An electrician, a felon, a lawyer, and a secretary were crammed in a booth, gobbling chips and salsa.

Nope, this isn’t a joke. You’re probably wondering what they all have in common. I ask myself the same thing. The electrician and the felon had grown up together, and we might as well say they were the best of friends, even though the felon had stolen his identity. That was sometime back, and not what he’d gone to prison for. The lawyer was the felon’s girlfriend. You probably thought I was gonna say lawyer, didn’t you? Because that would make a sight more sense. But life doesn’t make sense, don’t you know anything by now? The secretary was just along for the ride, wondering what she’d married into most of the time. She would wonder for the rest of her life.

The felon had been free for one whole day. He’d spent some time re-adapting to “normal” life in a sort of halfway house in Nashville but today he was officially “out”. And celebrating by eating the food of his people. Just kidding. He was a white guy.

The electrician was pointing out the finer points of manners, becoming agitated when the felon rushed off to the head before even ordering his drink. You would think the lawyer would have schooled him, but she probably had her hands full. She didn’t look like much, anyway, in the secretary’s estimation. Bad teeth, cheap purse, tacky shoes, trashy manicure. Nothing about her was polished. But the secretary had pretty strict standards. What kind of lawyer dated a felon, anyway?

It was to be a night of re-acquaintance, and a mild celebration, too. Nothing was going to get out of hand. We were gonna eat some chicken and rice and tell old war stories. That was the plan.

But the best laid plans…

It started innocently enough, the electrician asking the felon what his plans were for work. The felon was more concerned with transportation. He was also looking at an abnormally wide picture for somebody that was required to have a very small life for awhile, remaining on probation for at least two years. The electrician reminded him to be practical. Before you can have a farm, you need a job. The felon found this demeaning. Squashed dreams and all that.

It doesn’t take much tequila to turn a convict into a raging maniac. All he’d had in the five years of his incarceration was some sort of lethal home brew and evidently it just rented space. The conversation turned ugly quick, with accusations and, shall we say, recommendations on how to reenter life out of the big house. Namely, don’t down half a pitcher of margaritas while everyone else is still on their first glass. And it only went downhill from there. The lawyer was shocked into silence, the secretary trying to retain a sense of placidness; she knew all along this was going to happen. Nothing good ever comes from eating supper with a convict. And the telling of old times only led to hurt feelings of neglect and why he couldn’t be given “one more chance”. Glory days aren’t always so glorious when they indicate precisely where your went wrong the first five times. When they show you exactly when you had the opportunity to change your path. When you think again how much you’ve missed. It’s chance and luck that any of us are here, but some choices will get you to the ever after quicker than a hiccup.

And so it went, tempers flaring, salt shaker overturned (who even uses salt in a Mexican restaurant???), until at last the waitress brought the checks. It was feeling like a Chris Ledoux song. The secretary kept her hand on her husband’s leg, a gentle reminder that this wasn’t their concern, they were leaving, and that he had tried. Best to walk away. Best to let his life turn out the way it would: a spiral right back down to where he came from, one bad decision leading to another. She didn’t want him being swept away with him. And she knew that the temptation was stronger than he was willing to admit to himself. He had a knack for not looking the truth in the eye.

They shook hands in the parking lot and the lawyer promised to do her best to keep him on the straight and narrow path. None of them were convinced. But it wouldn’t matter. In three years, nothing would be the same. One would be at death’s door thanks to methamphetamine. One would vanish into obscurity. One would be a Union laborer. And one would be shattered and glued back together and more guarded than ever.