(Please excuse any grammatical errors. All short stories by Solovino Reyes are in development and will be edited throughout the year.)

It is 1992…..

The sun comes up on East Los just like anywhere else in the world. The birds make their noises and the clouds, if any, proceed in their idle manner.

You get the morning din from traffic and the caustic sound of engines trying to start in the cold air of winter. Visceral shrieks, like a sick man trying to discharge the phlegm out of his chest. A lot of old cars around here are trying to get their motors turning at this hour.

An old man who collects plastic and aluminum for cash is investigating trash cans without any consideration of a sleeping homeowner.

Of course, you have the crow of roosters. Fucken roosters.

As the sky clears up the Mexicans come out to play, work or study. Some of them had a long night and just sleep in from the cruda.

The vendors start their song, tahhhhh!-mahhhhhhh!-les!, champuhhh!-rahhh!-dohhh!

Just like everywhere else. Right.

Tamales, – Solivino thought, – Hmmmm. I wish I had one right now.

This morning…well, this morning is different for him. It’s 5am and he’s not out at this place where his mind has taken him. He’s not holding any food in his hand or inhaling in any pleasurable odors of street vendors. Far from it.

He’s sitting on a metal bunk bed in Men’s Central Jail waiting to hear his name called. Should be any second now.

He’s wearing a green jumper and jail house slippers. He turned away for a moment from his sneakers and never saw who took them. Even if he had, he would’ve justified letting them go because he was on his way home soon. He couldn’t imagine how people could get so comfortable in there. Jail sucks in ways a man can’t explain without putting you through the actual experience.

He’s 19 and this is his first time behind bars.

He looked around at his company and thought, – I don’t ever want to be near this place again.

You see he got pulled over for riding his bike through a red light; bike, as in bicycle, not a Harley – ain’t that a bitch. One cop wrote the ticket while the other one laughed. Then they noticed his a bench warrant for a jaywalking ticket he got the year before.

Fuck! 19 years old, never had a car and already in jail for walking and riding a bike. I don’t belong here.

“Reyes, 342…..!”

“Here,” he whispered and waved his arm to make sure he was spotted.

The sound of metal gears banging reverberated through the building and created spirals of sensation in his bones. His eyes widened and he salivated to the anticipated taste of freedom.