Red Banner

Chapter One

D.C. adjusted his collar and swiped his hair a few times in a failed attempt to straighten it. He was much more comfortable in a 'wife-beater' tank top than the golf shirt he had borrowed from his brother. Even his wife-beater covered most of the white supremacist tattoos he'd earned in prison, although both of his arms were sleeved. D.C. wasn't comfortable in a long-sleeved button up shirt. A suit was completely out of the question. D.C. didn't even know anyone who had a suit, let alone own one himself. Today he was about as "dressed up" as he was going to get.

As he approached the glass door of the service station he wiped his palms on the legs of his newly washed and pressed denim jeans. He glanced over his shoulder toward his car parked next to a nearby meter. D.C. fumbled through his pocket, feeling the two dimes and three pennies that remained after spending his last quarter on the meter.

"Hopefully this interview don't last more than 15 minutes or I'm fucked if that meter cop swings through here," he thought.

The sign in the window read "Help Wanted: Apply Inside." Just looking at it made D.C. feel nauseous. The idea of someone else eyeballing him up and down and judging him got his back up. The last time someone did that to him D.C. wound up in a fight that landed him in jail for several days before he was released. The District Attorney's office declined to file charges because the arresting officer had failed to submit the crime report in time. He got out of that jam but this was a whole new situation.

D.C. shook his head at the thought of lowering himself to apply for a job with some fat, lame shop manager. He was only here because his Probation officer demanded it.

"I don't want no one putting labels on me for how I look or how I talk," he would tell himself, "like they're better than me. Fuck them! Who do they think they are, anyway?" D.C.'s blood pressure was already rising as his hand grabbed the door handle. He paused for a moment and considered walking back to his car and leaving. Then he thought about his probation officer's smug face as he signed the order to return D.C. to jail for a 10 day "Flash incarceration." One side of his mouth drew up in a smirk. Doing 10 days in jail was a cinch compared to this crap.

Suddenly D.C. heard his mom's voice in his head. "Are you kidding me, DC?" she said, calling him by his nickname. "You got NO job, you got NO friends that're worth a shit, and you sure as hell ain't got NO future!" Her words had lost their sting years ago but he still hated the feeling that he disappointed her. If he at least applied for this job, even though he was sure he wouldn't get it, he could at least tell her "I tried."

As D.C. walked through the doorway the electronic chime alerted the staff of his presence. D.C. quickly looked around the open room. He noticed a receptionist sitting on the other side of the counter, a door leading to some restrooms, and another door leading into the maintenance bay. "No guards," he thought to himself as he looked back to the receptionist.

"Can I help you?" she said with a smile, still looking down at her keyboard. As she glanced up he expression briefly changed to one of disapproval. The corners of her mouth were pulled downward as she looked from his head down the length of his shirt and to his arms. D.C.'s jaw clenched and his face felt warm.

"I'm here about the job."

"You are?" she asked.

"Yes, bitch, did I stutter?" he thought. D.C. shook his head. "Every time," he told himself. "It never fails."

"Name?" she asked, eyeing the tattoos on his neck.

"Dylan Cody Hunter," he replied, trying to sound as dignified and professional as he could.

"I'll let the manager know you're here." The receptionist stood and walked into the garage. Not knowing if he should have a seat or remain standing, he stayed at the counter. He looked around the room. He spotted a coffee maker and water bottle, along with a single security camera in the corner of the room, near the ceiling.

After some time, the receptionist returned to the room, followed by a man in his fifties with a receding hairline, wearing a grease- and oil-stained blue uniform.

"Hi, I'm Chuck Thompson. I'm the Day Manager," he said, extending his right hand to D.C.. D.C. looked down at the man's dirty hand before him. He hesitated for an awkward moment before extending his own hand to shake.

"I looked at your application, Mr. Hunter..."

"Call me D.C.," he interrupted.

"All right, D.C.," the man said uncomfortably. He pulled out a piece of paper from behind the counter. D.C. recognized it as the application he turned in the day before. "I had just a couple of questions for you..."

"Are we going to sit down or just do this right here?" D.C. eyed the manager, with no attempt to conceal his frustration.

"Right here is fine," Chuck said slowly. "Look, you seem to have a lot of experience with cars."

"Yes, I do. My dad taught me a lot and I spent time working on cars in school and even ran the auto shop in..." he stopped in mid-sentence.

"In what?" Chuck asked.

"In... another town," D.C. finally responded, as a smirk crawled onto his face.

"Well, I don't see that listed in your work experience, Mister Hun..." Chuck paused. "DC," he corrected himself. "In fact, I don't see any real employment at all for the last five years. Nothing relevant to this position, at any rate." D.C. was getting uncomfortable but felt he might still be able to bullshit his way through the interview, as long as he didn't ask about...

"And what about convictions?" Chuck asked. "The question, 'Have you ever been convicted of a felony?' was left blank."

"Yeah." That was all D.C. could think to say.

"Yeah what, DC?" Chuck retorted. "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" Chuck tapped the counter with his pen. The sound echoed in D.C.'s head. His heart started beating faster. Images of large concrete walls, prison cells, and men in orange uniforms fighting on the exercise yard flashed through his mind. He would have to say something. Chuck continued to look at him expectantly.

"Yeah, I've been convicted of a felony," D.C. said through clenched teeth.

"Well, I figured as much," Chuck said, eyeing the tattoos on D.C.'s arms and neck. "Unfortunately, we won't be able to hire you without..."

"Fuck you!" D.C. exclaimed, flipping Chuck the finger as he spun around and made his way to the door.

Chuck was tearing the application in half by the time the electronic door chime sounded again.

"What a shame. With an attitude like that" he said to the receptionist, "he's going to have a hard time finding work.

D.C. pulled his keys out of his pocket. "Oh, shit. Oh, no, no, NO!" D.C. began running toward his car, which was now attached to the back of a tow truck. A meter officer stood nearby, completing a citation. As D.C. got to the car the tow truck driving was climbing into the truck.

"What the hell? I was only in there for like ten minutes!" D.C. screamed. "This is bullshit!"

"It's not the meter, sir," the officer said, handing D.C. a copy of the newly written citation. "It's the seven unpaid citations, including your car registration being seven months past due."

"You can't do this!" D.C. pleaded. The officer looked at him and lowered her sunglasses so he could see her eyes.

"I just did," she said coldly. "The number for the impound is on the form." D.C. snatched the citation out of her hand, muttering profanities under his breath. He knew the car itself wasn't even worth what it would cost him to get it out of impound.

"Have a nice day," the officer said, with mock pleasantry.