Hurtling out of your exes seventh story aparptment window has many effects. Firstly it lends clarity, vis a vis “This is going to hurt me more then its going to hurt you, but just for a moment.” Clairvoyance, “Maybe I should have opted for candies not lilies.” Regret, “My landlord is not going to like her utilities bill this month.” But of course the last thought that went running through my headbefore contact was, “Where did I screw up?” It’s a long held rule that if It’s your fault then its like your noise, you don’t notice it at all until maybe somebody points it out. Even then you huff and haw and refuse to admit its there. But I figured I would have plenty of time to think about it after a moment of mind blowing pain. That’s when I hit the garbage dumpster.
If I were an Olympic judge for dumpster diving, in the more literal sense, I would have given myself a perfect score. At least my body felt like it deserved a perfect score. It didn’t take me long to figure out this dumpster hadn’t been visited been sanitation crews in some time. I made a memo to myself to make a formal complaint at city hall later. After extracting myself from the dumpster I assessed the situation. It was bleak. I had been dumped by my girlfriend for a pro wrester, I had lost my job, I was about to lose my aparptment and my good jacket was covered in what looked like last weeks pizza. All in all I needed some serious help, and I had no idea where to get it. Starting off with the loan sharks was a bad idea. That would have made getting thrown out a seventh story window look like a good plan. So I took my jacket off and walked out into the street taking in the sweet night air and began the trek across town to pick up my address book.
If I had known this trip was going to take three days then I would have just skipped the whole thing. In fact it would have saved me some trouble if I had just gone the other way. At least going east I would have gained a day. The trip began with a terrible omen. I had laid my jacket down on a bench to take stock of the goods I had on me. Wallet, gun, ammunition, $20 gift vertificate to Borders and the ring my ex had returned to be before my failed attempt to fly like Superman. The last and most important thing was my car keys. They were in my jacket which I saw, as I turned, was just now crossing into 9th Street about a block down. Of course the kids that have it would never figure out which car it was. I ammended myself as the car drove past me, they wouldn’t find it in less then a minute or so. Sighing I began to walk up the street, shivering a bit as the cold winds cut into me. A woman walked by with a little tou poodle. It was earing a tartan coat. What a world we live in.
My first stop was to Rondey the bookie. Rodney was a creature of the street. It was his mother, teacher and secret lover. I don’t think he had a last name, since most cops called him Rodney the…well things that I can’t repeat. I found him at his usual spot under a street light on 4th street. He saw me coming and put up his hands “Whoa whoa whoa, Al you are damaged good and I don’t know you.” I couldn’t blame him for his selective amnesia. Not only did he have the moral fiber of mildew, but he had seven wives and fifteen children. Personally I doubted this, either he had the libido of ten men or he had bought those pictures with frames at the local photostore.
“No worries I just came her to collect on some debt” I held my hands out where he could see them, which didn’t stop him from shivering. It was either me, the cold or a combination of the two. “I just need a loan for bus fare so I can get back home and pick up my book.” My book, every hitman had one. Lists of contacts, standing targets and potential clients. It was like the classifieds for the ministers of death. Looking at me suspiciosuly he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fiver.
“You know when they find out I gave you a fiver they’re going to be asking me questions.” At that point I started to wonder why he was out there on a night like this.
“So Rod, busy night” I looked back and forth down the streets and back at him. “The only people I’ve seen on the streets were some kids who stole my car.”
“Some kids?” Rod looked confused.
“By kids I mean college kids, it must have been a school project. But with my car they sure aren’t going to get an A.” He laughed a bit but his eyes were strained. “Hey” I pointed down the street, “Isn’t that a lady in a bikini on rollar skates?” He turned and I slammed the butt of my gun into the back of his head. Quickly I pulled his wallet, and cellphone from his pocket then I placed a call for an ambulance and headed off to the bus stop.
The bus was the transport for the unfortunate man or woman who could not get a taxi or car. As I sat down far away as I could from a jibbering woman on the other side of the bus I contemplated other reasons that people might have to take the bus as well. I had hit rock bottom. This is what I was thinking as the bus moved along in the night. Remember when I said it would have been better if I went the other way? Oh you have no idea, exaggeration has never been my strong point.
The bus ground to a halt and I looked out the window. In front of us was a group of men in military outfits with what were either hostages or groupies. So either this was the worst dressed rock band ever, carrying uzi shaped guitars, or it was a bunch of terrorists looking for a bus. My money was on the latter.
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