Learning how to work

Without a job I was a clique, worthless lost cause without a paycheck. My work ethic had matured since my days of dropping jobs like beats from a white trash bassy car stereo from a wreck on four wheels. Without a job, I sold CDs to a music store on Cary Street. I would usually have the shakes when I walked in there because I hadn’t taken the first drag of the day. My eyes would be hanging low from the lack of sleep last night thinking about what I didn’t have and what I would never be. The stares from the cashier would say it all. “He must be a junkie. Oh my God, He’s shaking.” All this for a pack of the cheapest cigarettes on the market and a forty of the cheapest malt liquor. The real kick to the groin happened when I sold Dexter Gordon live at Carnegie Hall. That’s when I figured I had to get a job and after about eight we-will-call-you and we-will-see-what- we-can-dos; it happened at Gusto’s Squid.
It was a brand new restaurant in the Fan district of Richmond. A sister restaurant of a very popular one in Carytown known for fine Italian dining in a very compact space. The customers were treated like cattle at feeding time then pushed out of the restaurant so another confined table could be filled again. People in town raved about the food served there, yet the wine was poured in little juice glasses (customary in Italy), the customer was always wrong in the cook’s eyes, and people knew of it from word of mouth not from corny ads in the local paper or the TV.
The mother’s newborn had the same compacted eating area, which was above a sub shop. The tables, covered by sky blue table cloths which were covered by tiny candles that had been used for last year’s Passover and by different shades of oils were small with chairs forcing themselves in to the confine space. There was a jukebox they played compact disk in a corner beside the coat rack. The bar served three kinds of beer, and wines that I never heard probably that cert of knowledge never presented itself at my old job, which was at an ice cream store. All this controlled by the bartender, Dr. Bob. Who wasn’t a real doctor, but he did wear a lab coat as well as make the perfect Manhattan.
The interview was just a simple question: “Do you want to wash dishes?”
This asked by my future boss with a long red beard and flannel shirt making him look like a lumberjack glazed over in scotch.
I had been avoiding restaurants, but I was so desperate for a job I regretfully accepted. They had me fill out my information form on a piece of paper from a legal pad; it wasn’t even a real application.
“Come in on Saturday at 10:00 am or around 10:30.”
I showed up Saturday at ten. My boss was late. I was smoking my second cigarette during my wait. He eventually showed up in a red pick up truck. His eyes were tired and his hair was covered in a blue bandana.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked showing signs that he didn’t actually care if I was there; he had a job to do regardless.
“Nah.”
He unlocked the front door and we climbed the stairs up to Gusto’s, passing old black and white photographs man and woman smiling a day at the beach. There were others, the same man smoking a cigarette with an apron on or making pasta in the kitchen.
“Who’s that?”
“That’s the owner’s parents. He owns one half, I own the other.”
“Wow.” I couldn’t see myself owning anything that could make a profit.
“Saturdays are just a leisurely day of prepping for tonight. When you first show up you have to empty the trash from the night before. I’ll help you out today but not always.”
I nodded.
We gathered the trash at the bar, the wait station, the dish pit, the salad station, and the cook’s trash. They were all filled to the brim reeking of tomato sauce, stale wine, and uneaten seafood.
“How’s business?” I asked.
He nodded slightly and strummed his beard. “Business is good. This is my baby. I care a lot about what goes out of the kitchen.”
We slid the over baring trashcans to the back stairway he had no problem sliding them individually down the stairs using only one hand as a guide so the trash wouldn’t fall out. I on the other hand had to use my whole body to make sure not only the trashcans would tip over but also my feet were still on the floor.
The boss shook his head. “Woman,” he said under his breath.
We pulled the trash cans one by one to the dumpsters. He had no trouble lifting his to dump the trash out, but he had to help me with mine. He shook his head. We went back inside.
He led me into the kitchen. “All right. I want you to sweep and swab the deck from last night. I want you to give it a woman’s touch.”
He went to the bar to thumb through the receipts from last night. I located the broom and dustpan, and decided not to empty the dirty mop water that reeked of whatever. I then picked up the mats on the floor, and threw them on one side of the kitchen.
I started sweeping near the stove around his cooking area, underneath the cutting board where the muscles, clams, and squid were located. I swept under the table where the pasta was kept. Moving on to the deep fryer where squid was transformed to calamari, which lay across from the salad and bean station. The anecdotal linoleum was caked in flour, pressed to the floor. I had to use the broom handle to scoop it up so it could be swept away into the dustpan. I did this for a while then grabbed the mop, which was drowning in a bucket of blackened gray stench. I found some bleach and poured some in to cover up the smell. I started at the cooking station, and moved closer to the dish pit adding more weight to shoe marks, tomato stains, and the permanent flour on the floor. I took a piece of cardboard, and placed on the floor of the cooking station, and the salad station, and covered them with the mat that was there before.
I picked it up, and shook it wildly. Water, and particles of saturated food flung itself all over my white t-shirt and arms (I was used to this). Next I swept up small puddles of water and food, and put it all in the trash that I had just put a new trash bag in. Then I mopped, place a piece of cardboard down, and the mat. The mat was the savior for dishwashers from their slippery souls, and slides.
The boss came back to the kitchen and looked around. “Did you clean?”
“Yes.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t give a woman’s touch.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. At the time it seemed like a day’s work. This kitchen was a dive: it would never be clean.
“I cleaned it,” I insisted.
“You’re gonna learn how to work here.”
Work? All I wanted was a paycheck.
“Do you know anything about mussels?” he said as he brought a plastic burlap bag of them from a freezer near the sinks.
“No.”
“How about clams?”
“No.”
“How about squid?”
“No.”
He sighed, “Have you ever worked the line?”
“No.”
He shook his head like I was wasting his time.
“These are mussels,” he said in a kindergarten teacher’s tone of voice. He proceeds to cut the bag of mussels opened on top of the bag. He turned the bag upside down so the mussels could spill in the sink. Then he turns on the faucet. He picked one up.
“You have to rip out the beards.”
The beard of a mussel looks similar to dark navy blue bristles on an overly used toothbrush.
The boss had a long orange beard that he stroked in disbelief while I fumbled around with the mussels. He shook his head again.
He went back to the freezer and brought out a bag that looked similar to the last only this one was filled with clams. He placed the bag in a sink beside the one the mussels were in. He walked over to a shelf holding plastic buckets and brought one over to where I was standing.
“You want to soak them first. Then you scrub them.”
He opened the bag with the same knife, emptied the bag of clams in the bucket, and swung the faucet over to it and filled it. When the water reached the top: it flowed over the side. He started to stir the clams with his hand.
“These are my friends. Be gentle. If you’re not gentle they’ll get pissed off and they’ll die!”
I nodded once and said, “Okay.”
He stopped stirring the clams, and looked at me ripping the beards.
“Get your hands moving; you’re going to slow.”
He started walking to the stove.
“Lucky for you, you’re starting today. Saturdays are usually just a leisurely day of prepping.”
This was a bad idea, I thought too myself.
He lit the stove and yelled back. “I need pots of water on the back burners.”
I left the mussels and went to the stack of pots on the grill beside the stove. I grabbed three, and went back to the sink to fill them up. He unwrapped all the inserts at his station, as I a struggled filling the first pot. Individually I brought one over with both hands. The boss shook his head.
After the last pot, I went back to the sink, and slowly but surely finished the mussels. I stirred the clams in the plastic bucket gently, wondering what I should do next. I walked up to the boss still apprehensive about my first day.
“What should I do now?”
He looked at me like I had just asked him where the kitchen was.
“Why don’t you scrub the clams?”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head and walked over where the clams were soaking. I followed.
“Get another camboro,” he demanded.
“Uh what?”
He pointed to the shelf where he got the last one for the clams.
“Oh you mean a plastic bucket.”
He shook his head. I brought one over.
“Okay. You take the scrubby and a clam, and you scrub the top, the bottom, and the sides. Make sure you scrub hard. They’re gritty.”
He went back over, and I started scrubbing.
“Be gentle with my friends!”
I scrubbed hard thinking about the depressing life of a clam. They stay in and only leave when they feel the need to get food, and they depend on a hard shell for survival. The life of a clam is being blind to the outside.
“Are you done?”
“Not yet!” I yelled back.
“Get your hands movin’!”
I scrubbed the clams as quickly as I could.
“Coming over!”
“What?” I yelled back ignorantly of his ways in the kitchen.
He came over with a big pot of boiling water containing pasta, and stared at me for a little while I just stood there confused.
“Get the strainer.”
The strainer was up over my left shoulder, hanging on a hook. I got it down and held it by the handles on the sides while the boss poured the contents of the pot in. The boiling water went through the holes of the strainer.
“Now rinse it cold,” my boss demanded.
“What?”
He turned on the faucet, dosing the burning pasta with cold water.
“If you don’t rinse it cold the pasta will over cook.” He muttered.
I turned off the faucet and redirected the water through the hose connected to the sink, and continued rinsing the pasta cold.
“When you’re done with that put it in a camboro, and bring it back over to me. Then put another water up on the stove.”
He started walking back to his station. “Hurry up with the clams!”
I brought over the pasta, and started filling the pot of water back up. First burning my hands on the metallic handle, forgetting that it had just come off the stove. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the handle so it would burn my hands. I brought that over to the stove with both hands, struggling. My boss looked at me and shook his head.
“Hold it with one hand like a man!”
I shrugged my shoulders and went back to the clams. The boss eventually came back to the sinks. He stood beside me staring at my scrubbing skills. Then he picked up another scrubby and started helping me with the clams.
“You’re taking to long.”
“Well you know it’s my first day.”
He looked at me and shook his head wondering what the hell was he thinking when he hired me.
“After this you just have the squid to do.”
“I’ll go ahead and ask you. How do you do that?”
This time he grinned. “It’s easy.”
He took a big bag out of the freezer, and placed it on a dish rack beside me.
“First you need a knife and a cutting board.”
He found the knife hanging on the side with others, and picked up a cutting board from the floor underneath the slicer beside the white room. He put the cutting board on the trashcan, and went out the swinging doors. Later he came back with a bucket of ice from the bar.
“You have to keep the squid iced so it will stay fresh.”
He placed the bucket of ice beside him near the cutting board, and picked up a squid.
“First you rip it out of the capsule. Take the capsule in your hand and with two fingers scoop out the scum and shit out of it.”
“It looks like snot,” I concluded.
“Whatever gets the snot out of it.”
“Next, you take the knife and you cut above the eyeball, and you rip the two tentacles off the body. They’re the longest legs. You throw away what you cut off and the two tentacles. It’s easy. Now you do one.”
I picked up one squid, sizing it up first from the capsule to the longest smoothes slippery legs. I ripped the body out of the capsule. With my two fingers went deeper through the scum making a squish squash sound as the load inside slowly came out. My fingers slightly stuck together with a sea life residue. I felt a slight tug on my gag reflex. I cut above the eye, and ripped off the tentacles and threw both body parts away.
My boss brought over a camboro, and put some ice in it that I got from the bar.
“Make sure you keep it fresh.”
I put the capsule and what was left of the legs in the bucket.
“Slice the capsule up.”
The boss took the capsule out of the bucket with its bottom half full with ice, and sliced the capsule in rectangles.
“You got it?” The Boss asked.
“Yup.”
I started to scrub the remaining clams again.
“After the clams, can I get a cigarette?” I asked.
The boss shook his head. “Yeah sure.”
He went back to the stove, and I picked up the last clam realizing I still had squid left to do. I scrubbed it well then put it in the bucket of clams that I already scrubbed. I wiped off my hands with my apron, then turned to my boss.
“Where should I smoke?”
“Do you remember the door we took out the trash? The stairwell.”
I nodded, and went out the swinging doors, and forcefully pushed opened the door to the stair well. I sat down on the steps, glad that I could finally sit down.
My first day could be summed up in my boss’ words (said to the only waitress on duty), when I came back into the kitchen.
“Yo boy punk kids don’t know how to do shit!”
This microcosmic passage develops your character and has potential to develop a theme or idea for the book as a whole. It reminds me a bit of the catalogue descriptions Hemingway mastered in a number of books: simple tasks described in almost minute detail (fishing, pouring wine, smoking). I’m not sure yet how this may fit into your book’s structure but I like the way it moves and the voice you use to tell it.

