Third Striker

"If you want to stop, I'll stop." My rookie ride along had been dropping hints like my three year old for the last half hour about being hungry.
"We can if you want to but I really don't have much money."
"Son, be a police officer. Stand up, show em your badge, and remind them who is out there serving and protecting fine restaurants like Juan’s eatery."

Of course, I probably should have given the rookie a chance instead of taking him to a place where most of the guys have long ago worked out a fair exchange.
"Four fourteen," are the numbers that ring up on the register and out of Mario’s mouth. Mario is one of the more useful workers Juan has working here. And he didn’t even need to use the calculator on the counter to figure out the conversion of there fifty percent off discount.
"Son, do you not see this badge here with my name on it. Billingsly. And this uniform I'm wearing isn't for a Halloween party." The rookie knows how to work his best David Caruso convincing someone of the “truth”.
"Right?"
"And son?" the rookie looks at me. I turn my attention to a table of friendly blonds in the corner. I want to see how the situation unfolds.
“Four fourteen, how did you come up with that number?”
“Fifty percent off what you ordered. Nick, you didn’t give him the heads up when he came in?”
I give the girls a wink and turn back to the situation.
“What?” I play the dumb card. Seems this is enough for the rookie or he knows he has my attention and wants to show how he handles a situation. Either way, the rookie unsnaps his holster. "And I carry one of these." His fingers begin to latch onto the handle like Billy the Kid getting ready for an encounter.
"Jesus son," I put my hand over his. It takes a few seconds, but the rookie snaps out of TV show mode and back to reality.
“Sorry, I just thought that a little show of force might be necessary."
"For your dinner?" I’m instantly aroused by the new opportunity to teach a life lesson but Debbie at dispatch throws cold water on the proceedings, "Go for Adam 52." I wander over towards the door to hear the bad news better.
"What is your location Adam 52? We have a burglary in progress. Or a suicide. Not sure. Neighbors called it in. Franklin and Audelia.”
"We are right around the corner. Be in route momentarily dispatch. Copy."
Upon returning to the counter, I find the rookie hunched over counting a stack of nickels and dimes. Mostly pennies. Looking at Mario lets me know that at some point, the rookie had informed him that this would be how he is paying for his dinner this evening.
“Put it away,” I tap the rookie on the shoulder, “we got a call.”
The rookie turns to me, blue puppy dog eyes on display, “we can wait until the food’s ready right?”
“How long?” I ask rookie as if he will be cooking the food himself.
“Not long, right Mario?” The rookie looks to Mario for assistance only now realizing he was mistaken on the friendliness of their relationship.
“Long time. Probably twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
“For a burger and fries?”
“Wait,” I interject, “I didn’t know you guys made burgers.”
Mario leans over the counter and points to the bottom right corner of the menu mounted behind him. “Kids menu.”
I wish I could say the announcement of this information would give the kid a little perspective on his dinner choices but he just kept right on staring at me, hoping I will be his food savior.
“Suck it up Billingsly, collect your little stacks of metal, and let’s go.” I check my watch on the way out the door, “I’m pulling out in ninety seconds.” Before the door slams shut, I hear a clattering of change on the linoleum.

“How many times have I seen you this month?” I somehow doubt the subject in question for the burglary, Donnie Walsh, can do that kind of math but certainly not while dangling from a window.
“Three.”
“A miracle. That’s right. A little incident here, a mishap here and I have to drive my car over and find you and inevitably you are going to have some kind of story,”
“Nick man, you got to help me.” The panic in Donnie’s voice was palatable.
“Donnie, you’re hanging out a second story window. The ground can’t be more than eight feet below where your Converse are.”
“I’m scared of heights and dogs,” and in sync with the shout out, the families dog lets out a few barks. Donnie panics, and lets go off the ledge, screaming like a ten year old with a broken collar bone caused by a mishap on one of dad’s “do not touch” items. “My finger.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” I grab Donnie by the arm to pull him to his feet. He fights, insisting that he is excruciating pain from the missing digit on his left finger. “Your finger.”
“Yea man,” Donnie sucks in some air, lips quivering, eyes gushing. “That’s what I told you.”
“Well shit Donnie, that’s no good.”
“You got to get up there and get my finger back and get me to a hospital.”
“Your finger? Shit, that dog’s already jostled that thing around like a tennis ball for a few seconds then gnawed it to the bone. Nine will be your new digit count. No question.”
“Don’t say that,” Donnie’s desperation is beginning to really shine through.
“Look, you lost your finger. That’s the way it is going to be so let’s move on. See where we can go from here.” I wave the rookie over, knowing this is going to be a two-man job. “Do you remember the last time we spoke? The last time I reminded you that you had two and a half strikes and if I had to be called out on you again cause you are doing some dumb shit cause you let the house when you were high.”
“Nah man, I mean yea I remember, but I aint doing any drugs.”
“Your telling me that you thought of this half brained scheme sitting on the couch, straight and sober? That nothing led to you trying to climb through these peoples window while they are away?”
“I came in through the door. I had to climb out the window when that FUCKING DOG came tearing after me.” Donnie realized that venting his frustrations had backed him into a truth corner he couldn’t possibly get himself out of.
“Ooh, that’s too bad then Donnie,” the rookie wanders up, pockets jingling. “We have a breaking an entering suspect here that was two strikes previous to us arriving on scene.” The rookie gives Donnie a wink letting him know we got a keeper, “however, this gentleman has lost a finger in the proceedings to the families pet which probably is in need of medical attention. What time is it Billingsly?”
“11:30.”
“And what time do we get off Billingsly?”
“Midnight.”
I hope rookie sees where I’m going. “And Billingsly, do you know what kind of paperwork is involved in a transport to a hospital of a suspect and then transferring him into the system?” Billingsly goes quiet. He has not had the experience of filling out paperwork involving a trip to the emergency room. “A long time. But if we just went our separate ways, no paperwork would have to be filled out and one nine fingered man would have a new lease on life to not fuck away.”
“That’s not right Nick. If I go up there, missing a finger or not, its still going to take me ten hours to get seen. If you drop me off, it’s much less. I can get my own ride home.”
“But if we are seen with you at the emergency room and you are missing a finger, we don’t get plead the fifth and wander away.” Donnie looks puzzled. “They would ask questions, we would have to answer. Paperwork follows questions.” Donnie gets it. “So I’m happy to take you to the hospital, get you first class help, and then see you off to prison for your third strike and lose your freedom or your finger could be all you lose. Your choice.”
Donnie hesitates. His face still shows the pain from the origin of the gushes of blood. “Billingsly, now is the time to show your aspects of police duty that you know.” Billingsly unlatches his gun holster. I begin to back away.
“I haven’t eaten in two days. Can you at least get me a cheeseburger or something before you leave my ass out here to bleed out?”
I toss Donnie a dirty towel from the floorboard of the cruiser; “you wont bleed to death out of your finger.” Donnie is slow to stand but I give him a push into the back seat and he stumbles right on in. “Don’t bleed on the seat.” I shut Donnie in. The rookie is all smiles. He gets to try again to eat.

"You're back already?" Mario leans over the counter, watching the door behind me. "I don’t hear your partner jingling behind you.”
"He'll be in your drive thru momentarily."
"Shit."
I approach the counter. Hand over a twenty. "Let him count out his change then tell him you decided to give it to him for free this time."
Mario’s demeanor softens. "Thanks Nick. You want me to give him your change when I'm done fucking with him?"
"It’s all yours."
"Appreciate it."
A small price to pay to avoid having my food spit in if mistaken for the rookies. Though, with the food here some times, any kind of extra ingredient would be beneficial. Being in the car most days, a restaurant can offer more than just food and free drinks. A clean bathroom can bring as much traveler traffic as decent food. I’m pretty sure Julio trades a homeless man a place to wash up and some food any time he comes and makes the bathroom shine. Why should I check if Julio has a W-2 on the guy?
Today, however, the smell of the bathroom lets me know the homeless man has moved on anyhow. Even in a public bathroom, it seems a reasonable request for people to flush the toilet when they are done. Handles can be pulled with hands or with a flick of the foot. No germs have to be spread. What’s infinitely more germ spreading is leaving a pile of shit twisted into a glob on the bottom of the toilet which could be washed away by the magic of the flushing toilet. My nose tells me that my bladder is fine to hold my piss until we get back to the station.

