I stared at the street sign, waiting for the little man to illuminate so that I could cross. “Hey! You know where the parole office is?” I faced a woman, slightly shorter than me, slightly hipster, slightly street. I pointed straight ahead.
“One block straight, then take a left at the light. It’ll be on your left.”
“It’s in the same building as the jail?”
“I think so. I think I’ve seen the signs for it.”
“Yeah. That’s where I thought it was. I left my papers at home.”
The little man shone white. We crossed the street together, her slightly in front of me. She turned around abruptly.
“You have much experience with parole?”
I shook my head. “No. None.”
“I was just wondering – do you think they’ll search me?”
“They don’t search you, but to enter the building, you walk through a metal detector and they search your bag.”
She immediately clutched her messenger bag tighter and began looking around nervously.
“Damn!” she muttered as she scurried away, not in the direction of the courthouse.
Note to self: Ditch the contraband before meeting parole officer.