of a clipping, and his salt-and pepper hair warranted a trim. All forms of enjoyment were gone. No Porsche, Victorian home, designer clothes, or blushing women begging his bidding.
    Reality was taking its hold, as though the mirror became an analyst, telling Delvin that his own actions had reduced him to this dilemma. But he refused to be swayed. As he looked back on particular incidents, all of the blame couldn’t be placed on him ...
    He couldn’t help but ask himself how Job was making out.
    â€œMaybe next time you should read something that won’t make you want to rip it up. Try this,” said the voice at the doorway of his cell.
    Delvin looked