The rookie has pulled the squad car into the worst possible position in the parking lot to see any surroundings. And he remains the drive seat. Looking ready to take the car around the track a few laps.
“You lost?” The rookie looks at me through the window, looking bewildered. He finally rolls down the window. “Get the fuck out of my seat dummy.”
“Oh sorry,” he tells me then tries to scurry over the center console, through the computer, and into the passenger seat like a child climbing out of their fathers lap after their first attempt at driving. I open the door, and yank him out of the car. “Walk around.”
As I wait for Billingsly to get himself untangled and back out of the car, I watch a little black kid racing through the parking lot inside. I bet he’s done some running from us in his day. That’s too fast to be speed not induced by fear. My legs crumple together as a I try to climb in. “You couldn’t just leave the seat where it was to pull through the drive thru?”
“Your body is much longer than mine.”
I jiggle the handle until the seat releases and rockets backwards, jamming up against the back seat. The sudden halt sloshes my bladder around. My need to pee has reached critical levels. “I’ll be back.”

I keep my walk slow but methodical avoiding anything that might jostle my insides. I’m quite sure that even the slightest nudge might send a river down my leg. The dining room is desolate. “Mario, has there been any girls in here in the last little while?” I peek around to the front counter to see why no one answers my question but seems everyone has gone on a smoke break at the same time. The smell from the men’s side has begun to funnel its way down the hall so I go for broke and bang on the women’s door.
“Police officer, is there anyone in there?” No response. Even still, if I open this door and someone is inside, no amount of explanation could suffice as to why a police officer was playing peeping Tom. That reason alone would normally give me pause but walking around for the rest of the night smelling like piss doesn’t seem like an alternative.

Even if I wanted to be speedy about pissing in the girl’s room, I couldn’t manage with my work belt bogging me down like a cement block on a rats leg. If I have to stay at this job much longer, I might have to develop an in uniform catheter to avoid any messes I might have while removing my uniform to piss. Holding my gun belt in my left hand, cock in the right, I spread out my hips as wide as they will go to avoid my pants falling all the way to the floor and let it go. And what a great feeling it is.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Why did they make car backfires the same noise as a gunshot? I never can tell the difference.

Once my uniform is reapplied and I open the door of Julio’s, I’m able to see this was no Buick backfiring. Two young black men yank at the back door trying to get my suspect out of the car. The door finally pops open and Danny tumbles out onto the concrete.
“Police, what the fuck are you two doing?” One of the teens notices me as I announce my presence and sends off a shot to let me know he cares. I draw my gun and fire back. If nothing else, the shot spooks the boys. They jump across the street and jump the fence into an apartment complex. I reholster my pistol and rush to the scene. I realize immediately why the kids left my suspect behind. He was dead before they pulled him out of the backseat; caught in their crossfire. I come around the squad car from behind to avoid the camera tracking my movements before I’m sure what to do. I open the passenger door. Billingsly tumbles out much the same way Donnie did. I check his pulse and find they are now both in the same way. Dead.
“Shots fired, shots fired at Julio’s on Pico and Audelia. Officer down.”
I sit walk back to the driver’s side, behind the car again, and begin to takes notes. I’m sure that one of the kids ran like the punk I saw running inside when I walked to the car the first time. From what I could tell, neither could have been beyond their teenage years. My stomach growls as I take notes. I dig in the brown bag for my burger, leave the fries marinating in Billingsly’s blood. It’s going to be a long night of questions that will lead to a longer night of paperwork and I’m going to need to have my strength up. Probably should eat whatever rookie ordered too. I’ll need the extra fuel.

Tracy died on Monday. The family gathered on Tuesday. Everyone had been out of work sometime in the last six months taking care of Tracy so even when they all pooled their money together, along with whatever money they had from Derrick after buying the headstone, they were just under a hundred.
“At least dad already bought our plots,” Natasha, the youngest, had not perfected the finer points of etiquette yet. She was still weeding her way through tenth grade the second time. The plots were real; however, as Johnny purchased the plots on his way out of town to Vegas. Seems he knew that no one would pony up a penny to bury him if things went south and if not, well, anyone would really care why.
“Said it was suppose to rain Thursday night,” someone chimed in so the plan was set for Friday morning to go as family to dig Tracy’s grave. Til then, everyone took shifts filling Tracy’s box with ice cubes, keeping the body as cold and non-putrid as possible.
Derrick arrived Friday morning, early. Moans and disgusted disappoints filled the room.
“Why’d you even bother?” Derrick didn’t notice anyone else, just Tracy’s body, shriveled, glowing yellow in a bed of cold water. Derrick tried to lay hands on Tracy but the smell was too overwhelming. After a brief stint in the fresh air, Derrick returned.
“Why is Tracy decomposing in the living room?”
“Figured we replay those Indians back for all that curry they use.” The room came to live with laughter. Derrick didn’t laugh. He had not grown delusional from the days spent with the family in enclosed quarters.
“I sent you plenty of money for a funeral home. They couldn’t all be full.”
“We got a headstone.” The room clamored to show off their perfect choice of a headstone. Nikki pulled the picture from underneath her sleeping spot on the couch and handed it over. Derrick did not look impressed.
“How are we putting him in the ground?”
Everyone took separate cars to the gravesite. Parting ways as fast as possible was the theme of the decision. With the few extra bucks left over after Tracy’s headstone, the family sent Allen to get some digging tools. He and Nikki had met after he got out of jail for a three-year spell. The family figured he had at least plotted to break out at some point, with all that extra time and all, so it reasoned that he would have some kind of idea how to put holes into solid objects. Derrick surveyed the utensils. The pickaxe and shovel were solid choices but the auger seemed a little unuseful.
“I’ll get things loosened up for you,” Derrick tossed a rock in Allen’s general direction to get his attention, “and you start shoveling it out.”
“No way man,” Allen leaned back into his hand into his lower back.
“I didn’t know you were expecting.” Allen looked confused. Derrick only gave him one chance to put the puzzle pieces together; he would not repeat. Derrick was stuck with Cory. He was Tracy’s friend. No one had heard him say anything in days. “Fuck then kid, come on.”
Derrick pounded the ground with the pickaxe for a while, got out of the way, then Cory stepped in. For a little kid, he had resilience in spades. He only cried when he caught a glimpse of Tracy sitting in the bed of Derrick’s truck. By mid day, the family was tired from watching the grave being dug. They took Cory and set up for a picnic.
“Don’t worry, I’ll just keep working so we can get this done.” Derrick felt it necessary to say even though the family had wandered away a while ago, it made the situation at least a bit more tolerable. Derrick knew everyone else had given their lives up trying to take care of Tracy after he got cancer. Digging the grave was the least Derrick could do. At least that’s what everyone said right before lunch. No one cared to ask where Derrick had been and why he had been a ghost since last Christmas. God forbid he got a job and was going to community college. Thinking about it got Derrick going, he was going so hard the dirt began to break apart on its own. These motherfuckers didn’t know how hard he to work to get above their shitty legacy. They could rotate off working at Golden Chick or Jack in the Box and pay for their two-bedroom house that held ten. Derrick needed space, at least to see if he could be his own man. Derrick knew Tracy understood and knew that if he didn’t get him in the ground soon, all that good will would be gone. Who the hell wants to sit in ice cubes for a week after they die?
“Are you sure its deep enough?” The family had gotten out of the a/c’d car to see how Derrick was going.
“Do you want to measure it?” Derrick was on cup two of water. He had not realized how out of shape he was until he dug a five-foot deep grave for his baby brother. “Can you at least handle getting him into the hole? I’ve got to get something to eat.”
“Of course,” the family joined in unison, “we left the food under the tree for you.”
So Derrick headed up to the tree for a rest. Of course, by the time he had finally made it up the embankment, the sun had changed positions and put the food directly into the sun’s path and taken the tree’s shade away. Derrick looked into the cooler. At least the only thing the sun was warming up with some left over chips and a couple of pickles. Derrick grabbed what he could and leaned against the tree. He regretted his eye line almost instantly. It was too easy to clearly see the family trying to get Tracy out of the truck without touching his box. They finally deduced the best technique was to drive the truck in reverse at a decent clip and then slam on the brakes. The casket airborne. Somehow, it made it in the hole. So did the trucks back tires.
The next half hour was spent getting the truck out. Derrick used his body as a shield for Tracy. It almost cost him his life twice when Cory mistook drive for reverse and planted the truck deeper into the hole. The family decided the truck escapade was enough.
“If you need us to do anything, just give us a holler.” The family dispersed at once. Cory hung around with Derrick after, neither saying a word. Derrick filled back in the hole. Cory stared at the mound growing. Derrick patted Cory on the shoulder.
“Guess that’s over,” Cory packed up to leave, “here.” Cory handed Derrick a letter. Derrick read the signature first, Tracy. Then, he read the letter, standing on top of Tracy’s grave.