Money (that's want I want) a comparative examination of the Beatles version and motown's version sung by Barret Strong

Everything you need to know about love is in the motown. In the early years several of the songs were written by a man named Berry Gorby. Barret Strong sang it for the lable he was a local act. Several bands have covered the song notably the Beatles.
Both versions have a piano that makes you want to move. The motown versions is straight up soul while the beatles version has John Lennon's screaming vocals.
I personally can't decide which one I like better.
The motown version has horns as well as piano and female background vocals. While The Beatles version just has four guys who obviously enjoy performing the song.The beatles have recently reissued their music for the public. You can even get it on itunes. Motown can be found anywhere just as long as you are willing to look. I bought motown gold from borders bookstore. It is a two disk set of forty songs. Money (that's what I want) can be found on the Beatles album with the beatles.

Lastly there are some things in this world that are free. A sunset, a spring day, free refills on coffee and sweet tea as well as that fortune cookie at the end of your meal at Peaking (chinese restaurant)

Remebering 9/11

I gave the boozer his nickname because he was the first one in our trio to turn twenty-one. He was still celebrating his birthday during tragic times. A couple of weeks after September 11 before the bombing, it was the Captain’s idea to bring out the cards so we could play poker.
I would walk around and see strangers with a glazed over look. Most people saw on tv. But it was as if they witnessed it in person. America had been invaded.
Since none of us had enough money to gamble, the boozer let us use an ample amount of change he had in a wooden bowl beside a fresh pot of chili.
One spoonful of that chili and your mouth would be left feeling like a stream of devils had flown down your throat leaving strains of hell on your tongue. Even A cold beer couldn’t extinguish the inferno. You just had to sit there and take it and hope you weren’t making a fool of yourself.
We were well into the game, as some of the boozer’s neighbors came to his apartment. They were two young girls who knew more about drinking and poker than their ages would suggest. One was seventeen, or so she said, and she had her eye on the Boozer, and he had his drenched beer eyes on her. The sixteen-year-old eyes with braces must have been in the crossfire of lipstick and eye shadow. rebellion . A few times she went to the refrigerator to get herself one of our beers, she would bend over, stretch her arm to retrieve a beer, which made her thong underwear ride higher against her back. I think it made the Captain guilty for staring. I saw it as a test of restraint or a war, so I reminded myself I was only there for the chili, the beer, and the poker, that was all.
The boozer raised the volume on his Irish music as the seventeen-year-old decided to try the chili. On her venture up to the pot of chili she bragged about her tolerance for spicy food. She swallowed an entire spoon full, and quickly found herself underneath the kitchen faucet, hoping luke warm tap water would be an efficient coolant for the rage burning on her tongue.
The sixteen-year-old lips immediately spoke; “I don’t eat in front of people I don’t know so well because of my braces.”
If she had tried it her tongue would have been the color of her lips that were now acting as brake lights for the so-called adults drinking away their memory. We didn’t want to go to jail for a few minutes of pleasure.
“Call!” announced the Captain.
We dropped our cards face up.
“Who won?” asked the Captain.
“I didn’t,” slurred the Boozer.
“At least you can make good chili,” I said.
“I think I won,” said the Captain.
“No, you didn’t,” I insisted, “ I won. I have two two-of-a-kind, and you only have one three-of-a-kind.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” protested the Captain.
“Bullshit man, I get the pot!” I stammered even though the change would never see the inside of our pockets, because it was the Boozer’s.
“I think three-of-a-kind does beat your hand,” mediated the Boozer.
“Bullshit!”
“I win!” The Captain slid the Boozer’s change over in his direction.
“We make up our own rules,” said the boozer, still lusting over the seventeen-year-old.
“In life and in poker,” I slurred proudly.
“I know I win.” The Captain was still rubbing it in. “My dad taught me how to play poker.”
“My dad taught me how to be a goalie in soccer, and you can see what good that did,” I said.
“Soccer’s cool,” said the Boozer, singing along with his Irish music.
The seventeen-year-old finally had feeling back in her tongue and announced she and the sixteen-year eyes were leaving. The Boozer’s roommate was coming up the steps.
“I have to go to,” said the Captain, “I have to wake up at 8:00 am tomorrow for work.” He’d always been the responsible one. He left with the young girls.
“Hey man, ya wanna go to a bar?” asked the Boozer’s roommate who just came in from work?
Immediately the Boozer picked up his jacket, “Yeah let’s go, but what about this guy? He is still underage?”
“Ah shit, he can use my friend’s ID,” he looked at me. “You look just like him.”
He went into his room and brought back the ID, and gave to me. His friend had a boxy forehead and a crooked nose. I hope I didn’t look that bad.
“It’ll work man, trust me.”
Three of us left while the Boozer’s Irish music played ... “Be easy and free... when you’re drinking with me...”
The bar was just a block away. The Boozer and his roommate showed the tattooed bouncer their IDs and they went in. I showed him mine.
“Man this ID expired three years ago.”
“Three years? Wow, this is embracing,” I said sarcastically.
I waved farewell to the Boozer and his roommate, who were now inside, and I decided to wander Main Street searching for a shoulder to tap. The weather wasn’t fitting with the norms of October, as I watched cars with 99 cent patriotism stuck beside the gas cap, and bumper stickers with the word REMEMBER were on the back driving by, as name brands with arms and legs passed hot air through their cell phones.
A man and the woman he was with, parallel parked in front of me. He got out and I went up to him as a sketchy drifter.
“Hey man would you mind buying me some beer?”
He kind of stomped his foot, and dropped his hands to his sides, then raised them up again like a Southern Baptist preacher. “God will strike me down at this spot if I don’t buy this kid some beer!”
He generously bought me a six-pack, and I rambled back home remembering my U.S. history, even then I knew it wasn’t going to be the beginning of WW III even after the World Trade Center went down.
I remember Einstein‘s words, “I don’t know what will be fought with, but I do know WWIV will be fought with sticks and stones.”
I had been writing in a journal since the seventh grade. I remembered another event that affected my life was Colombine. I was shaking like the World Trade Center, but I didn’t fall. I graduated. Even now I wonder who exactly was the terrorist; maybe it is the person who can just get away clean.
For me writing exercises an individual’s right to remember in his own voice how things were.

Charles Bukowski tangents

I finished reading Ham on Rye. It was pretty good but it didn't affect me like back when I read Love is a Dog from Hell in my late teens. Mr. Bukowski inspired me then like he did with the drunks, the unemployed dishwashers and college dropouts. I thought if he could do it then I could do it. I was inspired by others and other things but Mr. BUkowski has his place.
I saw a documentary about him that my brother had. It was great. But one thing that struck a nerve with it me was what was written on his gravestone. It read "Don't try." What if he really believed that. He would have been nothing not a writer not inspirational. He definitly wouldn't have written the many fine books. How could he say that as his final legacy?
I think about these time. The economical term oit we are in. America is indebt. People are laid off etc. Don't try? He grew up during the great depression and that is what he came away with.
I will still probably read more of his books.
I think about my writing. My book isn't selling because I haven't got a royalty check in awhile and I'm awaiting a rejection for my poetry chapbook. All this and I still can't quit it.
I think about the people who are laid off like my upstairs neighbor. It seems like on the news there always stories with people in this position. are you as tired of it as I am?
Maybe if I never picked of a Charles Bukowski book I would be in a position to help. Instead of an unemployed college dropout (I get disability from the military so don't worry about me)
Now I volunteer at a school full of children who have so many roadblocks intheir lives. They don't have alot of the opertunities I had growing up being the son of a principal. I wish they would rise above. Now it is kind of damned if you do damned if you don't. Either be in the unemplyment line or go to college and have a huge debt hanging over you head. What can anybody sayto that ?

State of Emergency
This was the first year Mac wasn’t at the mall shopping. He had no one to buy for. The crippling economy his alcoholism and his wife dying had left him homeless. Even after 25 years in the same factory he was made to lay on a piece of card board around his peers going through similar mess. A few days until Christmas and the only feeling he had was to escape the cold somehow.
Suddenly the snow fell. It was the size of lint that was sometime in the rich’s belly button. Then it got bigger, and bigger as it started to stick.
Mac had ten dollars in his pocket that he collected through hand outs from the passersbys doing their Christmas shopping. He felt like he could take that money and go to a restaurant for breakfast the next morning. It was a full day for him. He wanted to sleep now.
Mac stayed at Monroe Park. It was a large grassy field where his fellow bums stayed. This time a year they would use the garbage cans for a source of fire to help keep them warm. This usually didn’t last long however, because the fire department came like clock work to put the fire out.
Monroe Park was the only place they could go. Mac’s friends would call it Mase Park named after the owner of the Mase factory that some of them had been laid off from. They lost their jobs so the owner could pay for his kids college education and his wife new breast implants.
The neighborhood surrounding Mase park was a mix between lawyers doctors and teachers depending on how far you ventured in. Some hated the site of a bunch of homeless men sleeping on cardboard. Some of the residents would say it brought down the property value others would say someone should do something about that but they never knew what that was.
Mac had been staying there for several months now. He stood infront of one of the trashcan that was smoldering from the fire put out by the fire department. The ten dollars was burning a hole in his pocket. He figured if he could buy some liqure he could go to bed warm that night.
Several of the other men were talking about their day to who ever would listen, but mostly they just wanted to get warm. They weren’t looking forward to laying their head down on the wet snow.
That was when Spike another homeless man walked up with his friend Ted who had a whole box of something.
Spike and Ted were always together, but it was sometimes difficult to figure out who was leading who. Sometimes Spike was the boss, and sometime however very quiet Ted was the one leading the duo.
“Shapiro is having his Christmas party and the people catering it left the back gate opened. There’s liqure and wine. If you hurry you may even get something to eat.” Spike announced.
Several of the men left.
Mr. Shapiro was a defense attorney and he lived in a mansion- the only mansion in the neighborhood so everyone knew where it was.
Spike was a good friend of Mac’s, but under different circumstances they wouldn’t of been friends. The only thing that brought them together was Monroe Park. Earlier in their friendship they decided that who they were in the past didn’t matter. There was only now.
Spike place the box of boos infront of Mac. He then took out a bottle of single molt scotch and handed it to Mac.
Mac smiled at Spike and took it. He looked at the bottle and almost cried. It was the same scotch his wife saved months for to buy him for Christmas. Mac didn’t remember the year but he remembered how good it taste.
“Merry Christmas Spike.”
“Merry Christmas Mac.” Spike said smiling at the bottle in Mac’s hand.
Spike took out a bottle for himself, unscrew the cap and took a big gulp.
Mac shook his head. “You don’t gulp this kind of scotch. You sip it.”
Ted came over to the two men. He laid his box of boose down. He looked at the trashcan they were standing beside.
“Let’s make another fire.”
“Hey what’s the date?” Mac asked to whoever was listening.
“Christmas Eve.” Spike answered.
The snow was now falling in golf balls. The three men drank and drank until the other men came back with toothless grins, holding a case of wine.
“Does anyone know how to open a bottle of wine? I have the wine opener.” One of the men asked.
Mac went over with his bottle of scotch.
“I know how.”
He laid his bottle inbetween his feet. The man with the case of wine handed him the wine opener, and a bottle of wine.
“You have to screw it in the cork, watch the rabbit ears go up, and then push them down.” Mac explained.
The men cheered as the cork popped out.
Mac looked at the men and said.
“Enjoy the banquet gentlemen.”
The wine opener was passed to bottle to bottle. The corks popped individually.
Ted smiled as he drank. Spike’s head felt heavy but this didn’t stop him from singing Jolly ole Saint Nicolas. Mac joined in. After more chugs of scotch and wine the whole crowd joined in. The men sang Silent Night and jingle bells. The words they didn’t know they muttered incoherently.
They drank and drank. They may have been cold as the snow was up to a foot but they didn’t stop them from singing. Some men went back to Shapiro’s house for more boos and whatever they could find.
The residence suddenly came home from shopping. As they parked their cars and got out with their Christmas presents, they looked in disgust at the homeless men singing Christmas carols drunk as skunks.
Suddenly they heard a scream a block away where Shapiro’s mansion was. This stopped the singing.
Mac looked at Spike and they looked towards the house. Several men ran away with their arms full of bread, candy, and boos.
“Looks like Shapiro is on to us.” Spike laughed.
Some of the men laughed. Mac was worried. What was going to happen now?
The men now ate and drank as if it was a Christmas party. They were warm despite the chills of the snow. An hour went by of celebrations. Suddenly they heard sirens but the men stayed. They had nowhere else to be.
The cops pulled up with two patty wagons and a few cruisers. Some of the men left not knowing where they can go. Then it happened. The cops started shooting tear gas at the homeless men surrounding the smoldering trash cans drinking Shapiro’s boos. The snow was still falling.
Some of the men were running around with tears in their eyes yelling and screaming for it to stop. Mac looked at Ted and Spike.
“Lay down and put your face in the snow.”
The three men did this but occasionally looked up at the chaos as they finished their bottles of scotch.
The police then came running in full riot gear. They started swinging their night sticks beating anyone in their way. Ted Spike and Mac however just laid there.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Mac.” Spike said.
The crowd of boosers dispersed in their own directions. Several of the men left with bruises on their body from being beaten. The police officers stopped as they got to the three men with their faces in the snow.
“Where’d you get the scotch?” One police officer asked as picked up one of the men’s empty bottles.
The three men laughed drunkenly.
“Santa Clause.” Mac answered.
The same police officer tapped him on his head with his knight stick.
Two other police officers showed up.
“Were you gentlemen having a Christmas party?” One asked.
The three men just laughed.
The same police officer picked Ted up from the ground. Ted puked on his shoe.
“Drunk in public.” The same officer concluded.
The police officers picked up the other two men, and put the three of them in handcuffs. Then they led them to one of the paddy wagons. The men got inside.
“Was this your master plan?” Spike asked Mac.
“I’ll bet it will be warm.” Mac answered.
“Can we bring the scotch?” Spike asked one of the police officers.
“I don’t want any more scotch. In fact I don’t think I ever want to drink scotch again.” Ted moaned.
The police closed the doors behind the men who were now sitting down. Finally the paddy wagon drove off occasionally skidding on the snow whenever it put on the brakes.
The paddy wagon arrives at the police station which was decorated for Christmas. There was lights, reefs and a bright red Santa Clause.
The three men were ushered inside by three police officers. They noticed the decorations and smiled.
“These men are going to the drunk tank!” One of the police officers yelled.
Another police officer pressed a button and three doors open which were apart of three cells. Ted, Spike, and Mac went into their individual cells as if they had done this before. One of the police officers actually laughed when he saw this.
Inside the cell there was two bunk beds and a single toilet. The three men looked at each other through the bars. They were each laying down on the bottom bunk.
“Where were we?” Asked Mac.
Spiked belted out Joy to the world. The two other men followed, and they did this until they went to sleep on their own beds.

