Chapter Text
July 2005
***
South Midwestern Correctional Facility
Mailroom Stamp: APPROVED
Inspected and cleared for inmate delivery.
***
Bradley,
Don’t know if this’ll land in the right cell. Or the right hands. But figured it was time to start trying. Jet’s still flying. Just lower to the ground these days.
Had to go full nerd to track you down. Library. Public terminal. Keyboard smelled like wet cheese. Even got myself a goddamn library card. Didn’t want no brainiac badge, but the desk chick wouldn’t even let me take a piss in there without one. Not even when I winked at her.
Who knew librarians had so much bite? Might be the mold.
There’s THREE of you doing federal time, by the way. Three Bradley Sniders. What the hell? You multiply now? Didn’t know what pissed me off more—that there were other Sniders out there, or that I couldn’t tell which one was you.
All got the same squirmy little name. All born in the sixties. Funny, huh? All that shit we went through together, and we didn’t even get to the basics. Not even your goddamn birthday. Thought I’d have more time.
So there I was, hunched over in this plastic chair, trying not to breathe too loud in case the dust lodged a complaint. Pulled up three hits in the database. Three hits of BS:
Bradley Snider and Bull Shit.
You always did come hand in hand with a steaming pile of it, buddy.
BS #1: stuck in a fed bin down south. Yeah, right. Ain’t no one paying to haul your sorry ass all the way down there.
BS #2: up here in the north, but out next year. Don’t think you’d have been that lucky, Braddy Boy. Not unless you found a way to turn that big mouth of yours into a Get Out Early Card.
That leaves BS #3. Midwest prison. Guess this one makes most sense. But the bonus round of BS this time? This place has a fancy database. Neat little mugshots lined up like it’s picture day for ugly bastards.
Except yours. Just a blank box where your face should be.
Fucking typical. Camera shy that day? Afraid you’d crack the lens? Looks like they shoved your name as an afterthought just to wind me up. You always were a pain in my ass.
But I gotta try.
If you’re the wrong Snider reading this, then congrats, asshole. You just opened a real boring letter from nobody. Toss it. Eat it. Wipe your ass with it. Don’t care.
If you’re the right one, write back. The PO’s clean. You know I wouldn’t risk it. Write back to me and tell me how many things we forget every day. You’ll get it if it’s really you.
So……
How’s your stay in the concrete hotel? Got yourself a boyfriend yet? I hope so. Gotta pick one before one picks YOU, right? You’re all soft and squishy, Snider. Bet some of those federal hardasses are just waiting to spoon you through the bad dreams.
Anyway. I guess I should say sorry. Not that there was anything we coulda done different, but I still feel bad. Don’t sit right that I’m the only one who got to keep flying. Just sorry you’re in there. It ain’t fair. I keep thinking you must hate me for that. I hope you don’t.
Don’t know what you’ve been told. Don’t know what news they let through, or how they twisted it. But Cap’s gone.
You probably know. Wanted to write it anyway. Just in case.
Would you rather be gone than stuck in there? Know I would. I’d take the bullet. Sometimes I manage to convince myself that Cap lucked out. Going out fast instead of rotting away.
But then I remember the kiddos, and it don’t feel like luck no more.
Write me back. I can visit. Just say the word. Wanna see your face again, even if it is ugly.
Miss you. Miss you both. Miss it all.
- Jet