Dear Derrick,

You were my brother. You left the family. I died without you. You will never find forgiveness.

Love,
Tracy

Derrick dug back into the hole far enough to leave Tracy’s letter with him in the ground.

Film Update and Financial Information

We are closing in on our shoot date, June 19th. Everything is going in a positive direction and I think this day of shooting will set the tone for the rest of the production. As we get closer, we have realized that we are going to need additional money for some props that are vital to the film so we have put together a package to offer to raise some additional money.

Any donator that gives 10 dollars and up from now until June 18th will get receive a special edition dvd of "Afterlife" that we will be putting together. It will include a dvd of the short film, a nice dvd case and cover, and the research material that was utilized to create the ideas for this film. From the Egyptian underworld to Greek mythology, we will be putting together a little guide book to be a companion to the dvd so people can learn more about what the film is saying.

So, to review, if you donate between now and June 18th, you will receive a Producer credit in the film along with the special edition dvd. If you would like to give a lesser amount, we would be happy to accept it as well. Dollar bills or pennies, it all helps.

Thanks again for the support and look forward to everyone seeing some new footage soon,

Coughmen Productions

Payments to:
Paypal: mattpizana1@tx.rr.com
In person
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Old Shed at the Cemetary

I would rather work a hundred insurance fraud cases than to have to tell a family I found their loved one dead in a grave. Hell, when I first started being a PI, I wouldn’t even take a case that looked like it might end up in a pool of blood. Now, I’m a whore for a good payout. I treat my clients like sporting events; look at things only through wins and loses.
I park on a narrow residential street in front of a tiny green house, one that I have been to dozens of times before but always under better circumstances. When I would pick Jessie up for work, I would park right here, honk, and wait for him. Waiting in the car allowed me to watch numerous cars get side swiped, rear view mirrors torn off by people who could not manage to maneuver down the skinny road. I even got to experience my Cutlass getting hit once or twice. The drivers always seemed disappointed when I climbed out of my car forcing them to be accountable for the crash they caused.
I walk up the drive, pause before knocking on the front door. I begin to pray no one is home allowing me to write a note on the back of this picture of Jessie’s grave (as if a grave photo needs explanation) and tape the picture to the door. I pat my pockets to see if I have a pen, but before I can find a writing utensil, the door opens.
“Hola,” Irma, the little Mexican mother of the house, says opening the inside door leaving me to talk through the bars of the second.
"Hola Miss Puente, is Maria home?" I keep my words short and enunciated, hoping to avoid repeating my question. Without responding, Irma shuts the door. Guess this neighborhood has trained her how to keep salesmen and Jehovah witnesses out. I turn my head back to the Cutlass, jamb the picture back into my pocket and watch my breath disperse into the cold. A Honda motors down the road inches from my car; the tail pipe and driver fill the air with smoke. I never have understood dealing with the elements to inhale poison; I opt to stay inside from June to April enjoying my central heat and air. I watch the Honda round the corner, clip the back end of a Mitsubishi while taking a left, and then disappear onto another road. I dip my head into my hands shaking off the terrible thoughts of other humans I have had recently, the Honda driver the most recent edition.
"Marion," Maria says, opening the cage door letting me inside. "Mom, why would you leave mister Shulkin out in the cold?" Irma walks through the living room, gives me the once over, grunts, and disappears into the back. "Please sit down." Maria directs me to the couch.
I sit down making sure to stay close to the front door for a quick exit. The house is mostly silent; the hum from a heater stuck in the corner of the room disperses only a little white noise. The silence makes me feel like a child waiting outside the principal’s office for punishment.
"So were you able to tell Jessie?" Maria asks leaning back in an old brown recliner, years past its useful date, the arms barely hanging on.
"Unfortunately, I didn't tell Jessie because I didn’t get to talk to Jessie," my breath still visible, the house only a few degrees warmer than the frigid temperatures outside and I’m too far away from the heater for it to make a difference.
"He must still be scared. Maybe he moved somewhere else." Maria lets down the recliner and stands. "It's okay mister Shulkin,” Maria sits down on the couch beside me. “If he doesn’t want to be found, no one will find him.” She pats me on the leg, consoling me. I take a deep breath, hoping to get my story out in one long exhale.
"Look Maria," I grab her hand, "I need to show you something." I pull the picture from my pocket again, this time placing it in Maria’s hand. I let her study the photo while I try to find the words to say. "I didn't dig up the grave to see Jessie myself," I say realizing how terrible my sentence starts off. I look at Maria staring at the photo. She holds back tears as long as she can but once they come, they are quickly followed by a wailing I have not heard since I was a child in the church listening to people speak in tongues. Irma appears again from the back of the house and pulls up a metal folding chair next to Maria. She lets Maria's head fall onto her shoulder. I see an opening to leave, it seems I’m not much use here anymore but before I can make it to the door, Maria reaches her arm around me and pulls me into the circle.
“I know this had to be over them girls,” Maria sucks in some snot, “He wasn’t convicted. You know he didn’t right?” Maria wipes her nose on her sleeve and looks at me. I pat her leg. She forces a smirk unable to open her mouth in fear of it being filled with tears. “Thanks for telling me in person. It means a lot.” Maria wipes her face; makeup smears with the motion of her hand. “Do you mind if I keep this?” she shakes the grave photo at me.
“Sure of course. Please, if you need anything else, just call me.” I begin to back towards the door, Maria holds a smile while watching me but eventually, her tears fight through. She plops back down onto the couch and buries herself in Irma’s chest. I let myself out.
I was introduced to Jessie late one night at Fast Eddie’s by the bartender, Reeves. Seems Reeves grew tired of me bitching about needing extra help around the office and spread the word. I talked to Jessie for a couple of minutes to size him up. Being an assistant in my office does not require many skills except the ability to blend in anywhere and be able to roll with the punches, literally and metaphorically. By the time we got finished debating what the Cowboys needed to do to get back to the Super Bowl, Jessie was hired. Of course, if I would have known then that his allegiance belonged to the Eagles, I would have known what kind of trouble things were headed for.
Jessie was always a good worker, more dedicated than me and Elliott combined. Unfortunately, his life away from the office was always a series of mishaps and bad timing that culminated with a triple rape charge. I supported Jessie throughout, was still by his side when the judge declared a mistrial due to questionable evidence collection. Only after, when Jessie disappeared a week after his court appearance, did I realize how bad things were. Eventually, I was able to let the situation go only becoming involved again when Maria called me to find Jessie and tell him he was going to be a father.

