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Adam is in love with Minnie. Minnie Leonardt. Adam savors Minnie’s name, pronouncing it as if each letter were a different type of candy. He has been planning to take her out to dinner for months now. But each time I ask him about his plans, Adam says, “I got to get up enough courage.” Then he usually adds, “Minnie Leonardt . . . ” and pauses, engrossed in his thoughts. “Minnie is nice. She knows how I feel about her. I like Minnie a great deal.” Then he yawns as if the mere thought of the challenge exhausts him.
Adam has just been released from prison after having served thirty-one years for armed robbery, conspiracy, and two counts of murder.Adam feels naked. Every stare, every accidental brush on the subway pierces him deeply. He can’t shed what he calls his “prison cocoon.” He keeps saying, “I can’t find the zipper.” In prison, the cocoon served a purpose. There he knew how to behave and how to protect himself. But outside he feels skinless and raw. Sure, love would be nice, it may heal some of his sores, but since his release Adam has been trying to slowly reassemble himself. He had been dropped into a new and utterly alien sphere; his old self was shattered. Now he is putting himself back together, but it’s a slow process.
When Adam met Minnie, he learned that intimacy has a potential to terrify. As do crowds, ATMs, strangers, and even restaurant menus. Where do I insert the card? Why is this person staring at me? What am I supposed to say, order, eat, want, wear? And how am I, a homeless black exfelon, supposed to ask Minnie, a white working woman, out for a date?
Before Adam can find a woman, he needs to find a new coat. After thirty-one years in prison, a new coat is as good a way as any to start life on the outside.
—Sabine Heinlein, Spring 2010