Colors of Lost
It was a new beginning. Those big confining doors that had held him in for the last two years were now opening for him, and only for him. He smiled as only a free man could smile.
Two guards escorted him to the gate at the end of the court yard. He stopped and turned. His eyes wandered until they stopped at a single window caged behind bars. He smiled and turned at a familiar face straining to get his attention. He waved then started walking again.
“Don’t take this personally, Jake, but I hope I never see you again,” said one of the guards with a chuckle.
“The feeling is mutual,” Jake said.
“There is a half-way house a couple blocks down this road. There’s someone there who’s expecting you.” Jake nodded his head, and started walking through the gate, avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk as only a free man could. The street he followed was passed its prime and he could see that it too had aged during his incarceration. The buildings were old. Some still the home business, but most had been condemned years ago. Despite the darkness which overwhelmed the street, the sun was shining on him that day. He noticed a new shade a green on the grass and trees which was different from the institutionalized green to which he was accustomed. That made him smile.
He thought that there must be a strong force holding him back from jumping and singing because the burden finally was lifted from his shoulders- he was a free man. Jake quickened his pace to his new home. While walking he noticed other people walking, an old couple playing cards enjoying themselves, and kids in a playground laughing and playing tag. It was a perfect day, and Jake was apart of it. Excitement enveloped him and he burst out in a light jog all the way to the half-way house to which he had been assigned.
When he arrived at the house, there was an iron gate surrounding it, proving freedom was still at a distance. There was a shadow over his temporary home which had five steps leading to the deteriorating front door. The whole house looked depressing, and he noticed that this was the only part of the street where it looked as if the sun wasn’t shining. The house seemed to say, “No Entry.”
“Well, Jake, you have to start someplace,” He said to himself.
He walked through the gate, up the broken crumbling steps, and knocked on the door. An old man with a white beard and a rough streaked face answered the door. Jake could tell he owned the place and had to tussle with past visitors to eager to wait for their own freedom.
“You must be Jake, let me show you where you will be living for awhile.”
The old man led Jake up some stairs and down a narrow hallway.
At that point he began repeating a speech that he probably said a thousand times.
“We do not rehabilitate people here. It’s just that the town of Paradise feels like we should keep a close eye on our clients before we let them back into society”
“Blah Blah Blah, in God we trust and other bullshit,” Jake chuckled under his breath.
“Quiet! We don’t entertain people here either. Your sheets and towels are on the bed. You have to clean up after yourself, because I am not a maid service. Breakfast is at 5:30, lunch at 12:30, and dinner at 6:00. I don’t cook for late comers. You have to have my permission to leave. Curfew is at 10:30pm sharp. This is your room.”
He pointed to a mediocre room with a single-sized bed with navy blue sheets lying beside white towels on top of a warn mattress. There was a small window with bars on the outside and a small desk that looked like it was balancing on three legs instead of the visible four.
“We got you a job bussing tables at the restaurant down the street. The boss went through the same program you are going through, and it must of done him good he owns the place. You can go down there when you are finished with your room by the way my name is Noah.”
Noah slowly stepped back through the hallway favoring his left leg. Then stopped and sighed.
“If you need anything, ask.”
Jake watched the old man slowly shuffle his feet back to the stairs. He went into his room, and noticed the window beside his bed with the curtains drawn. He opened them so the warm sun could shine in. To his surprise there was a clock radio on a table near the headboard beside the bed. He turned it on (to a station that was clear enough for him to hear) while he was putting his sheets on the bed. When he was done he turned up the volume and started to sing along to the joyous melodic tunes of an oldies station.
Suddenly he heard Noah’s stern voice from downstairs, “What do you think this is, a frat house or something? Get moving! The place you are looking for is out the door—not in your room! It’s called Al’s!” Jake quickly tuned off the radio and trotted downstairs where Noah was staring at him apprehensively. Freedom was still awhile away.
“Thanks, Noah, “ Jake said as he went immediately out the door sensing Noah’s judgmental eyes on his back.
Couldn’t hurt to remember to say, “please or thank you.” Jake thought to himself.
On his way to his new job, Jake wondered what it would be like to work in a diner. He had never done that before. The times that he had gone to one, he remembered the expressions on the employees’ faces having to take the “What do you mean don’t have what I want?” Questions from the customers. After that he started to hate the idea of working in a diner, but he remembered that Noah had said he would be bussing tables not waiting on people. This job was something to pass the time. At this point in his life he seem to always have too much time to pass.
Finally after walking (and following the directions Noah had given him), he saw a sign in big bold letters that said Al’s, beside it was a small building that looked like it could only fit a few people at a time which would be a plus. Jake entered Al’s; he looked around the diner. He could hear silverware clanging against porcelain plates and mindless chit-chat all through the diner. The smells of overcooked bacon, burnt toast, and stale cigarette smoke tormented Jake’s nose, but there was one sweet smell that didn’t belong in this environment. The scent broke through the food odors along with fingernails creating a rhythm of their own with the other sound of the restaurant. He scanned the restaurant to locate that strange but wonderful scent.
The restaurant looked like someone’s dream come true that wasn’t completed. There were several people sitting in booths. The red cushions were poorly put together. They looked like the front cover of a personal copy of Cather in the Rye. To Jake’s right was a counter where five men looked over their left shoulder at the face they’ve never seen before. In front of the counter was a walkway that led to some double doors then a table where the wait staff got the drinks for the customers. Jake then was drawn back to the source of the scent which was a woman at the cash register in front of him. Jake went closer, she looked up.
“May I help you?”
After seeing her eyes that reminded him of a sunrise he once witnessed when he was in jail. He had suddenly forgotten why he was at the diner.
Seeing Jake staring around the room a few times she said, “You figure out why you are here while I go get this order, by the way, my name is Janis.” Jake watched her go to the counter where some older gentlemen were.
“What do you want Lloyd?” Janis asked with a bored slur.
“Give me eggs and toast, and do you think Al can cook the bacon so it doesn’t taste like cardboard, or should I have the sausage?”
A heavy set man with a tired expression on his face, entered the eating area through the double doors.
“You better make it sausage,” explained Janis as she watching the man walk into the diner.
“Don’t start with me today, Janis,” the man sighed.
“Just kidding. Al, order up,” announced Janis.
Al sighed again, “Lloyd can wait.”
Suddenly it hit Jake why he was there. “Al, my name’s Jake, and I think you have a job for me,” Jake said with the enthusiasm of a fresh recruit.
Al was caught off guard by Jake’s enthusiasm. “I’ve seen that look in a man’s eyes before. You must be the guy they are going to send me from the parole program.
“Damn, Al, you would hire anybody including an ex-con! You got something against women or something?” Janis said.
Despite Janis’ insult, she could have said most anything about him. Her attitude and flaming red hair came in a package.
“Oh, shut up, Janis, and go fix Lloyd’s breakfast.”
“You are the laziest SOB I’ve ever met,” said Janis as she went into the kitchen slapping a towel on the counter in defiance.
Suddenly a pail disgruntled figure with a black eye entered the diner. I looked like his skin had a small fit which showed his fragile bones, and when he walked it looked like he had a ball and chain attached to his body.
“Who’s that guy?” Jake whispered.
“That is the dishwasher. We call him, Softy,” then Al yelled out, “having a little trouble with the Mrs, are we Softly. That explains why you are so late for work today.”
Softy stopped abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The patrons at the bar snickered. Softy put his head down in shame in the presents of their laughter, and went to the kitchen.
“Did his wife do that?” Jake asked.
“Ah that’s nothing you should of seen what she did to him when I brought him home drunk on New Year’s Eve.” AL explained.
“I guess she controls him.” Jake determined.
“Yep, it seems like she is the female version of Mohamad Ali. Isn’t that right Loyd?”
Loyd gave a toothless grin. “She was the one that proposed. I would hate to see what Ms. Ali would have done had Softy said, No.”
Suddenly Janis stormed through the kitchen’s doors, she slammed Loyd’s food on the table and then went back to the cash register to finish the job of counting the money which she had been doing when Jake came into the diner.
“You’re like a tornado Janis.” Loyd said as he started eating.
Al started randomly going over the job description.
“Jake you can come in here everyday at 6:30 am. You always wear an apron- everybody has to. When you first come in you start prepping. Get four dozen eggs, and the aluminum bowls out…” AL stopped, when he noticed that Jake had a confused look on his face.
“Okay, I’ll explain everything you need to know when you come in tomorrow at 6:30. It’s an easy job you can handle. You don’t work on Tuesday’s and Sunday’s. The cooking is my job, and sometimes Janis cooks. She thinks I’m sexist for making her do it.”
“You God damn right!” Janis interrupted.
“I know that a woman’s place isn’t in front of a stove. They screw the eggs up, but I would rather have Janis there then Softy.” Al announced this to both Jake and Janis.
Lloyd then finally got up from his clear plate after he gobbled it down.
“I have to go to work.” He said as he paid Janis.
He then looked at the new face creating change in his second home and left.
“That man has worked at the same job for about 35 years. I have never seen a man so true to his job.” Al said to no one imparticular slightly in admiration.
“He’s up for retirement, isn’t he?” Janis asked.
“He won’t even if he had a gun to his head.” Al said as he watched Lloyd get into his truck.
Al then turned to Jake.
“I will see you bright an early tomorrow at 6:30. Don’t be late.”
“Yes sir,” said Jake then he left, and went back to his new home.
He respected Al and wanted to give a good first impression to him. After all Al paid his debt and made it. He had something that he can call his own. Jake wanted to be able to say the same thing.
The next morning, Jake woke up without any trouble, because he was looking forward to working for Al.
If he was strong enough to make it in prison then why couldn’t he make it in a diner? Jake thought.
He put his clothes on, and made up his bed. Noah was in the kitchen cooking up the worse stinch Jake had ever smelled so he decided to skip breakfast and went down the stairs and out the door.
“I’m gonna be late, Noah, I gotta go.” Jake said even though he had several minutes to spare.
While walking down the vacant street, the early morning sunrisen haze reminded him of Janis. He entered the restaurant, and AL greeted him with a waffle and two slices of bacon.
“Noah cooks like shit.”
“Did that inspire you to be a cook?” Jake asked.
“That and I always enjoyed cooking for people.”
Al laid the food on the counter.
“Now hurry up and eat. We have work to do.”
Al returned to the kitchen. As Al went in, Janis came out with her hands full of silverware, and packages of napkins. While walking to one of the booths, she accidently dropped some silverware. Jake was quick on his feet to pick it up. Handing it to her he said.
“You look nice today Janis.”
“Thank you, Jake.”
After this brief exchange she went back to setting the table in the restaurant. Jake, feeling a sense of rejection, went back to his waffle. For the next 15 minute period the only thing that could be heard was Janis setting the tables, and Jake finishing his waffle.
Al entered the room and quickly noticed the awkward silence.
“You know what that sound is kids?”
Jake and Janis looked at him curiously.
“Chemistry!” Al chuckled having heard the dialogue between the two.
Not to be out done Janis sneared.
“Think again.”
Then she scurried back to the kitchen for more silverware and to cover up her red face.
Jake just smiled knowing his face was just as red as Janis’ hair.
After Janis was out of sight, Al quizzed Jake.
“You are taking a liking to Janis, aren’t you?”
Jake tried hard to change the subject.
“So when do people start coming?”
Al saw what Jake was doing, and understood that Jake didn’t want to talk about his first rejection since he got out of prison.
“They usually arrive at 8:30.” Al said as he ducked under the counter and came back up with two aprons.
“Here put this on.”
Jake put the apron on.
“Have you finished breakfast?” Al asked.
“Yup.” Jake said.
“Give the dishes to Softy and the aluminum bowls.”
Al and Jake both walked to the kitchen. Jake handed his dishes to Softy who was scrubbing a burnt metallic pot. Seeing the dishes, Softy, dropped the pot in the sink forcing grease stained dishwater to splash on his face. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Damn it.”
Softy took the dishes from Jake, and placed them gently in the dirty dishwater.
Jake went to Al’s station at the stove, picked up the metallic bowls, and walked over to Softy. Softy picked up the metallic pot he was scrubbing earlier. Jake handed the aluminum bowls to him, and Softy dropped the pot in the sink so he could take them from Jake. This time water splashed on both of them. Jake snickered.
“Damn it!” Softy yelled.
“Problems with the wife?” Jake asked.
Softy took the bowls from Jake.
“I love my wife very much.” He whimpered.
“Hey, Jake, get me four dozen eggs from the freezer.” Al ordered while he pointed to the corner of the kitchen where the freezer stood. Jake did so.
“The bus trays are under Softy’s sink.” Al directed.
Softy was on his hands and knees trying to soak up the puddle that he help created. Jake slid over the wet floor around him, but the bustrays secured his fall.
“Sorry.” Softy whimpered.
Jake nodded. “It’s alright.”
He walked over to AL with the bustrays.
“Softy are done with those bowls, yet?” Jake asked.
“Almost.” Softy got up from the floor and started scrubbing the bowls.
Al wanted to know more about Jake so he decided to ask.
“So where did you used to live before you were-“
Jake interrupted.
“I used to live on Birch.”
“You mean you lived in one of those big houses on Birch Street?”
Al went on to ask.
“How do you like it here?”
“I love it.” Jake said flatly.
“That surprises me. If I lived in one of those big houses I would never be in a place like this. I always dreamed about being so rich that I could complain about everything like the amount of bubbles in my champagne.” AL laughed.
“I’m glad I don’t live there,” said Jake, “People there like to show off their money.”
“So what’s wrong with that!” Al snapped.
“It’s already plotted out. Anything different is seen like a bad thing.”
“What do you mean?” Al asked.
“You go to the best school, and if you don’t you are looked down upon.”
Jake emotions turned to apathy. He went on to say.
“While you are in school you meet a girl. I use to have no problem meeting a girl. Then you graduate. You marry the girl, get a job in business, and talk about it at the country club. It’s like their unwritten rule.”
“I don’t understand.” Al concluded.
“If you don’t follow the rules or decide it isn’t for you then people will think you are a failure or something. It’s all wrong. It’s none of their business. I was unsatisfied living there.”
“So it all about your rep there too?” Al asked.
“The same ole bullshit,” Jake concluded. “Nobody asked how you’re feeling or if things are okay. They ask for your resume.”
“Like today if I still lived over there, my dad’s driver would of driven me to work just to show off.” Jake went on to say.
“I don’t think your driver would drive in this neck of the woods.” Al laughed.
“This was seen as the bad part of town.” Jake said.
Al sighed.
“It’s always been a good home for me.”
Softy finally came over with the bowls, laid them on AL’s table, and walked back over to the sink.
“It’s about time, Softy.” Al snickered.
Al redirected the attention to Jake.
“SO where are your parents?”
The expression on Jake’s face changed.
“They are deceased,” explain Jake.
Jake changed the subject.
“Let me ask you a question.”
“Why did you have to go to prison?”
AL tried to give him his best answer.