Sometimes, I just want to park in one of the handicap spots at the front of my building. I’ve held office space here for fifteen years and I think there has been a total of five-handicap people visit, period. But I suck it up and ignore those nice spots in the front opting to park in my spot instead. Of course, it is in the last parking lot this side of the road, so far out, grass is more prevalent than the parking lot concrete.
I walk through the revolving doors of the building, glance at the elevators to see if they are working. I’m sure those handicapped appreciated the front door parking but finnd rolling a wheelchair up a few flights of stairs to be slightly unbearable. Of course, our maintenance guy, Nick, is too busy at the moment to fix the problem. It seems his time is better spent standing at the receptionist desk hitting on the new girl. I begin to trudge up the stairs, hoping I replaced my backup shirt in my desk knowing this one will be drenched in sweat by the time I reach the top. At least I don’t have to worry about the sweat washing out unlike the problems I had with Misses Costa's blood. I hated to toss my Penguin polo in the trash but the blood seemed to latch on, a reminder never to have a couple that likes to stab each other in the office at the same time. Lesson learned.
I open the office door; hear Elliott banging away at his keyboard. Through experience, I've learned that usually means he wasn't doing anything before I walked in. He can never type that fast when he is trying to. "How was the morning?" I ask.
Elliott rolls his chair out of his office. "All went well." I hate that Elliott’s office is quite literally a broom closet but I vowed never to move from this office unless I died or someone was paying to move me out so the broom closet is all I have to offer. Besides, Elliott roams the streets most of the time, on and off the clock, so he doesn’t need a massive corner office to get his job done.
I sit down at my desk, sift through the stacks of papers covering the ground floor of my workspace. I feel already like I should have taken today off too, I'm never any good after coming back from a trip, but I needed to be seen today, get involved in someone's fucked up life. "What’s on the schedule?"
"I've got two choices for ya," Elliott yells at me from his office, his voice lowers as he exits and walks to me to hand me the files. "You can have the wonderful Montgomery's. Tim says he knows for sure the wife is seeing someone else. He is positive she could never actually stand going to her Sunday school group three nights a week." Elliott sits down in my visitor chair to tell me about the second one. "Or I've got a misses Angie Erhman and her wonderful stalker." Elliott opens the file for misses Erhman. "Apparently, her stalker, a mister Eric Meyers, has been stalking her for a little over two years now but it was mostly just innocent, he always kept to his side of the internet." Elliott sifts through the file placing a photo of Dalton Meyers, spread eagle, on a king sized bed, on top. The satin sheets covering the bed seem to clash with his bondage outfit; his spike chain would surely snag on the sheets and never let go. "That is Misses Erhman's bed."
I let Elliott lay out a few more details; enough to find out his strong desire to work the case. I know if I ever find out that much information before I get the first payment for a job, it means that my female client must be some kind of pretty and smell like vanilla. "Call Misses Erhman and tell her you will be the primary for the case, but if you need me," I grab Elliott's arm as he grabs the file, "don't hesitate to call." I let go. Elliott opens the file again, this time showing me a surveillance video still of Angie, her red hair falls just over her left eye. The hundred dollars I paid to have that security camera installed in here has paid for itself over the years in the quality of pervasive imagery it has collected. I just hope we never get robbed and have to actually rely on the video. The details are just terrible.
"Nothing else?" I ask, not sure how I might kill the rest of the daylight hours on a Monday.
"None that I can think."
"Okay," I say standing back up and grabbing my jacket. "Meet you when I’m done. We'll figure everything else out then."
Elliott nods, disappearing back into his office. I dig through my drawers but come up snake eyes on a shirt. I make a mental note to pick up a shirt from somewhere before I have to talk to anyone in person today.

Starting this business off, I felt like it was my job to fix the world. I took the best clients that I could get no matter how much it paid and tried to avoid any signs of trouble. I had a few friends on the force that were a great help too. I got more than a few jobs sent my way under the table; the insurance gigs were the best. But, as the world changed, so did the business. There was no room for a little outfit like mine to grab cases over the big firms, the ones with TV commercials and radio ads that trumped my word of mouth. I found taking shitheads and convicts was the only way Simon and Simon could survive. To my surprise, the business actually begin to thrive again so I brought on Elliott who was an old friend from school that kept connections in the street but lived on the white side of town. Just as long as I could convince myself that my clients were numbers without emotions, business kept growing and I hired our third employee, Jessie. After his trial, though, even scumbags thought twice about hiring us.

I call mister Montgomery a few times on my drive over but all I hear is Bob Seager in place of the ringtone and eventually, his voicemail. Even if we cannot eliminate the song ring tone completely, there should at least be age restrictions. I’m sure glad my family has known the Montgomery’s forever. With the number of women Tim goes through, he might keep my business afloat all by himself for the foreseeable future. As I pull up out front of the two-story fortress Jim calls home, I call again. Voicemail. I figure since I'm already over here I might as well knock on the door. I stash my car on the side of the circle drive, not in the grass but hopefully out of everyone’s way, and head to the front door. Before my hand meets the solid oak, Tim has the door open.
"Come on in," he tells me, turning immediately back inside. I close the door and follow behind closely, intent on not getting lost in this castle this time. I stay close enough behind Jim that I can only see his shoulder blades compressing together, his sweaty white t-shirt almost transparent. "Get the fuck up and at least put a shirt on," Tim growls. I step to the side to see a beautiful blond, no more than nineteen, holding her tits together, elbows in tight over her nipples. She smiles at me and walks out of the room. I turn my attention back to Tim who in turn directs me back to the girl. We both watch as the blond walks off, arms still covering her breasts, nothing covering her ass.
“Bring me a shirt,” Tim yells to the girl, “do you need one too? You look sweater than me.”
“Yea, the elevator is broken at the office so…”
Tim interrupts. “Bring me two shirts darling.” Tim walks to his mini bar and grabs a glass. "You find anything out about that bitch?" He tosses some ice into a glass, pouring a clear liquid on top. I’m sure his doctor would tell him that water would be best for him right now, old sweaty men usually need to replenish more than a viral one, especially after doing whatever was happening with the blond before I came in but in my experience, if a man has ice cubes on the ready in a room that is not the kitchen, it's rarely to keep a glass of water cold.
“Nothing yet. Where is Misses Montgomery today anyway?”
"Patty is out wherever it is that she goes during the day which is something you should probably should know anyhow. That is what I'm paying you for?"
“Sorry, I’ve just been out of town dealing with a bunch of…” the blond comes back in carrying two shirts. Tim grabs the normal shirt leaving me with a flowery Hawaiian number. The blond, still topless but wearing panties now, stares at both of us like a waiter waiting for a tip. “Did you ever think that maybe you should keep things like this out of the house until everything is complete. I mean, this would probably be a pretty good piece for Patty to screw you with.” The girl walks out of the patio door and dives into the pool.
"Not if you catch her in the act first." Elliott walks to the kitchen finishing off the last of his drink. I pursue again. Elliott opens his deep freeze and pulls out a Ziploc bag of money. He bangs it on the counter a few times rattling whatever dishes are on top. He unloads the contents on the counter and attempts to break several bills apart. "I can't wait til they fix all this financial shit." Tim opens the freezer back up, tosses the money back inside. "I'm running out of room for my food in here."
"Well, I guess I will go find out where misses,"
"Patty," Tim demands.
"I will go find out where Patty is. Let me know if you need anything from me." I fold the bills, trying to break up what ice is left encrusting them together. I glance outside, the blond submerged under water. No skin to be seen. I wait for Tim to see me out; instead, I see his naked ass run and jump in the pool, barely missing the blond with a cannonball.
The visit to the Montgomery mansion was even quicker than I though so I run by my house to take a quick nap and kill some time. I’ve still got a big night ahead of me and if I hang out at Fast Eddies for too long, my nerves will never let me finish things the way they should be done.
By the time I drag myself out of bed and to Fast Eddies, Elliott has already taken over my pool table and seems to be locked into the middle of a game with Becky, the bar whore.
"Let me just put this one in," Elliott fires off a shot, cascading balls everywhere. The six and ten balls remain on the table, the eight ball disappears. Becky wastes no time cleaning her winnings off the table. She glances up at me. I send her away.
"Is this mine?" I ask, grabbing a Dos Equis off the ledge. Elliott nods as I drink.
"How was mister Montgomery?" Elliott sets the table back up for another round.
"Fucking a blond. How was your thing?"
"I caught her just after workouts. She wears one of those workout training bra things," Elliott gives me hand motions to emphasize her large breasts.
"You already figured out her workout schedule?” I laugh, letting go the tension that has built up through the day. “And the other thing?"
"I tossed him some food." Elliott digs through his pockets, "here's the key. What cha gonna do with him?"
"Find out. He'll let me know which is which," I respond, assuredly.
"Right on. Okay, then you want to give it a run?" Elliott smacks the cue ball against the triangle; the balls settle into the empty spaces. "Probably should wait til after dark before we go back out there."
I look out the window and take a drink. "Before I go back out there." I finish off my beer and motion Reeves for another. I inspect the pool sticks hanging on the wall. There is a lot of action at the pool tables tonight and all the good sticks seemed to be pretty well picked through, the only ones left are mostly half bent or missing the felt on the tip. I bounce a few off the ground, testing, making sure I don't give Elliott too much of an advantage and end up giving him a game.
We play pool and drink for the next two hours. I go up nine games and down eight beers. When the sun disappears completely, not even emitting rays of light over the skyscrapers downtown, I put my stick up and get ready to leave.
"You said right on Livermore to get out to 48 and then exit number three?" I ask Elliott, this being a destination I have no desire getting lost going to.
"How many times have you been out there now?" Elliott responds.
" I refuse to remember how to get there. I always have a hearse to drive me."
"Fair enough. Do you want me to go out there in the morning and feed him?" Elliott’s words trail off as his head picks up a lady wearing tight Levis and a pair of red cowboy boots.
"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it." I leave Elliott at the table to stare and grab my coat from the bar. After a few misses, I decide it is best to steady myself against the bar while I try to get my arms through the holes.
"You good?" Reeves asks, helping me balance; my arms finally slip in the jacket arms.
"I'm just going home and going to bed. Do you know if Daniel coming in tonight?"
"He is but later though.” Reeves walks down the bar, collecting empty bottles. “I'll tell him you said hello."
I nod my head in agreement. "Perfect. See ya tomorrow." Reeves pats me on the shoulder then gives me a push through the crowd. I make my way through saying hello to the smattering of people in the bar I know. Opening the front door, the cold air freezes my nose instantly making me wish I was still a child and could get away with wearing a ski mask in public. My body was not made for temperatures like this.

