David lets me know I owe him a letter, which I’ll send out to him on Monday. According to his third-generation paraphrase, the parole commissioner at the file review hearing said something like, “I seldom see a case like this that is as well thought out and deserving of immediate parole.” The parole hearing itself has been moved to June, and David writes, “I’ve been down nine years; another month won’t kill me.” Along with the letter, I’ve got a box of comic books packed to ship his way: he likes David Mack’s Kabuki and he’s curious about the direction Marvel’s X-books are taking, as craptacular as they’ve lately been, and I’m still trying to convince him that Brian Michael Bendis is turning into a solid writer, pacing issues aside.
David’s lately been doing that prison-stereotype work, pushing mowers on the highway median strip and weed-whackers by the guard rails. My friend Jason has dropped off David’s resume at a few places. David’s returning to a community where his crimes gained him considerable front-page notoriety, and that complicates matters. He wants to be a chef, he says; to eventually have his own restaurant.
I’m hopeful for him.