Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Mahmud followed Erika to her office. Inside, the blinds created a striped light. Posters on the walls. A desk piled with papers, binders, and plastic folders. How many homies did she hassle, anyway?

Two armchairs. A small round table between them. The fabric on the chairs was pilling. He leaned back.

“So, Mahmud, how are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s all good.”

“Great. How’s your dad? Beshar, that’s his name, right?”

Mahmud still lived at home. It sucked, but racist landlords were real skeptical toward a prison blatte.

“He’s good too. It’s not exactly perfect, living there. But it’ll be fine.” Mahmud wanted to tone down the problem. “I’m applying for jobs. Had two interviews this week.”

“Wow, that’s great! Any offers?”

“No, they said they’d get back to me. That’s what they always say.”

Mahmud thought about the latest interview. He’d purposely gone wearing only a tank top. The tattoos piled up. The text: Only trust yourself on one arm and Alby Forever on the other. The ink spoke its own aggressive language: If there’s trouble—you’ll get in deep. Watch yourself.

When would she understand? He wasn’t gonna let a job rob him of his freedom. He wasn’t made for a nine-to-five life; he’d known that since he came to Sweden as a kid.

She studied him. For too long.

“What happened to your cheek?”

Wrong question. Gürhan’s slap wouldn’t ordinarily’ve busted his cheek—but the dude’d worn a massive signet ring. Had torn up half his face. The cut was covered with surgical tape. What was he gonna say?

“Nothing. Sparred a little with a buddy. You know.”

Not the world’s best excuse, but maybe she’d fall for it.

Erika seemed to be considering him. Mahmud tried to look out through the blinds. Look unaffected.

“I hope there’s no trouble, Mahmud. If there is, you can tell me. I can help you, you know.”

Mahmud thought, Yeah, sure you can help me. Irony overload.

Erika dropped the subject. Droned on. Told him about a job-application project that the jobmarketpreparationunemploymentinsuranceoffice, or something like that, was running. For guys like him. Mahmud deflected her attention. Had years of training. All the talk with school counselors, meetings with social-service bitches, and interrogations with cops’d paid off. Mahmud: expert of experts at shutting his ears when the situation required it—and at managing to still look interested.

Erika kept talking. Blah, blah, blah. Sooooo slow.

“Mahmud, aren’t you interested in doing something related to physical fitness? You work out a lot. We’ve talked about that before. How’s that going, by the way?”

“Yeah, it’s going good. I like the gym.”

“And you never feel tempted to do that —you know what I mean?”

Mahmud knew what she meant. Erika brought it up every single time. He just had to smile and take it.

“No, Erika, I’ve stopped with that . We’ve talked about that hundreds of times. Fat-free chicken, tuna, and protein shakes work just as good. I don’t need illegal stuff anymore.”

Unclear if she was actually listening to what he said. She was writing something down.

“May I ask you a question? Who do you spend time with during the day?”

The meeting was dragging on too long. The point of this shit: short talks so that he could air the problems free life created. But he couldn’t let slip about the real problem.

“I hang out with the guys at the gym a lot. They’re chill.”

“How often are you there?”

“I’m serious about it. Two sessions a day. One before lunch, not too many people there then. And I do another session later at night, around ten.”

Erika nodded. Kept talking. Would this never end?

“And how are your sisters doing?”

His sisters were holy, part of his dignity. No matter what punishment Swedish society came up with, nothing could stop him from protecting them. Was Erika questioning something about his sisters?

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you see her—your older sister? Isn’t her man doing time?”

“Erika, we gotta be clear about one thing. My sisters’ve got nothing to do with the crap I’ve done. They’re white as snow, innocent as lambs. You follow? My older sister’s starting a new life. Getting married and stuff.”

Silence.

Was Erika gonna get whiny now?

“But Mahmud, I didn’t mean anything. You have to understand that. It’s just important to me that you see her and your family. When you’re released from a penitentiary it often helps to be in touch with stable people in your environment. I’ve been under the impression that your relationship with your sisters is very good, that’s all.”

She made a quick pause, eyed him. Was she checking out the mark from Gürhan’s slap again? He sought her gaze. After a while, she put her hands in her lap.

“All right, I think we’re done for today. Here, take this pamphlet about the Labor Market Board’s project I was telling you about before. Their offices are in Hägersten and I really think they might be able to help you. They’ve got courses in how to succeed at job interviews, stuff like that. It could make you a stronger candidate.”

Out on the street. Still hungry. Irritated. Into the 7-Eleven by the entrance to the subway station. Bought an orange soda and two power bars. They crumbled against the roof of his mouth. He thought about Erika’s annoying questions.

His phone rang. Unlisted number.

“Yeah.”

The voice on the other end: “Is this Mahmud al-Askori?”

Mahmud wondered who it was. Someone who didn’t introduce himself. Shadyish.

“Yeah. And what do you want?”

“My name is Stefanovic. I think we may have met at some point. I work out at Fitness Center sometimes. You’ve collaborated with us before.”

Mahmud connected the dots: Stefanovic—the name pretty much said it all. Not exactly a nobody he had on the line. Someone who worked out at the gym, someone who sounded colder than the ice in Gürhan’s veins, someone who was Serbian. Mahmud didn’t recognize the voice. No face came to mind. But still, it could only mean one thing: One of the heavy hitters wanted to talk to him. Either he was deeper in the shit than he’d thought, or something interesting was in the works.

He hesitated before answering. Wasn’t Stefanovic gonna say anything else?

Finally he said, “I recognize your name. Do you work for you-know-who?”

“I guess you could say that. We’d really like to meet you. We think you can help us with something important. You’re well connected. And you’re good at what you did earlier.”

Mahmud interrupted him.

“I’ve got no plans on rebounding. Just so you know.”

“Calm down. We don’t want you to do anything that you could get sent back in for. Not at all. This is something completely different.”

One thing was certain: this wasn’t some normal job. On the other hand: sounded like easy money.

“Okay. Tell me more.”

“Not now. Not on the phone. This is what we’ll do. We’ve put a ticket for Sunday in your mailbox. Get there by six and we’ll explain then. See you.”

The Yugo hung up.

Mahmud walked down the stairs into the subway. Took the escalator to the platform.

He thought, Fuck no, I don’t wanna get sent back in. Low odds: the Yugos were gonna trick him into doing something stupid. But it could never hurt a pro blatte like Mahmud to meet with them. See what they wanted. How much they’d fork over.

And more importantly: becoming the Yugos’ made man could be a way out of the shit he’d ended up in with Gürhan. He felt his mood lift. This could be the beginning of something.