The trip out to Wilson's Chapel is much shorter when you aren't traveling in a line of cars with their headlights on in the middle of the day. The road is still as rough; asphalt is not something the town invests much in. If the Cutlass didn't acquire any dents while I was at Jessie’s earlier, it was going to now from one of the thousands of rocks and pebbles pounding against the undercarriage of the car no matter if I drive five or fifty five. I'm so distracted trying not to throw rocks everywhere, I almost forget to turn off my headlights before turning onto the little trail that leads to the back of the cemetery. Teenagers that sneak out here at night and try to catch ghosts always think it is the noise they make that gives Daryl, the groundskeeper and closet church member, the heads up that someone has invaded the graveyard. As an adult, I realize that his house is too far away to hear much of anything that goes on but any car that comes through with their headlights on shines them directly into Daryl’s bedroom window.
I park the Cutlass next to the storage shed and kill the engine. Digging through the backseat, I find everything I might need this evening except a flashlight. I pop the trunk and dig around some more finding only a flashing road hazard light. It will have to do.
The shed emits whimpers of a man crying out for help from whoever has just driven up. I lean against the shed door steadying myself while I unlock the dead bolt. I throw the door open and hold the hazard light up high so I can make sure it falls right on Jessie's face. I can see on his cheeks that his tears have turned the dirt under his eyes to mud.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting. Didn't think I should visit while the sun was still shining. It was cold anyhow."
"What is going on Marion?" Jessie yanks at the ropes holding his arms to the wall. "What the fuck is going on?"
"I didn't get to give you your last check before you left." I laugh, crouching down to close the distance between our faces. "I need to know if you did it. I don’t want to hear anything from you but that.” I stand back up, giving some distance. Jessie stares at me for a long few moments, tears begin to stream down his cheeks. "After two days in a trunk and one in here, what did you think someone was going to ask you?"
"You were there," Jessie squeals at me through sobs, "The judge let me go."
"Doesn't mean you didn't do it." I sit down in front of Jessie; his head dips down so I can only see the top of his head, hair beginning to disappear from the middle. The conscious does terrible things to the body. I wait for a long while, staring, hoping that Jessie can come up with some good explanation on how all the evidence was wrong. I continue to see only the top of Jessie’s head. I finally get back to my feet, realizing the terrible smell that infects my nose is not from the chemicals in the shed but from Jessie's inability to go anywhere to relieve himself all day. Jessie finally raises his head when we hear an engine slowly idling, approaching the shed.
“Times up.” I pull out my phone, hold the flashing light up high to get good light on Jessie's face, and snap two pictures.
Outside, the cold air gives me some relief from the terrible stench of the shed and keeps me from throwing up and leaving all kinds of evidence behind. I walk farther away from the shed, towards the Cadillac that has arrived. An overgrown Mexican, Damon Aldridge, is already out of the car and walking towards me.
"Where is he?" Damon demands, pacing in a circle like a bull ready to charge.
"Whoa, wait," I flip through my phone, scrolling through pictures of street signs and waitresses until I find the pictures of Jessie I just snapped. I hold the light up for Damon to look.
"The fuck is this?" Damon asks, pointing to my light. I shrug. He runs to his car and grabs a flashlight from under the drivers seat, his light much brighter and more consistent than mine. Damon grabs my phone and flips back and forth between the pictures. "It was dark that night,” Damon tells me, hesitation creeping up in his voice, “I mean, I saw the guy when I pulled him off of my sister, but he ran right after."
"I showed you all the evidence the jury saw. Even if you didn't see his face, doesn't that convince you?"
Damon looks down at my phone one more time. "Alright, I got this." He pumps his chest with a few deep breaths almost coming out of his shirt like the Hulk. "You can go." Damon tells me before returning to the trunk of his car. I return to my Cutlass and try to maneuver around a big oak tree in the middle of the driveway for the cemetery. I misjudge the distance I have to go forward, my front bumper bumps the edge of the church; the entire structure shakes. I lerch into reverse and get pointed forward again making it past the church without bringing the whole thing down. On the road, the rocks and pebbles return to pounding the car.

I won the lottery, now what?