“You know what Jake that was a time in my life I don’t like to think about. I don’t mean to put a damper on your feelings towards this town, but coming from personal experience you may change your mind wants you freedom sets in, and those emotions that were caged in find you again.”
The conversation was interrupted by three police officers entering the restaurant.
“What’d you do man? You just got out of the box. What’s you do?”
Al said nudging Jake with his shoulder.
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.” Jake said in frantic paranoia.
Al shook his head and laughed.
“I was only foolin’. They come in here all the time.”
Jake took a sigh of relief.
“I’ve seen enough of these guys. Why can’t they eat some place else?”
“Jake seat them and take their drink orders, and don’t be a smart elic.”
Al stressed each point with a fist. He went on to demand.
“Treat them like any other paying customer. Take it and move on.”
Jake walked through the swinging doors of the kitchen, and walked over to where the police officers were sitting.
“What would you gentlemen like to drink this morning?”
One of the officers said, “Coffee.”
The second officer took one look at Jake and laughed.
“It’s a P.P Boy.”
“P.P boy?” Jake muttered under his breath.
“What’s a P.P. boy?” The third officer asked.
“Parole program boy, Rookie.” The second officer said.
“Nice apron.” The Rookie snickered.
The police officers laughter projected throughout the restaurant so even Al could hear in the kitchen.
“Why don’t you P.P. dance on over and get me a glass of o.j.”
“This one looks like he is a few floors short of a skycraper,” the Rookie said.
“I’ll have a coffee.”
Jake’s own personal past experience with the cops had taught him that no matter what he thought about these assholes he was facing, the least response would be the best one.
“Would you gentlemen like anything else?”
“UUUuuhhhhh,” The first cop was still playing out to be difficult, “mmmm I think…”
Jakes eyeballs did a 180.
“NO get my coffee.”
“Your waitress will be with you in a moment.”
Jake left the police officers in the midst of their laughter, and hurried to the kitchen to get Janis for the table. Janis walked passed him with sympathetic eyes as she got out her note pad from her front pouch. While Jake got the drinks ready, he eavesdropped on Janis’ technique in handling these particular customers.
Al came out where Jake was preparing the drinks to get himself a glass of water.
“Those guys still have no idea what’s in my BLT.”
Al shook his head and went back to the kitchen to light the stove.
Janis arrived at the table and got her pen ready.
“Do you all know what you want yet?”
Before either of the cops could answer the Rookie interrupted.
“Well, honey, I’ll have a waffle and you on the side.”
“Sorry, sir, that is not on the menu.”
Janis said with an unimpressed voice.
“What about a side dish of Softy?” Al yelled from the kitchen.
“Uh whuh?” The Rookie asked.
Suddenly the doors swung open with Softy and a side dish along with Al’s laughter followed by Jake’s. Softy stopped in front of the police officers beside Janis. He raised the side dish, and placed his chin on it.
“Uh? What kind of place are you running here?” The Rookie asked slightly in terror.
Janis laughed, and the other two police officers followed.
The Rookie looked at Janis.
“I think I will change my order to a BLT.”
Softy went back to the kitchen, laughing with his side dish.
One of the officers spoke up.
“BLT sound good.”
“I’ll have one too.”
Janis wrote the orders down while she smiled.
“They should be ready in a couple minutes fellas.”
Janis went back to the kitchen and yelled.
“Three BLT’s.”
Janis then helped Jake with the coffee.
“What a bastard.”
Janis cursed yet she was still smiling.
“No kidding,” Jake agreed, “What’s in the BLT, Janis?”
“Don’t ask.”
They both carried the coffee to the table. The Rookie didn’t say anything this time.
++++++++++
Any other new employee might have thought the morning was grueling and tiresome. There was a line of customers from the front door to the cash register waiting to be seated. Janis looked Jake in disgust because he had a smile on his face as if he was enjoying himself. Even though the work was hell it was still a first taste of freedom.
Lloyd and his construction buddies were sitting at the counter. They hated that their favorite hangout had been under siege by these uninvited guess in the blue uniforms that morning. Every new face that entered the restaurant received a glare as if they were breaking some unwritten law. After some empty threats under their breathe to customers, they retreated because the line was getting bigger. Business was good.
“Why is all these people here?” Lloyd asked.
Another construction buddy had to raise his voice over the crowd.
“They are feeding Al’s ego. After today he’s going to think he is a good cook.”
Another one of AL’s friends raised his voice knowing that the new faces could hear him.
“It’s like they have no where else to eat.”
Lloyd then turned to Jake who was sorting silverware.
“I heard you just got out of prison. Welcome to Paradise.”
Jake looked up at Lloyd but there was nothing inviting in Lloyd’s face.
After another cup of coffee, Lloyd and his construction crew each reached for their pocket at the same time. Each one pulled out an anti-acid. This was an unspoken clue to Janis to get four waters with no ice for them. She placed the cups in front of them, and simultaneously they dropped the tablet into each of their personal glasses, starting with Lloyd down the counter.
The individual plops reminded Jake of a musical scale played on a xylophone. He looked at them to see if there would be an encore.
After the fizzing filled the restaurant they took a big gulp at the same time, paid the bill, and walked out the restaurant. Lloyd led the men like he was their messiah.
“Today is payday. We are leaving to get our checks, we will be back in a little while.”
Lloyd called out as they left the restaurant.
The crowd in the restaurant finally died down, and soon there was hardly anyone there.
“You’ve done good Jake,” Al replied, “now go outside and have a cigarette break.”
“I quit smoking in prison, sir. It gave me something to do.”
“Well, in this business I highly recommend it. I’ll have one with you.”
They worked their way through the kitchen, passed Softy on the verge of tears overwhelmed from the stack of dirty dishes, to a back door where they exited. They both leaned against the outer walls of the restaurant. AL lit his cigarette then gave a lighter and a cigarette to Jake.
“Thank you.” Jake said.
For awhile there was nothing said. The only thing that was passed between the two was the smoke rising above their heads. Al sensed uneasiness from Jake’s body language.
“What’s on your mind Jake?”
“I was just thinking about what you said before about my freedom “setting in,” Jake answered, “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Well, when I was on parole like you, I also had it with a friend of mine. At first we thought how great it was to be free that was until we had to mix with these animals.” AL replied as his facial expression turned to sadness.
Al went on to say.
“We found out it was more of a struggle to be pushed back into the world then being confined.
Jake was silent as he listened to AL’s advice being told from first hand experience.
“People in this town like any other town don’t usually forget about a man’s past. My friend thought it would be better to go back to the life he had grown to be used to.”
Jake shook his head thinking that wasn’t him, but he wasn’t sure.
Al cleared his throat. Jake didn’t know if it was because of the cigarette or because he thought AL was going to cry.
“He robbed a convienant store. I never got the whole story, but I heard he killed the clerk so he got arrested again. Prison created the monster that killed the clerk.
Jake was speechless.
Al stood up and looked off into the distance.
“I hate to discourage you kid, but you will start to miss those walls.”
AL flicked his cigarette, and started to go back inside.
“The lunch crowd should be getting in here any minute now.” AL announced.
Jake flicked his cigarette and then followed LA inside the restaurant. AL went to the grill, and Jake walked to Softy who stood in the dishpit with an invisible weight on his shoulders.
“I hate this job.” Softy whined.
There was so much on Jake’s mind that he didn’t even hear Softy’s attempt in conversation. Jake then went towards the eating area and Softy followed.
“You okay Jake?” Softy asked.
Jake went through the double doors sliding his feet not saying a word.
“What did you say to him Al?” Softy asked.
“I told him what to expect in his new life.”
There was some regret in Al’s voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Wash your dishes.” Al said bitterly.
+++++++
At 11:30 lunch was served in the restaurant which consisted of Lloyd and his buddies. They were dressed in their work clothes. Lloyd was carrying a black case. The men set down in their same seats at the counter almost as if they were assigned to them. Lloyd cupped his hands so he could call out for AL.
“Hey, AL, I got something to show you.”
Al came through the double doors to see what Lloyd wanted to show him. Lloyd opened the case up to reveal his new Colt .45 revolver with an ivory hand piece.
“Lloyd!” Al yelled. “What have I told you about bringing fire arms in my restaurant?”
“You said don’t bring in anything that a normal respectable person wouldn’t bring in.”
Lloyd said with a smile.
“Hey Al do you want to go outside and shoot something.”
“It shoots like a dream Al.” Charles sais who was one of Lloyd’s buddies.
Lloyd started to make gestures like a cowboy during a show down to try to tempt Al into giving in.
“Lloyd stop waving that thing around. You’ll scare the customers.”
Lloyd obediently put the gun back in it’s case.
“Just wanted to show you.” Lloyd apologized.
“Besides we are the customers.”
Just then a late model BMW pulled up in front of the restaurant. Everyone watched in silence. Lloyd and his buddies were stunned to see a car like that in their part of town. Jake was cleaning off one of the booths that was from breakfast.
The man who was driving the BMW was wearing an expensive suit that seemed to clash with everything in the restaurant especially the people. Even though there were several clean tables, the man sat down at a dirty one. A table where a family had eaten at and left a huge mess for Jake to clean.
Jake stopped cleaning the table he was at and immediately went over to the table the man was sitting at. The people in the restaurant still had their eyes set on the man who didn’t belong in this part of town.
“Hurry up young man.” The man said with the double breasted pin stripe suit.
“I am going as fast as I can, sir.” Jake answered.
“Not good enough, I didn’t get to where I am at today by letting people like you slow me down.”
Al overheard the conversation and was enraged.
“Hey easy on my new employee. We’v had a busy morning, and your rable will be cleaned as soon as possible.”
“I don’t have all day.” The man demanded.
“Well why don’t you go someplace else if you think you’re too good for this one!” Al yelled proudly like it was a privilege to be in his restaurant.
“I don’t have to take this,” the man yelled, “good luck with your business.”
He stormed out of the restaurant with his nose in the air as Al and Janis waved sarcastically.
“I wonder how he can see where he is going with his nose so far up in the air, yuppie scum.” Lloyd snickered.
Everyone laughed except for Jake.
Al whispered to Lloyd.
“You better watch what you say Jake here came from Birch Street.”
“I don’t mind that’s not me anymore.” Jake explained.
“Birch Street?” Lloyd questioned. “What did you do to put yourself into prison, cheat on your taxes or something?”
“You don’t have to say anything, Jake, if you don’t want to.” Al said.
“I might as well or what Lloyd might make up could be worse than the truth.”
The members of the restaurant settled to listen to Jake.
“My parents threw big fancy parties. They invited their friends and told them to invite their friends. They had the best food, music, and the most expensive champagne.”
Al sighed and shook his head like he knew that Jake would later regret telling his story. Despite this Jake went on to say.
“The party that night was like any other. It went on late into the night and early next morning. When the birds started chirping, people began to go home. After awhile no one was left except me and my parents.”
Janis did her chores quietly so she could hear Jake’s story.
“My dad was still pouring champagne even though there was no one to drink it. I guess he figured he would have to. My dad was telling me how he met my mom with the same brand of champagne. My mom was tipsy. She stumbled to get her shoes off, and then she announced she was going upstairs. My dad soon followed.”
Jake didn’t make eye contact with anybody. In fact he was still at a table slowly and quietly cleaning. Jake went on to say.
“I took another glass of champagne and went on the balcony to smoke a cigar. The whole neighborhood was quiet except the birds. He birds eventually stopped for a minute. Soon after I heard two voices one seemed older. They were coming from below the balcony. I stood very still as I heard the older voice tell the other one that people in this neighborhood always left their doors unlocked. The older voice then said, this should be an easy job.”
Lloyd’s eyes widen like an alley cat’s in an oncoming car’s high beams. It was as if he heard the story before. He didn’t say anything, because he wanted to hear the rest of it to make sure.
Jake raised his head from cleaning, and turned around to engage his audience.
“I understood then what the voice meant by ‘job.’ They were going to rob my parent’s house. I heard broken glass. I was scared. I started to hear footsteps coming towards me. I dropped the cigar. The footsteps stopped. Maybe they knew someone was aware of their presents. I heard footsteps under me, and towards me again stepping closer but cautiously. I then came in contact with my dad’s concrete statue. I think it was one of the apostles.”
Jake buried his face in his hands. Then he smoothes them away from his mouth so he could talk.e
“The split second that I saw the stranger’s head away from the balcony, I threw it down. The statue hit the person in the head. He went down. I looked over the balcony and saw that it was an older man. I figured he was dead.”
Jake looked around at all the faces listening. They were shocked. When he looked at Lloyd, Lloyd put his head down like he didn’t want to hear anymore.”
Jake continued slightly hesitating.
“Then I remembered that I heard two voices. I quietly went inside and made it up to my parent’s room. I heard a gunshot followed by another one. The sound pushed me back. I made it to my parent’s room where I saw the man that changed my life. He looked down at the two bodies-my parents. In his right hand he was holding some of my mom’s jewelry, in his black glove. He saw me then pushed me out of the way it all happened so fast I didn’t get a good look at his face. I ran after him. We went through the front door, and past our gate. I didn’t know what I was doing. He tripped before the road, and I fell on top of him. I started beating him. He tried to use the gun, and I somehow beat it out of his hand. I was still beating him, when I picked up a rock that had the family name engrave in it. The next thing I remember is being convicted of murder. The lowest count- If it was on my property, I wouldn’t of had to go to jail-“
Lloyd stood up abruptly.
“Well we have to go.”
Anyone could tell that Jake’s confession had affected Lloyd. So much so that Al’s diner was the last place he wanted to be. He left with his colleagues behind him.
Al noticed the uncomfortable silence projecting itself in the restaurant so he decided to end it.
“Jake, I think we are going to close early. It looks like a slow afternoon.”
Al walked over to where Jake was standing. He put his hands on Jake’s shoulder.
“Maybe it was too soon. They are still trying to get to know you.”
Al padded him on the back.
“Thanks for working hard today.”
Al started to project his voice as he usually did.
“Start to mop the floor. The supplies are next to Softy’s sink.”
Jake did what he was told feeling the eyes of Janis and Softy. Softy shaking his head in disbelief went out the door because he was finished with his job.
“Why did you agree to take him, Al?” Janis asked with a puzzling tone.
“Everyone deserves a second chance. You seem to be overlooking what he witnessed.” Al answered with bitterness.
Al went back to clean the grill when Jake came through the double doors with a bucket full of soapy water and a mop I hand. Janis poured herself the last cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and then put the tip money on the counter near where she was sitting. Jake started mopping on the opposite side of the restaurant. Slowly he turned around and noticed that Janis was staring at him as if he was a murderer. When their eyes met she went back to counting her tips.
“How much money did you make in tips today, Janis?” Jake asked.
The question shook Janis from her judgment.
“I-I think I made enough for this month’s rent.”
“You made out like a bandit, Janis.” Jake said jokingly to break the tension.
Janis then put out her cigarette got up said goodbye to everyone and left. Jake watched her leave, hoping for some insult that would indicate that they were still on the level. He never got one.

