We All Scream For Ice Cream

                                                By Jeff Baker

                      Tommy had lost track of how many boards he’d sawed in the last four hours. He was just glad he could take his shirt off on this job. Hell, he was just glad he had this job. He picked the shirt off the stool and wiped his face with it. This place needed more ventilation. But it was better than the machine shop in prison. And it was better than having no job and being made to police the yard for cigarette butts at the work-release place.

            He resumed sawing and started trying to think about how much money he’d made in the three weeks he’d worked here. Wasn’t sure what percentage work-release took out for expenses and he hadn’t had to spend anything except for lunches and bus fare. He wouldn’t even get the bulk of it until he made parole. Maybe about three, four months from now. Maybe in time for Thanksgiving.

            Tommy placed the sawed sections into the box and glanced at the saw. He grinned. No way they would have let him near one of these behind prison walls. He looked over at the window. Bright sun, blue sky. Be nice to be out there on a day like this. But this wasn’t a bad job to have, even temporarily. Maybe when he made parole he could relocate here and keep working at it. He stretched for a minute. It was getting close to quitting time. He’d have enough time to clean up a little and head for where he picked up his bus. He grinned to himself. There was a little ice cream shop on that corner. It probably wouldn’t blow his budget to stop in quick and get an ice cream cone. He hadn’t had one in a long time.

            It would be worth it. A taste of home.

                                    —end—