As always, the Mavericks built me up just to tear me down. After a ten two run in the fourth, they gave up twenty unanswered and lost by nine. Now, the only way I’m going to sleep tonight is if I render myself unconscious. Luckily, I’ve got Alan’s Gas and Run that fulfills all my needs, no matter what time of day. It’s one of those wonderful stores that always feel like something’s going to happen before the night is through except I have yet to be fortunate enough to be a customer at the time. This evening, I grab a nice bottle of Strawberry Boones and a bag of Lay’s and visit the counter.
“Did you find everything alright?” the little Asian cashier stares at me and waits for my response.
“I did,” I think but I never know.
“Would you like some lottery tickets?” she looks at me and begins to print out tickets before I respond.
“Sure,” see, I knew I forgot something.
I arrive home just in time to miss the opening to The Way of the Gun so I pop in a brown box covered tape of Girls Gone Wild instead and begin to drink away. My companion and faithful cat Whiskers climbs on top of me and we both pass out.
I come back conscious to sunlight and the smell of Whiskers morning trip to his overflowing cat box. I fight the urge to get some air circulating through my nose instead opting for a deep inhale through my mouth. A search of the fridge uncovers old pizza and condiments so make a mix of the two, rip off the crust, and warm it up on a plate. While I wait, I clean off a spot on the counter so I can watch the TV without having to be in the same room with the litter box. At the bottom of the pile, I find my lottery tickets from last night. I use the pizza crust to scratch off and see how bad my luck will run today. I close my eyes for the proceedings and image that a person that has to scratch off a ticket with stale food doesn’t deserve of even a few dollars he didn’t earn. I finish scratching and peel my eyelids back. My pupils dilate as they try to decide if there are that many horseshoes on this piece of cardboard.
“I won! I won!” I shout at the girl behind the lottery office counter. Apparently, she is old hat at this and scarcely looks up as she takes my paper of lucky numbers. The girl pounds at her computer for a few moments.
“Sir, come with me.” I follow the counter girl to the back of the offices, “Last door on the left,” she says and leaves me to walk down the hall like I’m on a doctor’s visit. Luckily I find no stools in the room, no tongue depressors, and no sterile smell. Just a couple of chairs and a nice leather couch that I promptly kick my shoes off and plop down onto. I close my eyes and wait to be showered by my pot at the end of my rainbow.
Sadly, for all my excitement, the lottery ceremony ends up being little to talk about. After a few pictures, a man in a suit came in, introduced himself, and handed me a big stack of papers.
“Once everything is finalized,” I drift off into a daydream about my ’78 Camaro, “each month on the fifteenth for a full year,” my plaza TV, “probably ten to fourteen business days,” and my hot tub.
I give him a quick shake and consider asking the man to repeat what he just said but I’m rich now and don’t really have to listen anymore.
I sped over to my drug dealer Claude’s house before he becomes “out of pocket” for the day then cruise over to the park for some people watching. While there are a few parks around town, there are none even close to The Sunset. Most weekends, I can’t point my eyes in any direction without seeing the most beautiful, half dressed ladies in all ages (but almost always the same size). Even today before I even stumble out of my car, I watch two forty year olds in tight sweatpants with the words “Hottie” and “Edible” etched on their asses. I wander through the circle of joggers and into the middle of the grounds where a bench under a tree calls my name. This bench isn’t the most ideal for people watching but I still have a perfect view of the water fountain and the parking lot so I have no complaints. I open my magazine and pretend to read an article in Time about doctor’s developing alternative body parts but the drugs latch hold of me faster than normal so I stretch out on my bench and close my eyes to try to let the wave pass.
Apparently, something did not sit right with me today and I wake up from my slumber only by the faint sound of kids playing one of the most horrifying games I know.
“Red Rover, Red Rover, let Anthony come over.”
I roll over and sit on my ass, my back still hunched from the time spent on this wooden bench. I reposition my body in the direction of the line of kids and watch Anthony prepare to run. From my view, the kid takes two steps out of the line and stops. It seems obvious that he wants no part of this game but once the kids start to taunt him, he gives in and runs with all his might. His energy is cut short as soon as he makes it to the other side and is engulfed in two kids arms. Team Red (I would guess due to their matching shirt color) grabs themselves a new member. I glance over Team Red to see how their team stacks up coming back. While I scan the crowd of kids, I see sandwiched in the middle, a blond that I have not seen around this park before. Once I get my legs awake, I take a walk over for closer inspection. Much to my surprise, that blond is Alana.
“Red Rover Red Rover, let Jimmy come over,” the kids taunt the other side.
“Alana,” I yell which draws the attention of Team Red to me. Alana looks up and squints her eyes to see who is calling. “It’s Dallas.”
“Dallas!” Alana releases her left hand but the child on the left wont let go, “what are you doing here?” Alana walks over to me, kid in tow.
“What are you doing in my park?” I smile to let her know I’m just kidding.
“I had to bring the kids over. There was a port-a-potty incident over at Macarthur Park.”
“We want to play,” a few kids demand.
Alana turns, “sorry, sorry. Dallas, join in.”
I work my way through the knee-highs and take a place on the right of Alana. I know the rules of the game enough to know how unfair it would be for me to lock hands with Alana and expect kids who aren’t as tall as my waist to get through so I take a spot a few spots down, between a nose picker and an asthmatic.
“Who did they call,” Alana asks the team.
“Jimmy,” everyone shouts in unison. Poor Jimmy looks quite distraught that everyone remembered, his feet take half steps out from the line.
“You can do it, just run as hard as you can and break through,” Alana throws her arms up and lifts the kids beside her into the air. Jimmy listens and runs as fast as his Converse will take him, right into the arms of the other team.
“So, what are you doing out here? You don’t look dressed for jogging.”
“Me,” I say to delay my answer, “I uh, just need the sun sometimes.”
“Just playing Red Rover with the kids. So, I read in the paper that you really are a lottery winner huh?” Alana turns her attention back to the game.
“Red Rover Red Rover, let Nancy come over.” My team turns their attention to the end of the Blue Team’s line where a little girl, no taller than the grass we stand in, positions herself for the mission. To my amazement, she dashes across the field, grass flies as her little Weebok’s makes mulch out of the ground. By the time she leaves her feet, my team has already lost. She pulls one of the kids up from the ground and leads him back to their side in disgrace. After this, the game continues on until there is only five of us left. Defeated and deflated, we give in. I take this chance to put my money to good use and become a hero.
“Who wants ice cream?”
I realize almost immediately that there is a reason no one offers this to a field of fifty kids. The drugs still control my motor functions and don’t give me enough to even dodge the first wave of kids so I go down like a zebra under a pack of lions. The first couple of Ked’s shoes on my face are nothing more than a mere nuisance but after the bigger kids in the park get wind of the ice cream situation, I am no match for their Nike’s and cowboy boots and go limp under the herd.
I open my eyes, the light that stares back is as intense to stare at as the fluorescent lights in a doctor’s office, “Dallas, you’re alive.” I tilt my head down to see that is exactly where I am.
“I thought this was going to be the first death by kid trampling,” the corners of Alana’s mouth creep up betraying the seriousness she tries to hold in her eyes.
“How long,” I rub the back of my head to try and feel any gaps in my skull.
“Were you out? Two, three hours there about,” Alana stands from her chair and cozies up next to my face, “you look kind of sexy laying there all unconscious and everything.”
“Well that’s sweet of you I think but I now that I’m awake, can you take me home?” My head pounds like it is wanting to get out of its casing. I slide my dead legs off the side of the bed.
“You might want to put some pants on first,” I follow Alana’s gaze down to the tent I pitch in my hospital gown. I press my erection against my stomach and shimmy into the bathroom.
After I have my pants on, I get my ride home. We both stay mostly quiet in the car, me still being embarrassed from my penis problem from earlier and Alana seems to use all her focus on the road. We finally make it to my place and not a moment too soon.
“Well thank you so much,” I say trying to grab my stuff as fast as I can.
“We should hang out sometime,” Alana suggests. I stop my collecting and fumble for words.
“Sure, well, I’m having a party tonight to celebrate. I won the lottery you know.”
“I did not know. Well, how can I pass that offer up mister rich man.” Alana smiles at me. I make a break for it before I cause myself any more embarrassment.
I open my front door and am welcomed by the enchanting aroma of feces and the stench of a garbage can two days overdue to be removed. I make a feeble attempt to call for Whiskers but I know after the ten-hour mark, he feels he needs to be romanced a little and makes me look for him. Usually, I go straight to the cabinet and coax Whiskers out with some cat nip but since I have not been to the store since my increase of medication, I have to do it the hard way instead. I stick my hand under my bed and am immediately latched onto by twenty angry claws.
“Come on buddy, I’m sorry,” I pull my arm slowly back, letting Whiskers dig his claws in enough that he will have no choice but to come out with my arm. Once we are both out from under the bed, Whiskers still grasps my arm with all his might.