The greens of summer faded to Autumn winds blew in venegefully. Replacing the summer warmth with a grayish mood. It had been weeks since Jake’s confession, and his new job was getting old. It was Tuesday, Jake’s day off, so he decided to go for a walk to think of what had become of his past and of him. He walked up the street against the wind. He kept walking until he could hear the sound of a baseball gamee inside the confining doors, he knew so well. Tuesday there was always a baseball game on inside his old home. The infielders were talking shit to the batter as they pounded their gloves. The batter pounded the bat on home plate in anger, and then prepared himself for the pitch.
Jake put his head in between two bars and wrapped his left hand around one of the bars and his right around another, and started reminiscing.
He remembered when he had first entered prison, and the first time he played baseball in the courtyard. He was second base meaning he stood as second base, because the warden never bought bases for the inmates so they had to make up for it some how. You didn’t have a choice rather or not you wanted to be a base on the field because if you didn’t the inmated would give you hell. He could remember how scared he was because it wasn’t the safest position on the field. You couldn’t move just stand there.
During the game, there was a runner on first who decided to steal second. The catcher, who had spend some time in the minors threw the baseball straight at Jake. Jake didn’t even see the ball coming.
The ball smacked Jake right in the middle of his chest. It felt like a cannon ball. It was so painful Jake could hardly stand up, he was at least accepted after that.
He and the catcher joked around about it. The catcher said he would sign Jake’s welt for $50 bucks.
As he was holding onto the bars that had just months before held him in, Jake realized that he missed prison life. He was alone now. He had been lonely in prison but at least in prison everyone was in the same boat. It didn’t matter what your life was like on the outside before. People treated you how you handled the situation. Jake missed his old friends. It’s funny how men had broken the law can find comman ground, but men who followed the law are separated by the good part of town and the bad part of town. Jake felt secluded outside the prison bars.

