Chapter Text
“I’m sorry, we just don’t think you’re… suitable for the job, you’re extensive criminal record leads us to have… concerns.” The, by now, painfully familiar phrase is uttered by a generic, pompous, asshole, suit. He looks up to the forty-eight year old ex-convict across from him, the lanky form slumping as his metallic orange arm scratches the back of his neck. He scowls a bit, golden teeth catching the light a bit, and his angry, unaligned, amber eyes looking anywhere but at the interviewer. He can’t blame them, can he? He’s only been out of prison for two years, is still in therapy, has a list of meds longer than most mass couponers shopping lists, and he supposes the gang style tattoos don’t help. The ungodly smiles, anarchy symbols, skulls, and flames, all symbols related to the Junkers, a nasty gang he’d been part of back when he’d first been arrested, full of anarchists and sociopaths. He’d been imprisoned some 20 years ago, his sentence was shortened because he plead guilty to the charges. It’s not like he was lying, they’d been right, and he didn’t want to rot in hell for the rest of his life.
He’s handed his papers back and he leaves, grumbling to himself a bit. He gets in his old, beat up rust truck, he remembers it was once orange with fire decals, but that had been much too long ago. He looks at himself in the mirror, scratches at the ghost of stubble on his face, tilting his head to look at the bald patches in his graying hair. The hair won’t grow back there, old burnt over scars that are incapable of growing much anything. He resigns himself to another sigh, and turns on the car, turning the radio up as he heads home, humming along to sweet, sweet of Mozart.
Jamison lives in an old beat down trailer court, there’s been at least six murders in the past two years, eight drug busts, and thirteen charges of domestic abuse. This pace probably isn’t the best place for him to be at, but he can’t afford anyplace better, not right now, anyways. Maybe, just maybe, if he could just get a fucking job he’d be able to get a good, proper, house.
He hauls himself out of the car, hobbles up the stairs to the door of his trailer. It’s not much to look at, an faded brown, the door is an off yellow, the windows cloudy with age, and the porch creaks with every step he takes. Stepping into the door, his foot lands and matching off yellow tiles, witch turn off to the right to a kitchen, which against the immediate wall is a dusty white cupboard, against the entryway wall is a sink, a stained gray-white dishwasher, and an old black beaten up oven, the fridge, which has also gone a little yellow, is a covered in questionable stains. Other than that the kitchen is sparse, lacking in a dining table.
A few steps ahead from the tile there's ugly brown carpet, with gross questionable stains that leave the material matted down and stiff, across from the doorway is a very basic computer setup, the monitor, keyboard, mouse, and speakers on top of a medium sized white, foldable, table, the chair pushed up to it is a lightly padded, dark, wooden kitchen chair. A few feet off to the left of the setup is a dark red maroon couch, with bleach stains and moth eaten holes, and a rancid smell of something rotten on it. A little to the left of that is an old, black leather, reclining chair, probably the best kept piece a furniture he has, a lot less wear and tear on the material compare to his couch. In Front of those is a dark, slightly red tinted,wooden coffee table, one of the legs is missing, instead supported by cinder blocks and a few old books on the corner. On the opposite wall, immediately to his left, is an old battered TV, and a few game systems, which he doesn’t use often, usually to watch some show or to play games, as a means of distracting himself from any nasty thoughts he has.
He makes his way across the room to a very short hallway, which cuts off to the left some fourteen or so feet into the bathroom, the tiles are the same off yellow as the door and the kitchen, and the walls a very pale pink, the tub is piss yellow, and the toilet white and covered in stains, the sink is across from the toilet, which is immediately left from the door, dipped inside of a short, light blue, counter area, which has a small white cabinet. The bathtub shower combo, to the right of the door, seems to have mold and forms of rot all over the walls and ceiling, and across the room form there is a long mirror, a few inches away from the floor and the ceiling.