“Whiskers, it’s time to party.”
I bang on the floor for Neighbor, my downstairs neighbor, to come and visit. Neighbor and I have done this at least once a week since we’ve known each other. Our introduction came one night when Neighbor, having a little too much fun alone, wandered up to my apartment to make sure he wasn’t bothering me. I opened the door to a man that couldn’t stand without propping himself against my doorway and eyes that had past a fiery hot color hours earlier.
“Stevie Ray Vaughn, whoooo,” he screamed at me, hands flailing about. As they came to rest back against the doorframe, I began to check out the contents. In his left, a pack of Marlboro Reds in a box and in his right was a pipe, bowl shaped like a cows skull and a shaft for the horns. “You want this one,” he asked extending his cigarettes to me, “or this one?” We’ve gotten together at least once a week for the last year and a half.
“You got anymore pot?” Neighbor asks as he struggles to sit up from his reclined position into the recliner.
“Yea, sure,” I reach under the coffee table and roll up a joint. We have now been through a couple of episodes of World’s Wildest Police chases and it is beginning to look as if I’ll have to start drinking only Miller Light from a keg for the next month. Finally, someone knocks on the door. I open the door and find two ladies standing at the door.
“I brought a friend, I hope that’s okay?”
“Where’s the party?”
“Where’s the DV?” one girl asks, frantic enough that I contemplate shutting the door, “it said there would be DV on the flyer.” She pulls out the flyer to show me as if I didn’t write it myself.
“It’s in the bedroom,” I look her over and try and decide what kind of chaperone she might need but before I do, she has already ran into the bedroom and shut the door, “You can join your friend if you want.” I tell the girls friend but she has already sat down next to Neighbor.
“I’ll just hang in here and enjoy some of this,” she says in an eerily familiar voice that the drugs wont let me place. I shut the front door and try to get my brain going but the moment Neighbor hands me the joint, my attempts to place it fades away.
After the first joint and episode of Family Guy, the living room girl starts in, “how do you think she is doing back there?”
I glance down at a watch I don’t wear. I find the time on the cable box, “it’s been about forty minutes now so most of the hard part is over. Five minutes in scratching, ten sweating, twenty unconscious.”
“Unconscious?” the girl on the couch furrows her eyebrows.
“It’s fine. Lasts two minutes top. Then, all the problems wash away and you go into heaven. Of course, after the up, there is a little bit of a down turn depending on how well she is adjusted to it.”
Neighbor packs a bowl, “that parts the toughest, the last, if you aren’t ready,” he says and takes a hit from my bowling pin pipe and passes it to me.
“I remember my first time. I tried to fly. I ended up on a bridge downtown though I had no idea how I got there since my car was nowhere to be found. It was okay though, no harm no foul.”
The couch girl leans in to grab the pipe from my hand that apparently I have been holding for too long. As her hair tickles my cheek, I get a smell of coconut and apples, a smell that brings back memories of one of the most wonderful girls I’ve ever known. I study the girl as she takes a hit. Maybe this could be the same girl, I think, but then again, I’ve been doing drugs for a few days straight and it seems I’m starting to put my daydreams into reality.
For the next little while, the three of us sit on the couch and watch people and pictures flash up on the TV. We all laugh together occasionally but none of us can really grasp the depths of Hogan’s Heroes at this point so we just pretend to know what Colonel Hogan is doing. None of us have a care in the world until the friend bolts from the bedroom.
“We gotta go!” she screams.
“What, why?” the girl on the couch seems less than enthused about moving.
“I gotta live!” she says and runs out the front door.
“Well fuck, I guess I got to go and take care of her,” the couch girl rises slowly from her spot.
“DV IS the best. So, come back anytime, uh, what was your name again?”
“Jesus, you have been doing these drugs for a while huh? Alana Dallas, it’s Alana.” she begins to collect her belongings to go.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I thought it was you but I didn’t want to look stupid cause I was pretty fucked up even when you got here,” I ramble on.
“Good to see you Dallas,” and she walks out the door. I’m motionless for a moment, not sure if that was as embarrassing as I think it was. Before I put much thought into it, I jump up and throw open the front door.
“I won the lottery!” I yell as Alana runs to grab her friend who has mounted a car and seems to be auditioning for a music video.
“If you won the lottery, you better call me,” Alana shoots a smile up to me as she drags her friend into the car. Guess I’m going to have to find that number.
Alana was right that when she brought a party, she brought a party. Over the next few months, a steady stream of people came in and out of the apartment. Alana was like a one-man frat party announcement. And once she started experimenting with the drugs, nothing was off limits. She would do lines of coke while tripping on mushrooms washing it down with vodka and whiskey. It was as if her body had been lying in wait for the day to arrive when she had no rules and no responsibilities. After she announced her permanent residents with a subscription to O magazine, I took it as my job to support her financially as well. Each month the lottery money came in and within three days, we were stocked up for the rest of the month and broke. Since I could only afford one drug habit, I tapered my intake down to pot and Tramadol. My food options began to dwindle as well. I relied mostly on cans of Wolf chili and cereal. I finally began trying to kill two birds with one stone.
“Hey, we are out of drugs and milk so uh,” Alana announces one morning, “get on that.”
“How long has it been since you talked your Richard?” I inquire in hopes that maybe we can visit and get me food not out of a can.
“What the fuck is it to you?” Alana snaps back, seemingly annoyed that I would ask such a reasonable question.
“I was just thinking maybe we could calm down a bit over here. We could go over there, I know I could go for a home cooked meal.”
Alana climbs on my lap and begins to grind her legs around mine, “do you see what my body looks like when I’m not eating my mom’s deep fried food?” she takes off her shirt and swings it around her head. The belly I saw for the first month Alana was here has been transformed into a tight, almost flat layer of skin that would put most girls that workout to shame. “You want to ruin all of this?”
“It’s not that of course,” I struggle to get any words out, “I just thought that maybe you could go home for a few days and let them know you are okay.”
Alana rises from the couch, grabs the remote, and smashes it against the wall, “Are you trying to kick me out of my house?”
The question catches me off guard but I have learned in four months when is a good time to cut and run, “I’ll be back in a little while.”
We continue on this path except now I’m a visitor in my own apartment and Alana has now taken the place of my mom.
“Why is this house always so fucking dirty,” lovely words at six thirty in the morning to wake up to.
“Cause you,” I pause, “I mean, cause I don’t clean it.”
“Damn right so how about you give me some money so I can get me some things and have this shit hole clean when I get home.”
I climb out of bed and reach into my pants pocket for my wallet. Alana stands beside me, hand extended. I look at Alana, face sunken into itself where only the cheekbones now exist, dangly arms that can function for no purpose other than to enjoy injections, and I try to remember what the girl I knew was. I hand her my card and watch her walk out the door.

Today is the happiest sad day of my life. My last check from the lottery office comes in and I have to tell my stick figure that this check should go for additional rent for the next year. Since Alana has completely shifted her sleeping schedule to all hours that consist of daylight, I have some time to work out my approach to the matter at hand. I drive by Sunset Park but I have no desire to check out anyone that might end up like what I have at home. I try a few coffee shops and a pizza parlor, but they both have too many people inside to be peaceful. My car finally guides me to Claude’s place. I feel a calm about me, my body knows all it has to do is climb out of my car and walk inside to trays full of things that will help me put off my problems until tomorrow. The closet I get to Claude’s front door is my front passenger side tire that I thought might be losing air.
I take a few minutes downstairs before I wander into my apartment. I find out when I walk in that Alana has not made it out of bed yet (it is only just three thirty in the afternoon) so I sit on the couch and wait for Whiskers to rub against me and let me know everything will be okay.
“Whiskers,” I call out as I search around for her underneath the couch and behind the recliner. “Whiskers!”
I enter the bedroom and look around. I don’t call Whiskers name at first, I want to avoid Sleeping Beauty if at all possible. I take a lap around the apartment again but have no luck.
“Alana, hey sweetie, Alana,” I rub her left arm bone to try and soothe her awake.
“What the fuck do you want?” she opens her eyes enough to let a glint of sunlight bounce off her pupils.
“Do you know where Whiskers,” I pause, my hand drowning in a puddle on the bed. I press down gently on the covers only to cause the wet spot to grow. I lift my hand to my nose, “Are you okay?”
Alana finally begins to sit up in the bed and open her eyes, “why the hell wouldn’t I,” she moves her butt around in the bed, “what the fuck is wet?” Our eyes meet and at the same moment, we both realize that the wetness is from an overactive bladder.
Alana’s face rotates through the shades of embarrassment as she leaps from the bed and runs into the bathroom. I bow my head as I realize how much harder this just made the day. I get up from the bed and tap softly on the bathroom door, “Are you okay?”
Alana gives me an emotionless response, “Go the fuck away.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it I understand but I would like to know if you know where Whiskers is.” I stand at the door and wait for a response. Alana obliges, throwing open the bathroom door.
“That stupid cat of yours. That’s all you care about. Well, I got tired of that sad sack around. Someone asked about him last night so I let them have him. Do you know I don’t own anything that doesn’t have cat hair in it now?” She stares me down seemingly insistent on reminding me who is boss in this place. When I don’t budge, she slams the door in my face. I take a deep breath, probably half a dozen, and walk back to the bedroom, fish out my phone, and dial Richard’s number.
Forty-five minutes later when Richard knocks on the door, I still hold out hope that this can all be resolved amicably.
“Someone is at the door,” I call out to through the bathroom door.
“Then answer it stupid,” the door answers back. So I do. As expected, Richard waits on the other side of the door. Surprisingly, he meets me with a right cross to the chin that sends me to the ground.
“Where is she?” Richard steps over me and comes inside.
“Bathroom,” I respond through my hand that covers my nose and tries to keep the blood inside.
“Just like her mother,” Richard mutters as he walks to the door, “hey pumpkin, it’s daddy.”
After I have a few moments of sheer terror that Alana may have recently killed herself in the bathroom, she finally emerges and lunges into Richard’s arms. Her face still red, this time from the tears.
“It was all his idea daddy, I just wanted someone to love,” sobs engulf the sentimental lies.
“I know it was,” Richard shoots a glance my way, “I know.” Richard sets Alana back down, “go grab your stuff and I’ll take you for ice cream.”
Alana smiles and peeks Mister Serra on the cheek before she disappears into the bedroom. Richard then turns his attention to me.
“I’m truly sorry sir for the way things turned out,” I try to put on my sad voice, “Whatever responsibility to be had can be laid truly on me. I would just prefer we take a timeout on any violence today.”
Richard walks to me and places his face inches from mine, “it will be better this way.”
“Okay, I’m ready.” Alana bounces from the bedroom, clam happy. Richard grabs Alana’s bag from her and opens the front door. The two walk down the stairs and past a police officer. Richard and the officer nod to each other. Once to the car, Alana climbs into the back seat and Mister Serra starts the car. The police officer makes it to the top step and obscures my view of their departure.
“Are you Dallas Anderson?”
I don’t answer; I just turn around with my hands behind my back. The office leads me back down the stairs to his police car. After he loads me in the back, I glance out the back window to spot Neighbor on his porch, Whiskers in hand. I only wonder now if Alana looked out the back of the Taurus and looked for me.