Jake began a new routine of waking up early and taking crap from the unreasonable customers. He started to feel like a zookeeper, cleaning up after the animals so the tables could be messed up again and again.
Today was one of the slowest days since he had come to AL’s ever, and despite Janis’ threats, Softy, Jake, and AL were outside smoking letting her do all the work. Al and Softy headed back while Jake remained outside to smoke another one.
“I’m surprised Lloyd and his buddies haven’t come in yet.” AL said to Softy.
“Maybe they found a new place to eat.” Softy said innocently.
Janis overheard the conversation.
“Lloyd couldn’t handle a new place. He would then have to act civil.”
Al looked at Softy standing lazily in the corner.
“I’m not paying you to stand around, Softy. Go sweep something.”
Softy went through the double doors, looked back at Al, and protested.
“You’re paying Jake for smoking a cigarette.”
“Worry about your own hide, Softy,” Al yelled.
Suddenly four of Lloyd’s friends came into the diner. They looked like lost children without their guardian. Janis and Al looked at each other in question.
“Where’s Lloyd?” Janis asked.
“Yeah, where’s the fifth wheel?” Al questioned.
One of Lloyd’s friends spoke up.
“We haven’t seen him for about two days.”
Charles raised his head.
“Since he lost his job, I think he’s tending to a bottle of whiskey.”
“I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.” Janis said shaking her head.
“Why did you guys leave him alone? You know what a disappointment it would be for him. Christ, the man had been worked there for 35 years.” Al raised his voice making sure Lloyd’s friends were listening.
“He told us to leave him alone.” Charles answered.
Jake was still outside finishing his cigarette when he heard footsteps coming behind him.
Thinking it was AL playing a trick on him he smiled. He was stottled, however, when he saw it was Lloyd.
Jake laughed and said.
“Oh, Lloyd, it’s you how are you doing?”
Without answering, Lloyd stumbled because his weight was disproportioned. Jake noticed the half-empty bottle of whiskey in his right hand. His face was dirty as if he had fallen asleep face down on the ground. Lloyd used the wall as a guide and slowly moved closer to Jake. When the sun started to meet his eyes, he squinted. Lloyd Growled at Jake, and made his way to the back door.
“Hey Lloyd, you drunk, you can’t go through there,” Jake said jokingly, “Al doesn’t want you to go through that door.”
Lloyd ignored him. Jake walked swiftly towards him and was met by Lloyd’s colt .45.
Lloyd began to slur his speech.
“It looks like we are back where we started. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked terrified at the sight of the gun.
“You killed my boy!”
Suddenly as if a light was turned on. Anger raged through Jake. His inner conductor was shoveling back the past like it was coal in a raging fire. He was facing the man that had help change Jake’s life forever.
“Turn around and go through the back door. I’ll be behind you, so don’t be stupid.” Lloyd threatened.
Jake did as he Lloyd told him to do. He moved slowly inside feeling Lloyd’s movements behind him from the barrel of the gun. A few pokes in Jakes back by Lloyd’s gun directed him into the eating area where everyone was seating. Immediately, they saw the look of fear and hatred etched on Jake’s face like stone hinge. As soon as they saw Jake’s face, they saw Lloyd behind him.
“Hey what is going on?” Al asked.
“He’s got a gun.” Jake said.
“Al get me all the money in the cash register.” Lloyd demanded.
Al walked briskly to the cash register to open it.
“Don’t touch it Al he’s not getting a damn thing!” Jake protested.
Lloyd poked the gun in Jake’s back.
“You thought you were so special in that big house of yours with all those expensive things. It’s funny how all your friends just turned their back on you since they couldn’t profit from you. They left you to rot in that jail cell, and now you don’t own anything like that anymore, do ya Jake?” Lloyd taunted.
“Lloyd, put down the gun. You’re drunk. Go home and sleep it off.” Al said trying to show compassion or divert Lloyd’s attention.
“Home!” Lloyd yelled, “How can I have a home? I have no job. There are no job for a 55 year old man in Paradise.”
“Give me the money in the cash register!” Lloyd yelled again this time with drunken rage.
Al put his hand in the cash register, when Jake interrupted.
“You’re not going to get any money, Lloyd.” Jake said calmly.
“Jake, he has a gun to you. Let it go. It’ll be alright.” Al said trying to ease the tension.
“You think this gun scares me? He’s already taken everything from me. There is nothing anyone can do about that. He might as well finished what he started.” Jake raised his voice.
Lloyd replied in a mocking tone.
“You think you’ve been through a lot? Try having nothing your whole life.”
“I’m tired of listening to your talk. Finish what you started,” Jake raised his voice again and then lowered it, “Maybe that is why you got fired from your construction job.”
Jake turned around slowly so he could face Lloyd. Lloyd stepped back to create more distance between Jake and the gun.
“Shoot me or quit wasting my time.” Jake demanded.
Lloyd was dumbfounded. The other employees in the diner stood frozen, stunningly with a dropped jaw. Lloyd pointed the gun to Jake’s head.
“You do realize that you can shoot me, but you will never forget me because I’m the one that killed your son.” Jake whispered so only Lloyd could hear.
Suddenly two shots rang out though the diner, and Jake’s lifeless body fell to the floor. Lloyd took one look at the shocked faces in the diner, and with the last bit of rage he walked swiftly to the cash register which was his only real intention during the ordeal. He picked it up over his head and threw it down. The impact broke the door open and the money inside scattered over the floor, some landed on Jake’s body-dead. Lloyd looked at the money that had drifted on the body and felt like he was being mocked by Jake then he turned and stormed out of the restaurant.
The people in the diner stood motionless like statues and statuettes representing a moment in history affecting the lives of the past present and future. There was no sound in the diner. Everyone left looked at the remains with disillusionment. The body underneath the artificial lighting of the diner bled the colors of lost.