Further down the hall, at the very end, leads to Jamison’s room, the blue curtains are closed, giving the room a pale blue tint, and the lights on the ceiling are long burned out, the bed is huge, he decided he could at least spoil himself a bit, twice, maybe three, times the size it needs to be, on a light oak bed frame, there’s no sheet or pillow cases, leaving the stained, off white surfaces to be revealed, the black billowing blanket freely tossed around, covered in bits of crumbs from whatever snacks Jamison felt like bringing back here whilst he watched something on the old laptop he has under his bed. To the right of the bed is an old, dark brown bedside table, it has an old blue lamp on it, the only source of non natural light in the room, in front of that there's a pale blue pill box with a yellow sticky note on top of it with instructions of when to take his medication, and a glass of water near by.
He hobbles over, checking the note before carefully peeling it off and putting it by the box, dumping the appropriate compartment into his hand, popping them into his mouth and swallowing a huge swig of water. He sighs to himself a bit, before placing the glass down, turning around, and hobbling to the kitchen. He rummages in his fridge, before settling on something to eat and setting it cooking on the stove top. Once it was finished, he took it back to the living room, sitting down at his computer and turning it on. He happily nibbled on his meal as he scrolled through Facebook, when his hand was free, whilst he chewed, his hand instinctively shot for his stress ball, gave his hand something to fidget with before he scooped up the next bite.
Hana had messaged him, asking him how his latest interview went. Though she was much younger than him, nineteen compared to his forty-eight, but they were simply friends, she’d met him at a coffee shop she now works at, when both were applying for the job. They’d started chit chatting, had fun, and decided why not be friends. Of all the things he’s told her, though, he’s never mentioned his record, her dad, adopted, was Jack Morrison, the arresting officer on his case, and the officer who persuaded him to take the guilty plea. He wanted nothing to do with him, and honestly didn’t want him getting on his ass about something based around his daughter. Besides, he wasn’t into girls in anyway, so Hana didn’t have anything to worry about…. And also, his therapist, Dr. Zeigler, recommended he stay away from him, to avoid a possible relapse.
He blinked a few times, bringing himself back to the present and out of his head space, before replying with a simple “Didn’t think I was fit for the job,” which isn’t really a lie. Just not providing all the information as to why. She offers her condolences, and he changes the subject to something less awkward. She goes on to complaining a bit about college work, and other boring things, and Jamison gives the best help he can. Which isn’t a lot, because he was to busy in juvie to even thinking about graduating high school, and to caught up in prison to get the chance to do college. They talk a bit more, but eventually, as always, Hana goes off to perfect some new game, and he goes off to distract himself with some mundane, carbon copy Facebook game, still squeezing the stress ball. Dr. Zeigler had a strict rule about what games he could and couldn't play, nothing violent, and nothing that offered, what she labeled as, too much stimuli, if he wanted to play a game it had to go through her first.
He messes about for ages, occasionally talking to Hana in short bursts, until it was late. He took his sleeping meds and headed off to bed.
--
He was stirred by the sound of his alarm clock from a dreamless night, he grumbled to himself a bit as he sat up, taking his morning meds and sipping his water. He went through his morning routine, piss, eat breakfast, and then grab the morning newspaper. He sat down on his ratty old couch, turning the TV on for background noise. He began to make a list of places with help wanted ads, comparing it with previous lists, crossing off places he’d already applied to, places that required high school high school diplomas and such were crossed off as well. With his list filed down to two or three jobs left he set about calling the places and setting up interviews.
--
Jamison sighed as he got out of his truck, staring up at at the sign above the door of the little shop. It was a soft purple color, with green curling vines on the oval sign, and in vibrant pink words it read “Rutledge Rosery”. It was small and quaint, beautiful flowers in the windows, hanging next to the doors, and arranged delicately outside, it was made of brick and smelt of nature. This was the last job on his list, for the time. He hoped this went much better than his previous interviews.