a veteran named John

11/17/10

John was a radar operator during the Vietnam era. One time he was in the field and the ground, where he slept and where he worked was covered with trantulas. He told us that they had to flick them off step on them and what not.
John and I got along.
Most of the guys in my veterans group were older and from the Vietnam era. Being the youngest I was often asked,"So what are you going to do for the rest of your life?"
I was annoyed by that question whenerver I was at Mcguire.
I guess JOhn was annoyed he told me to tell them that I was retired which he enjoyed telling other people.
John hated religion and he hated Barack Obama he often asked the doctors and the social workers if those subjects would be avoided in group discussions. He often complained or left the room when someone mentioned the president or Jesus. That annoyed me.
One day in Men's group he talked about a woman or a random sexual enccounter. He got an STD known as the clap from this particualr woman. Most of his stories about sexual enccounters ended with what STD he got from it.
One day, I wasn't there, but the other vets discussed how hard it was to take a risk when you got older. This was in psychotherapy. In my opinion, risk are always hard. However we are took a risk in joining the military.
John's delimna (one of many) was that he was starting to feel lonely.
He said in group that all of us are social butterflies when we are in here but when we leave we are loners.
John had been talking to an ex-girlfriend of his who lived in Wisconsin.
I guess things were getting pretty hot and heavy when I showed up one day to find out JOhn had had left for Wisoonsin. He was keeping in contact with a doctor, who we both had a crush on. The doctor told the group that day that it wasn't working out.
SHe told me that he specifficlly told her to tell me that he may be back.
However, he never came back. He relocated to Puerto Rico. This was about the time summer was done and the weather was becoming cooler.
John usually wore his flip flops and shorts for as long as he could.God only knows why he moved to Wisconsin for a woman. I am sure the cold got to him as well.
When I heard he moved to Puerto Rico, it made me smile. John was in the heat. He was probably at the beach right then and there maybe bare footed and soaking up the raze.
I missed JOhn and even the annoyance.

The Causeway Corporation

The Causeway Corporation

The Causeway Corporation building could be seen by astronauts in space. The curiosity of every generation, questioned if there was even a top, and children counted the windows to the roof, but as their necks got sore, they lost count. It was everyone’s goal to work in the tall building with a roof that no one, even those employed there, had ever seen.
The Causeway Corporation was named after Mr. Causeway. Ever since he made his first 50 cents, he knew the only thing he wanted was to make money, and he would do it by any means necessary. His business now was business development.
Thomas worked as an accountant in the Causeway Corporation. He was thankful for his job, he was good at it, and he couldn’t see himself doing anything else. However, when Thomas was a kid he was a dreamer. His head was always in the clouds. He didn’t remember the transition from a dreamer to being so called by the book which is what he was now. Some of his fellow employees would even go as far to say he was anal. There was no real spark in his life. His life was based on routine.
He rarely ever complained, even after that ex- employee walked out and occasionally came back to steal the office supplies. Thomas still didn’t complain, even though every Monday he had to go to the supply department to get more tape, pens, notepads, calculator, and a desk chair.
Thomas figured they had escaped to go on vacation, and they wouldn’t come back. He saw a brochure that read Jamaica on his desk. Thomas figured that was where they had gone. It was his little joke that no one laughed about.
One Monday, Thomas was waiting in a line at the supply department to get his supplies back. Eddie was in front, and Eddie didn’t like his job as an accountant in a large corporation.
Eddie did a little bit of work then he would go to the other employees to chew the fat until the employees went home for the day.
“Hey, Thomas,” Eddie said.
Thomas didn’t like Eddie so it was hard for him to say a ‘Hey,’ back.
“Wow,” said Eddie, “We are getting close to the front of the line. I think I am going to go back to the end of the line.”
Eddie did this all the time on Monday. Thomas stayed in the same spot so he could get his supplies and go back to work.
Eddie left, and Thomas figured he wouldn’t get his supplies until Wednesday.
Closer to the supply department, Thomas noticed his boss. He liked his boss.
Also Thomas noticed Suzie, who Thomas liked a lot not, just as a friend, but like in marriage. Thomas had a problem with talking with her, because he liked her so much.
Thomas started singing.
“I like the way you walk I like the way you talk…oh Suzie Q.”
Suzie heard that song 20 times a day from Thomas, and she was tired of it.
“How’s it going Ms. Q.?” Thomas asked.
“Actually it is MS. Smith.” Suzie said.
Thomas started singing the song again only this time he added her last name, and it didn’t fit.
The two of them were close enough to the front of the line that their boss could hear the exchange.
The boss looked at the supply manager.
“You see most of my day is hearing complaints like this. Meanwhile we don’t know where all the supplies are going.”
The supply manager smiled.
“We need locks on the doors, so people who leave can’t come back.”
The boss scratched his chin. “Locks?”
“My supplies are in Jamaica. I saw a brochure on my desk.” Thomas said using his real voice.
“They’re not in Jamaica. I bet it was that ex-employee.” The supply manger announced.
“Okay we’ll put locks on the doors. Who can deal with the complaints?”
“Well, I give resources for humans to do their job but humans need resources. Human resources?”
“That can be a whole other department.” The boss said.
The supply manager started handing out supplies to Thomas. As Thomas’s arms got full his boss nodded at him.
“I will be in your office in about a half hour. I have something to discuss with you.”
Thomas’s arms were full, but still he manages to get out. “I am waiting for you.”
Thomas went back to his office.
In a half hour Thomas’ boss showed up. Thomas’ door was wide opened so he just walked right on in.
“Hi, Mr. Jenkins.” Thomas said.
Mr. Jenkins stayed at the door and looked around outside of Thomas’ office.
“Would you mind if I shut the door?” Mr. Jenkins asked.
Thomas figured he was in trouble because of the Susie Q. comment he had made earlier in the day.
Mr. Jenkins shut the door and sat down in a chair in front of Thomas’s desk.
Thomas figured he would start.
“I am sorry about what I said to Suzie. I didn’t realize…”
“Forget about that,” interrupted Mr. Jenkins, “Listen, I have a business proposal for you.”
“Business proposal? Am I being promoted?” Thomas asked.
“No, you are not being promoted. What do you think of Jamaica?”
“Jamaica? I have never been there.”
“I would like you to get onboard with Mr. Coltrane-“
“Mr. Coltrane?” Thomas inquired.
He went on to asked. “The old director of human resources? Whatever happened to him?”
“He works for me now in Jamaica.” Mr. Jenkins answered.
“Doing what?” Thomas asked.
“Let me finish.” Mr. Jenkins said, as he went on to say.
“Mr. Coltrane and Tom…”
“Tom, the guy who has been stealing our office supplies?” Thomas inquired again.
“Yes,” Mr. Jenkins hesitated, “We are going to have a scuba business in Jamaica.”
“The Causeway Corporation is getting into scuba diving?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Jenkins started getting irate and impatient.
“Listen we are starting our own business, and we need an accountant.”
“What about my job here?” Thomas asked.
“Corporate America is unholy. Corporate America steps on the small guy to make a buck.”
“So you want me to quit to be in business with you?” Thomas asked.
“I want you to be fired.” Mr. Jenkins answered.
“Fired? I have never been fired. Besides this is a good job.”
“Let me tell you something about The Causeway Corporation. Because of us, the powers that be are tearing down homeless shelters, buying up soup kitchens, not to mention taking control of businesses that hire people that will be laid off. You want to know why?”
“Why?” Thomas asked.
“So that Mr. Causeway can control our little town city. You don’t want to work for him. For awhile I have been slowly but surely destroying this corporation. I was supposed to pick a security system- a high dollar system for the safety of the corporation. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t been doing much here. I was suppose to hire a human resource guy three months ago. I guess I sometimes play dumb. I even hired Eddie.”
“Well, why would I want to go into scuba diving and help out a bunch of yuppies on summer vacation?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Jenkins shrugged his shoulders.
“Not just yuppies but also the physically handicapped.” Mr. Jenkins answered.
“The handicapped?” Thomas asked.
“For people in wheelchairs, to be underwater is to be in an environment with no gravity. It is therapy for them.” Mr. Jenkins answered.
“Mr. Coltrane owns a boat and is already down there. I know a guy in Jamaica who has all the scuba diving equipment, and Tom is a certified diving instructor. Tom is also stealing company supplies so we don’t have to buy any for a long time.”
“Why now? Why do you feel the need to help the physically handicapped?” Thomas asked.
“Helping people is my new paycheck. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Mr. Jenkins answered.
Mr. Jenkins went on to say, “Ever since I have stopped taking over other businesses that either help out the community or help people I have experience a rebirth. I’ve forgotten my own problems. I have become addicted. I can’t see myself doing anything else.”
Mr. Jenkins’ passion was inspiring, but still Thomas had more questions.
“Why do I have to be fired? Why can’t I just put in my two weeks?”
“It is the prerequisite for the job. Get fired, and then be instantly rehired by me.”
“How long do I have?” Thomas asked.
“Two days. You get fired tomorrow by me, and the next day we go to Jamaica. We already have your ticket”
“Why me? Why not Eddie?” Thomas asked.
“Eddie hasn’t done an honest day’s work in months possibly since he was hired that is why I hired him. It is all apart of the plan. Besides that, I want you, because it would hurt Mr. Causeway himself.”
“Are you going to be fired?” Thomas asked.
“Well, the work has just been collecting on my desk and I was supposed to hire a new human resources guy weeks ago.”
Thomas understood that it was only a matter of time until Mr. Jenkins’ got canned from his job as well.
“Can I have some time to think about this?” Thomas asked.
“You can go home early.” Mr. Jenkins’ answered.
Thomas snickered.
The two men stood up from their chairs and shook hands.
“Now, do you want to see acting that should be awarded an Oscar?” Mr. Jenkins’ asked.
Thomas smiled.
Mr. Jenkins opened the door, and yelled at the top of his lungs in the direction of the other employee’s work stations.
“Stop singing Suzie Q! I don’t care if Credence Clearwater is your favorite band!”
Mr. Jenkins’ looked back at Thomas and whispered.
“I would like to thank the Academy.”
Then he left leaving Thomas staring at the brochure of Jamaica.
Outside it was winter. Flurries in the shape of tiny cotton balls were falling but not sticking. The wind was howling and felt like tiny needle pricks of cold air. Thomas decided he would, in fact, go home but first he had to put on his sweater, overcoat, scarf, gloves, and toboggan. He also brought the brochure of Jamaica. He, however, left his brief case containing some work he had to do at home.
Thomas left his office, waving at Suzie and got into the elevator to go down.
Thomas entered his apartment shivering. He took off his winter apparel and decided to take a hot bath. He took the brochure with him.
“I’ve never gone scuba diving before,” Thomas thought to himself.
Thomas added bubbles to his bath and continued to think. He couldn’t see himself working for anybody except Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins had hired him, and now he wanted to hire him again for a very different job.
The pictures in the brochure showed pictures of a bluish greenish ocean and white sandy beaches. There were sunbathing women, even more beautiful then Suzie, in bikinis.
He began thinking about starting a new business. It is always risky, and becoming successful in these times sometimes seems impossible. But then again when was the last time he took a risk like this? It was for a good cause, and he couldn’t forget Mr. Jenkins’ passion. That was it; he was going to do it.
The next item on the agenda was to get fired. How was he going to do that? Thomas spent the rest of the night thinking about it, and came up with a plan.
Thomas woke up the next morning energized and motivated by his idea on how to get fired. It made him feel like a kid again. He put on is usual suit and tie, not because he wanted to dress this way but more out of habit than anything else. After he tied his tie he took one last look in his mirror.
“I will do it just as long as I don’t have to wear a tie.”
Thomas spent a couple of minutes looking for his brief case, which was also part of his daily routine, but then remembered he left it in his office. Finally, after putting on his overcoat, scarf, and toboggan on, he went out into the cold winter.
Entering the Causeway building, Thomas decided to put his idea into place. He got onto the elevator with Suzie and several others employees. Today the elevator was playing smooth jazz. Hearing the music, Thomas started booty grinding on Suzie who was trying to do her crossword puzzle. In a state of shock, she hit Thomas with the rolled up paper and yelled.
“Back up!”
This didn’t stop Thomas. He started taking off all his winter apparel. After that he took off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. The other passengers looked on in horror. Thomas was still dancing.
The elevator stopped at Suzie and Thomas’ floor. Thomas stood in between the doors, continuing to undress--unbuttoning his pants and unzipping his fly. The doors of the elevator began to close then they opened up again but because Thomas was in the doorway.
The other passengers started yelling for him to move and to put his clothes back on. Finally Suzie pushed him out of the doors, and they both left the elevator. Thomas followed her, snapping his fingers and doing his Chippendale’s dance.
Several of the employees stopped what they were doing to watch Thomas. Mr. Jenkins stepped out of his office to see what was going on. Thomas noticed that Mr. Jenkins was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cut off shorts. He also had sunglasses in his shirt pocket. There was a big smile on his face.
Thomas followed Suzie to her office. Suzie slammed the door in his face as Thomas slid off his pants.
Surprisingly events like this had happened before at the Causeway Corporations--several times in fact, when employees become too stressed. The other employees would stare, and after the crazed employee was taken away, the events became a story to be told time and time again at the water cooler.
Suddenly Mr. Causeway showed. It was a rare appearance and Thomas stopped for a minute, saluted, and then moved closer to Mr. Causeway. Quickly Thomas grabbed Mr. Causeway’s hip with one hand and his hand, and as everyone watched they started ballroom dancing.
“Stop this at once!” Mr. Causeway yelled.
“Oh, come on!” Thomas shouted back.
Mr. Causeway pulled his hand back and forced himself away from Thomas, and stumbled.
“Stop this dancing! There isn’t even any music! Where’s Mr. Jenkins? Mr. Jenkins!”
Mr. Jenkins raised a finger and said. “Yes, Captain.”
Mr. Causeway turned around to see Mr. Jenkins. His eyes widened in anger when he noticed what Mr. Jenkins was wearing.
“Dispose of this employee!” Mr. Causeway roared as he straightened his tie and regained his dignity.
“You’re right; he should be dancing to classic rock.” Mr. Jenkins concluded.
Mr. Jenkins went into his office and turned on his radio. It was a classic rock station and Led Zeppelin was playing. Thomas went over to Mr. Jenkins and started slam dancing.
“Mr. Jenkins! Mr. Jenkins!” Mr. Causeway yelled.
Mr. Jenkins stopped, but Thomas kept on going.
“The board will want to discuss your most recent behavior immediately.” Mr. Causeway said as calmly as he could.
Mr. Causeway went to the elevators and disappeared into one. The doors began to shut then reopened continuously. Mr. Causeway threw Thomas clothes out of the elevator and yelled.
“Put on your clothes!!”
The music was still playing as the ship went slowly down.
Mr. Jenkins asked Thomas to step into his office, and as Thomas went in, Mr. Jenkins shut the door. Since the excitement of the morning appeared to be over, the other employees went back to work.
Meanwhile in Mr. Jenkins’ office, Thomas was the first to speak.
“I will not wear a tie.”
“I don’t think they have ties in Jamaica.”
They both laughed.
“You’re fired.” Mr. Jenkins laughed hysterically.
“Did you see the old man’s face?” Thomas asked, laughing as well.
“The plane leaves at 10:00am tomorrow, and we will be waiting for you at Gate 7.”
“And you will have my ticket?” Thomas asked.
“Yep, and you should pack light. Don’t bring everything you own. They charge an arm and a leg for luggage nowadays.”
“Okay.” Thomas said.
“By the way, my name is Rick.” Mr. Jenkins said.
Thomas had worked for Mr. Jenkins for years and never knew his first name.
“Okay, put your clothes back on, and I will see you tomorrow.” Rick said.
“Have fun with the Board of Directors.” Thomas said standing up to leave.
“I know I will.”

Taken from my book, When We Were Young

Empty on a Full Tank of Rum
Hash was a friend who lived in a neighborhood full of business executives and lawyers. The houses surrounded a golf course, and they all looked the same. His dad battled cancer when he was about twelve. I didn't know him then, but friends who did said they saw him change as his dad got worse. Then his dad died, and he became like us--that piece of the puzzle that was manufactured wrong and just didn't fit no matter how you tried to turn the piece.
I was friends with him because we were in a band together back in high school. When some of the guys formed another band with Hash, he asked me to play guitar. I said no. They wanted a sound like all the other bands out there that complained about breaking up with a girl--or just complained. I felt there was more to life then breaking up--what about breaking in? That was why I’d said no. Still, we were all friends.
Hash was kicked out of the band for reasons that I don’t know, but they may have been because of his drinking and drug use. Personally, I thought he got fucked over. He was still a good drummer.
I graduated high school before him, but we kept in touch. He was struggling for a passing grade. It wasn't that he was stupid; it was just that he had better things to do, like getting a paycheck and drinking.
One night, he came over to the apartment. Tactics bought him bottles of cheap vodka and rum. Beer was already in the fridge, so Hash used an uncola chaser, and I used grapefruit juice with the vodka. There was a high probability, we weren't going to remember that night.
Tactics started on beer first and then worked to vodka and rum. We watched a movie that boosted our testosterone, and our drinks enhanced our destructive impulses. Everyone has these destructive impulses, and maybe they should give into them sometimes.
Pirating was routine for Tactics and me; we'd been doing it since we'd moved in to our apartment. It almost seemed like a job. Whenever you saw the FEAR stencil, it was like payday. We weren't revolutionaries; we just had nothing better to do. Boredom and everything else in our life was our motive. We always put on our dark clothing for our pirate voyage. This was the best job. But Hash seemed lost.
"Does anyone have any dark clothes for me to wear?"
Tactics put on his ski mask. "Here are some pants. We're driving your car."
Tactics grabbed his FEAR stencil and two cans of spray paint. We each had our own pack of cigarettes, and it was a unanimous decision to bring what was left of the rum. We walked quickly to Hash's car, blending in with the darkness in the silent parking lot.
Hash drove and held onto the bottle of rum. Tactics rode shotgun, and I was in the back seat of the red BMW. Tactics showed Hash the church and a convenience store that were already tagged with our mark: FEAR. The sight of FEAR stenciled on the wall at these locations always made the drive to and from school a little more satisfying.
Hash laughed out loud, almost spilling the rum. Tonight we had our sights on something bigger, a place visible and well-known to everyone who lived in this small town.
Growing up going to a church like this, two things could happen to you: (1) you could learn how to live a life of no sex or no drugs or no real opinion on how things are; or (2) you could catch up on your sleep from the night before. I should have brought a pillow.
This church, like most, was the ultimate symbol for fear--the fear of living, the fear of dying, and the fear of truly being free.
Hash parked in the side parking lot. Tactics held his spray can tightly, and I took a few swigs of rum, and then passed the bottle back to Hash. The smell of rage, boredom, and revenge released was more than the rum. This was our baptism.
Tactics gave a count of three, while Hash drank the rum and kept the engine going for a quick getaway. Tactics and I were in a dead sprint to the side doors of the clone factory. He quickly painted FEAR on the windows and the bricks. I spent my time destroying anything breakable. Tactics looked at me and gave a nod to run back to Hash's car. I was still laughing.
We got in, and Hash drove away in skids and squeals.
"What did you guys do?" Hash asked.
Still laughing, I said, "Tactic spray painted the church."
"I know, man. I'm disappointed in myself," Tactics said.
"Why?" asked Hash.
"I couldn't think of anything to say,” Tactics answered. “I was there staring at the wall with my spray paint, and I couldn't think of anything to say. I used to do this all the time in Richmond."
"Maybe you're getting old,” I said.
"Shut up! Pass me the rum."
If there is a God, I thought, we were definitely going to hell. The way I saw it, on the other hand, was if all my friends were there, and if my heroes were already there, then I was glad I was burning with the people I cared about.
"You have to create your own fun in this town," said Tactics.
We drove downtown, past the barhopping drunkards, past the kids with nothing to do, past a few cop cars.
Hash pulled behind a white Bronco. Purple lettering on the side said the vehicle belonged to Dr. DJ. The vehicle was also decorated with a phone number and the slogan, “Let's party.”
"He probably finished playing some middle-school dance," said Tactics.
"What a waste,” I said.
"I hate pop. You know that's all he was hearing tonight," said Hash.
So it was unanimous to get Dr. DJ for the common good (what was left of it). We all took a drink. Tactics put his ski mask back on and stared, Hash flicked him off, and I started to realize how drunk Hash was becoming as his head became heavier.
Dr. DJ stopped at a convenience store and parked in their lot, so Hash parked in a different parking lot. The parking lots were separated by a two-foot high wall. We waited, not knowing what we were actually doing.
The unsuspecting Dr DJ came out with a cold beverage, got into his Dr. DJ mobile, and drove away.
"He's getting away!" yelled Tactics.
Hash revved up the engine and drove at top speed over the small wall. For a split second, his car was in the air, not finding the ground underneath. The contact as the car hit the pavement sounded like a ravenous drummer in a quartet beating everything back. As sparks flew, we howled.
Hash maintained control of the car, and we were in heated pursuit of Dr. DJ.
Realizing Dr DJ was out of our sight, Hash yelled, "Where the hell is he?"
"Wow, Hash. Your drunk driving skills are excellent," said Tactics.
I chugged the rum and cola. Finishing it, I wondered why I wasn't feeling the effects, but I was sober enough to say, "We are all going to die."
These words initiated more howling.
I thought that if this was going to be used later as a re-enactment of drunk driving for a drivers improvement class, we might as well make the most of it. Either way, we had no real destination in mind. We could have gone anywhere that night, but we stayed within the confines of the small town.
"Hey, Hash. Where are we going?" asked Tactics.
"I don't know. Just driving. Where are we?" slurred Hash, "I can't believe I'm still driving."
Tactic started giving Hash random directions. "All right, man. Go left, go right, and remember to keep your foot on the gas."
We ended up in a residential area.
"Hey, Tactics," I said, "you think Hash is okay to drive?"
"Yeah, sure,” Tactics answered. “Jonah, check out this soccer mom Caravan in front of us. Ya think I should?"
"Hell, yeah," slurred Hash as he slowly started to pass out.
"No Hash, you can't go to sleep. You have to drive," Tactics insisted.
"Oh, all right. Hey, this is a nice neighborhood. Maybe I'll live here after I move out of my mom's house," Hash concluded.
Tactics ran out and stenciled FEAR on the van. In a few hours when the baby factory woke up, she would go into cardiac arrest. Tactics jumped back in the car, and we laughed.
Hash pulled out and found his way back to a well-lighted, main stretch of road, a place where three guys as drunk as we were shouldn't have been.
Our heads were full of rum and beer, and suddenly a cop car was on our left side. This was sobering, as another one, and then another, drove with us down the long stretch of road. There was nothing but silence between us. Was this it? Were we going to be pulled over?
The three of us softly strapped on our seat belts and faced forward, hands folded on our laps like a group of choir boys on their way to church. I needed more rum.
I didn't want to go to jail, and I didn't think Hash should have been driving, but, lucky for us, the three cops turned left while we went right through an intersection. The howling began again.
"Where are we?" asked Tactics.
"I was about to ask you the same question,” I said.
"Whoa, we're drunk!" yelled the insightful Hash.
Confusion crept up like vomit as Hash nodded off at the wheel, causing the car to swerve. It was late enough that we didn't have to worry about other cars on the road, but the median kept getting closer and closer. It was only a matter of time before we heard BLAMA! CHUNK! and CHUNK! Two wheels were where they were supposed to be, but the other set was on the median.
Tactics took the wheel and refreshed Hash's memory about what straight meant.
"See those dotted lines on your right and that yellow line on your left? Stay between those,” he said.
"What go right?" slurred Hash.
Tactics surveyed the situation and told Hash to turn into the parking lot of a convenience store that was closed.
"I'm driving," said Tactics.
"No! Uh, I have to take a piss," Hash answered.
Drunk and disorderly, Hash stumbled out of the car at the same time that he tried to unzip his fly.
"Don't piss on your car, man!" I yelled.
"Where is it?" asked Hash.
"Just keep walking straight, man, to the store. Piss there,” I said.
"Where's the yellow line, man?" Hash asked.
Hash walked with one hand holding his zipper, which was down, and the other hand holding his crotch.
"I'm kind of drunk, but I can drive,” I told Tactics.
"No,” Tactics answered. “I'm drunk, but I know my way home."
"Ok, you drive. But where are we?" I asked.
"I don't know, but I do know I should be driving."
Hash came back and sat in the front seat, where he immediately fell into the monk prayer position. Tactics went to take a piss and returned with a potted plant.
"What's with the plant?" I asked.
"It may look nice in our apartment,” he answered.
"Cool," I concluded.
Hash groaned, "I can't remember the last time I was this fucked, uh, this fucked up."
"If you could remember, you wouldn't have been fucked up," I told him.
"Whooo, I'm fucked up?" yelled Hash as he went under in a deep sleep.
"Bullshit, Hash. If I have to be up, so do you," announced Tactics. "I didn't know I was going to babysit tonight."
"Do you know where we are yet?" I asked.
Tactics and I looked around, trying to find anything that looked familiar. We knew we were nowhere near home, but we didn’t know how far. I wondered if we were in the same state.
"It looks like the back woods," Tactics said.
We were immediately scared, in a vacant highway sort of way. The road wasn't lit, and we had already passed several decent places to put a dead body.
Finally, we passed a sign that meant sleep, rest, and relaxation to us--or “home, the small town blend,” 27 miles away.
"I know where we are," cheered Tactics, "only 27 miles! How in the hell did we get this far away from home?"
"Everybody, just sit back and relax," Tactics said as if he was a flight attendant.
"Attention, ladies, and gentlemen, and Hash. The pilot finally knows where we are," I announced as if I was a on a loud speaker.
Hash groaned.
I sat back in my seat, rolled down the window, and breathed easier. This was the perfect cool summer night to have an adventure with a few detours. Too bad Hash would never remember this.
"Hey, Tactics, put on some music,” I said.
"Good call. You got a cigarette?" he asked.
I handed him my last, and that was when I noticed how close the orange needle was to the E and getting larger. It all started to sink in. We were almost on empty.
"Hey Tactics, we are almost out of gas," I told him.
"Oh shit! We have enough. We can make it."
I punched the back of Hash's seat. "Why didn't you fill up before this excursion? That is irresponsible behavior!"
Hash groaned.
"We'll make it," Tactics said.
"I dig your optimism, man, but we still have 20 miles left,” I told him.
"If we can only get to a gas station," said Tactics.
"We're in the back woods. I don't think they have gasoline-powered engines in this neck of the woods,” I told him.
Tactics laughed. "I think they do, man. The problem will be finding a gas station that is open. They actually close them out here."
The car jerked as it sucked up the last drop of gasoline. The end was close, and we managed to get to the crest of a hill and coast down. Tactics moved his shoulders and back forward and backward, trying to inch the car closer to home, forgetting that he wasn't a part of the engine that refused to go any farther. We stared spitefully at Hash and at each other.
"Hey, Hash. We have a problem," said Tactics.
Hash moaned.
"It involves your mom's car," I said.
"Fuck it," groaned Hash.
I looked around to the right and saw an old cabin. A dog chained to a tree was barking. At the top of the next hill (the one that we failed to go up), I could see a gasoline station that appeared to be closed. We got out of the car, and Hash tried to stand. Tactics gave me the potted plant.
"Throw it as far as you can."
"I thought this was for the apartment?" I inquired.
"Get rid of the evidence," Tactics said.
"Speaking of evidence, look at your hands,” I said.
Tactic's hands were caked in silver and black spray paint. We started laughing.
"Do you have a plan, Jonah?" he asked.
"Yeah, first we can sell Hash to whoever lives in that cabin."
"No, they wouldn't take him. Hash is too skinny," Tactics answered.
"I'm sure he would love to have him on a leash. Anyway, the other plan is that I'm going to get out and walk until I find something that will help our situation."
"Are you sure, brother?" Tactics asked.
"Yeah man, I got it taken care of,” I answered.
I got out, took a few cigarettes from Hash's pack, and gave them to Tactics. "I'm out, so we might as well take his. He won't know," I said.
Hash stumbled back into the car.
"If I don't come back in 45 minutes, don't come looking for me. You know what happens,” I announced.
"Why would I want to? It’s cold as hell out. Be careful, though. I'll stay here and take care of this guy," Tactics said.
I started walking, feeling the splinters of a cold wind. I wrapped my arms around myself trying to get warm, all the time calling myself the hero of the evening of hell we were going through. The Immortal. The Chosen One. I was still freezing.
My face was chapped, making it scrunched up like a villain from an old Saturday morning cartoon. I couldn’t forget that I was wearing all black and looking like I was up to no good. This was also a problem when I tried to hitch hike, because no one saw me until after they passed me by. The black made me invisible. I finally found a brilliantly lit restaurant that was open 24 hours.
As I entered the restaurant, everyone stopped their conversation and stared at me like eggs served over easy. I strolled to the front desk and asked the host if I could use the phone or get some help because my friends and I were out of gas on the side of the road a ways back.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Wow, that sounds like a problem. But you can't use our phone, because you’re not a paying customer, but we probably have an empty milk jug.
"A milk jug?" I inquired.
"Yeah, put gasoline in it when you find a gas station," he said.
I said thanks, even though I could have really used a free phone call. I didn't have 35 cents. I did have $2, but I needed to use that money to buy gas.
I walked back to the car, freezing and carrying the milk jug. Too bad the rum was gone. I got back in the car with no clue or solution for our dilemma--just an empty milk jug. I told Tactics everything that happened.
"So now. What do you want to do?" Tactics asked.
"I guess wait until that gasoline station opens,” I answered.
Suddenly I heard it and felt it. The wail of sirens crawled up my shins, my thighs, and my back, and it felt like a sandpaper massage. It was a cop car.
This was it. We were going to jail. I would have to call my parents, and for the rest of my life I would never hear the end of it, the time my parents had to pick me up from jail at 4:30 am.
I quickly acknowledged my fate--either way, it was a great experience. Too bad Hash still had no clue about what was going on.
"What the hell are you boys doing on the side of the road at this hour?" the cop said as he rolled down his window.
I could tell by the twang of the voice the cop was from around here.
"Car trouble," said Tactics.
"What's wrong?" he asked as he slowly got out of his car.
"We're out of gas,” I said.
Tactics shook his head as the cop approached closer. "Here it comes," He said to me under his breath.
"What's wrong with your friend in the front seat?" the cop asked.
"He's stupid,” I yelled back.
The cop chuckled. "You boys need a ride?"
Tactics and I looked at each other. One of us had to go. I knew that both of us probably reeked of rum, beer, and vodka but, for some reason, we felt sober now.
"You want to go?" Tactics asked me.
"Let's send out Hash. He hasn't done anything the whole night,” I whispered to Tactics so that the cop couldn’t hear.
"I wish," Tactics mumbled.
"Yeah, I'll go,” I said.
I got out of the red BMW with my empty milk jug and opened the door of the cop’s car for what might be a death trap.
The cop was smoking cherry pipe tobacco, his hat lay on the dashboard, and I rested easier as the stench of cheap whiskey plagued the rest of the car.
"Top of the morning to ya," I said.
"How ya doing, partner?" he asked cordially.
He started driving, and the area began to look more familiar to me.
"Everything was going good until we ran out of gas,” I told him.
"That's a problem," he said.
"Yup. Do you always have to wake up this early?" I asked making random conversation.
"Yup."
"Is that your hat on the dashboard?" I asked.
"Yup."
"Mind if I put it on?" I asked.
"No! Are you crazy?"
"Ah, come on," I pleaded.
He chuckled devilishly. "You’re something."
Paranoia suddenly visited me. Was this a guy shooting the shit with me? Or was he some deranged homosexual cop who enjoyed picking up young 19-year-old boys on a vacant highway? If so, the only thing I had to defend myself was an empty milk jug.
I let out a long sigh as he pulled over at a gasoline station. I got out with the milk jug and filled it to the top, spilling gasoline on myself. I went inside and paid for my milk jug full of gas.
The lady smiled at me and shook her head. "Had a rough night?"
I sighed. "You have no idea."
I got back in to the cop car, and we drove back in total silence. I felt satisfied though, because we had enough gasoline to get back home. He stopped at Hash's car, and I got out, holding the milk jug full of gasoline like a trophy. I thanked the cop, and he drove away.
Tactics flipped the gas cap open and got out of the car. I unscrewed the lid and poured the gasoline in. But I stopped when I realized that most of the gasoline was on my feet.
"We need a nozzle to put the gasoline in," I stammered.
"We're stupid," Tactics said, monotone.
Insanity conquered my senses, "Ha, ha, ha, we are going to die here. We'll never leave, and Hash doesn't give a shit."
"Man, I'm going to walk up to the gasoline station and use the phone. Everything will be cool." Tactics reassured me.
"Wear your ski mask; its cold,” I advised.
Tactics started walking, and I sat in the driver's seat plotting against Hash. Meanwhile, the night sky was fading past midnight blue into dawn awakenings, different shades of orange, purple, and gold found their routine, and the sun threatened to show. I had my own picture show right in front of me. Sometimes the sunset can be as motivating as a beautiful blonde who asks you for directions.
"Hey, Hash. You're missing it," I whispered.
He moaned.
"Suit yourself," I told him.
I stopped thinking about sleeping, about being under the covers and having a pillow under my head. I smoked Hash's last cigarette as the new day came in. I wondered if Tactics was seeing this--as midnight black became obsolete, the sun was shining through the night I’d just had. I looked over at the old cabin, and even that looked better than it had when we’d first arrived on empty.
The sun slowly came up, and cars were around, and a few cars passed us probably wondering what predicament we might be in. I stared as the sun rose, and I thought how much people take advantage of it. Now, that was the thing that will never become digitalized.
Then there it was… a tow truck arriving in the midst of a new day rising. I looked around to see if any other cars were on the side of the road. No, it had to be ours. It pulled up in front of Hash's car. Tactics jumped out of the cab, and the driver followed.
"He's going to tow us all the way back home," said Tactics.
"Is there enough room in the cab?" I asked.
"Nope, you're gonna sit in your friend’s car and enjoy the ride. Your friend looks like he had a few too many," the driver said.
"He's not my friend," I said.
I got in the car as the driver hooked up to his classic tow truck with the crane high in the air.
The sudden jerks awoke Hash, and the confusion on his face as his jaw dropped closer to the ground was indescribable. He had no idea where he was or who he was. His eyes were heavy, yet still open.
"Hash, you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep,” I told him. He did so.
We were at a 45-degree angle behind a tow truck and finally going home. I waved at all the senior citizens as they prepared to terrorize the employees at breakfast places offering discounts to the elderly. They stared back in disbelief, and I gave them the thumbs up, like I was an astronaut waiting to be shot into space.
I enjoyed the ride all the way back to our apartment. The driver parked Hash's car perfectly and lowered it to the ground.
We were back home, and Hash was still passed out. I tried waking him up, but he wouldn't budge. I finally gave up and left him sleeping in his car. The car was his problem now.
Tactics and I sluggishly strolled into our apartment, ate a can of pork and beans, and went to sleep to the sound of Miles Davis. I had only one regret…if only Gloria had seen me riding behind that classic tow truck.