Walking inside brings the mingled scent of a couple dozens of flowers to his, the floor is a gentle pink color, the drapes pale blue, the ceiling has beautiful hanging lights with flower decorated covers over them, the table were the register sits is also a pink color on the sides, but the table top is a darker, purplish, red color, there's a doorway behind the desk in place of a door is a draping wall of pink and purple beads, behind it is a plump older woman, with slightly darker skin, her pale, graying black hair pulled up into a bun, she has soft brown eyes the turn up look at Jamison as he enters, and they smile at each other, matching crows feet crinkling, she offers him a kind greeting, walking out from behind the counter.
“Well hello there dear! What can we help you with today?” Her voice is gentle, a little deep but nice enough. Jamison sticks his hand out, the flesh one, and shakes her hand happily “Hello miss, I’m Jamison Fawkes, I called for an interview a few days ago?” the statement coming out more as a question, as if asking if she received the call. Her gentle brown light up a bit and her lips spread wider and she eagerly nods “Oh yes, it’s a pleasure to see you here! My names Aria Rutledge, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Why don’t we come back shop and get that interview started?” she offers, already gently dragging back. He goes without a fight, and she sticks her head into the room, quickly speaking with someone.
“Mako, baby, I need you to watch the shop for me for a moment? Doing an interview with the nice man that called a few days ago.”
There's a deep grumbling noise, and she smiles and steps aside. The drape of beads pulls aside as a younger, larger man steps out, he has long, jet black hair that falls over his eyes and shoulder, a massive gut and gigantic hands, the left with huge rings and the right a spiked finger less glove, an absolute giant, with piercings littering his ears, a huge septum ring, a lip piercing on each side of his bottom lip in the form of spikes, and a piercing that arches above his eyebrow. He looks down at Jamison, his huge black eyebrows flat and angry looking, his lips twitch into a slight sneer as he walks past, an air of hostility following him. He seems the least likely person to call “baby”, much less leave in charge of a cute flower shop such as this. Unperturbed by the black clad giant that’s taken her place at the front counter, she happily leads Jamison inside the quaint, candle lit back room.
“I apologize for my son,” she smiles softly at Jamison, “I suppose he never really got out of his “punky teen” years, you know?” she sits herself down and Jamie offers an awkward smile and a shrug. She chuckles softly, pulling up a pair of reading glasses from somewhere in the desk, sliding them onto her face as she grabs his papers, which he sent to her a little bit ago. She hums a bit as she glances through them, he’s pretty sure he could see a few notes jotted down on them from the short glance he got.
“Now, I’ve gone through your…. Long record, and I suppose with a history like yours most people wouldn’t hire you,” she looks at him, her kind demeanor turned serious “but you see unlike most people, my son is… also going through some hard times, I’ve had to bail him out a few times, and I know what he’s done does not define him. He’s a sweetheart, deep down inside, he’s just not in a very good place. I’m sure that can be said for you, too, hanging out with the wrong crowd and such?” she looks him straight in the eye, calm and collected. He shrugs and nods a bit, nervously itching his head “Yeah… started like that, and, y’know, you just get addicted to the feeling….”
She nods in understanding and placed his papers down, “You don’t have a proper high school education either, which I’m sure has made jobing hunting hard. But, what I have planned for you I’m sure you’re smart enough for. I’ve read a lot of articles on you, terrifyingly smart.” she takes her glasses off, done skimming his resume and he shifts a bit and shrugs. Sure people think he’s smart, but Dr. Zeigler had to teach him to read when he was in prison back when he was a younger, more rebellious twenty-six year old. Again, Aria just smiled, and stood up “Well, anyways, me and Mako have been reviewing your papers, and we’ve come to an agreement. You’ll help take care of the plants, no cleaning products, just natural fertilizer, which Mako will be handling, on request of you Therapist, which we did call. I hope you don’t mind?” she seemed more concerned now, worried she may have overstepped her boundaries. Jamison couldn't be happier, grin spreading across his face, it felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders and he hugged her “Of course! Of course all of that is okay! When can I start? I’ll start tomorrow if you need me to?”
She just happily laughs and pats his back, “Tomorrow sounds good to me.”