Nebraska

I’ve seen the commercials for the old men running to the bathroom every five minutes but I still haven’t seen anything for the teenage equivalent. My mom always tells me it is nothing but a nervous tick; it always seems to act up just as she was getting deep into the sales rack at Dillard’s or during one of my thousands of chores. If she only she could see me now standing out here in the woods pissing while my best friend, Jared Angelo, is in the shed getting ready for the greatest afternoon ever. Jared had recently found a cave at the back of his families property and today we are going exploring to see what we can find. We both felt to be safe in our journey, we would bring a gun and some explosives (just in case we get trapped inside the cave and need to blow our way out).
I finish marking my territory on a tree and trudge back to the barn. I pause twice on the way back; once to dodge a pile of leaves that I mistake for a snake and the other, when I hear an explosion in the shed.
I spend the time before the police and ambulance arrive watching the shed go up in flames. At some point, both mister and misses Angelo run outside and watch the building crumble to the ground. It makes it worse that they have no idea Jared was inside. I try to make it back down to the house but it seems the time I spent standing, mud had shackled my boots in the ground. Finally, someone notices that I was the lucky winner of wearing the orange jacket so as to not be shot by hunters and sends an officer up.
“We were just going out into the woods, doing something with some animals,” I tell the officer knowing better than to unveil all of the days plans in much detail. “Sir, is Jared dead?”
The officer takes off his sunglasses to see me, “Son, your friend blew himself into bits and pieces cause you boys wanted to go out and fuck around.”
I feel a trickle of tears begin to make their way down my cheek. Officer Nelson pats me on the shoulder.
Since no one answers the phone at my house, Officer Nelson offers to drive me home. He reminds me to remember all the bad men that had sat in the backseat before me and to never be like them. The lecture gives my mind a few moments to stop thinking about Jared. It seems every time I do, I start crying all over again. I remind myself that the men who sat back here before me were criminals but I’m sure they didn’t cry like a baby and wipe my face clean. My eyes catch the clock on the car’s dashboard. It turns ten fifteen. I watch the car turn down Victory Lane. I can see through the bars of the backseat that there are a few extra cars at our house tonight. It seems awful strange that Aunt Lula’s car is here. God, what family event did I forget about?
“Mrs. Victory?” Officer Nelson asks as he steps back enough for Mom to open the screen door. “We tried to call.” I sneak inside under Mom’s arm and make my way through the house. I end up in the living room and stumble upon the family meeting I had been dreading since I saw the cars in the drive. My sister Anna (who usually hates these things more than I do) sits on the couch in between Uncle Eddie and Aunt Sharon.
“It’s okay, I wasn’t even there,” I said wondering how everyone knew so fast but couldn’t be bothered to come pick me up. I slide in between Anna and Uncle Edie and wrap my arms around Anna. “It’s okay.”
“I’m pregnant,” Anna tells me. I resume sniffling; my eyes open up and continue until I feel like I have no more tears left.

After an emergency school board meeting, it was deemed best if I take some time to be close to family and understand that what happened wasn’t my fault. I’m happy because I don’t have to go to school, I can help out Anna, and find out who the father is. That is anyone’s guess.
My first week home was spent jocking for position among the hoards of church ladies to talk to Anna any longer than hello. I took the hint, moved everything vital to my living into my room, and put sheets up over the windows. This week, I’m adapting to life as a mole.
“They said you can come back to school on Monday,” Mom opens the door and tells me.
I put up my hands to block the light from hitting my eyes. “What day is today?”
“Saturday. Make sure your homework is done and don’t shoot anyone on your first day back,” Mom smiles at me, the first I’ve seen in weeks.
When I return to school, I accept that my classmates can be kind of mean, (I even took part in the pranking of a student who had a terrible case of narcolepsy), but I am not prepared for the actual response I get the moment I walk through the front doors.
“Murderer!” “Coward!” and “You’re sister’s a whore!”
I ignore the first two about me but when anyone feels the need to put Anna into the mix, I can do nothing but take exception. “What did you say about my sister?”
“Hey fucker, I said she’s a whore. What’s it to ya murderer?” the crowd separates for Derek Anderson, the football star to step in front of me, his chest hits my forehead. I pull my arm back, praying someone will stop this fight fast, but before I can finish my forward motion, Derek twists my arm behind my back and slams me against a row of lockers. He leans close to my ear; his lunch burrito breath smacks me in the face. “Her pussy tastes so sweet,” and with that, picks me up and slams me onto the ground.
I still feel the bruises from the rest of my talk with Derek when our principal, Mister Sendrick, advises me strongly to take some time off and take more time with my family. If only my family were that easy. I consider a protest, remind Mister Sendrick that I am privy to most of Anna’s activities but I remember the death threat Anna promised me if I said anything about her “possible baby daddies” and reconsider.
I use a secretarial phone to call home. I think for a moment about calling Dad at work but since I got the wrong end of his belt last time, I don’t even try. I decide the enjoyment of being in the sun (and the delay in time of getting home) sounds fun so I walk home. I arrive home, a little sweater than earlier. I notice a new set of cars parked in the driveway. Inside, the standard church lady crowd sits in the living room, watching Dr. Phil.
“You have to stop being who you are!” Dr. Phil screams at a lady sitting beside him, crying her eyes out. The church ladies all clamor, agreeing with his tactics. I realize it is not my place to be so I stop by the kitchen and take a peek in the cabinets. With Anna eating for two now, it seems not even my oatmeal cookies (my favorite, Anna’s least) are safe from her hunger. I take whatever scraps I can find back to my bedroom. I toss a few pair of pants out of the way and find a comfy position on my beanbag. I yank at some cords and uncover my Playstation from a stack of clothes by my bed. Before I can locate my controller, Anna opens the door.
“Can I come in?” her belly is already outgrowing her shirt.
“Sure,” I tell her tentatively, not knowing what mood she might be in this moment. Even from my room, I still hear Anna’s response when Mom cookies bacon instead of sausage for breakfast.
“I took care of Derek,” Anna smiles at me and glances over my plate, “what cha got?” She leans in closer, her knees pop adjusting to the added weight.
“How did you know? It just happened, like today.”
“You think my friends don’t still watch after you when I’m not there?” Anna grabs a few pieces of beef jerky from my plate. She kisses me on the forehead and uses my head as a prop to get back to her feet. “It will be okay Benji.” I run my fingers through my hair and try to get my cowlick under control. Anna closes the door leaving me to stare at a poster of Nolan Ryan throwing a fastball back at me.

The months go by and visitors continue to come over and watch Anna’s belly grow. Me, I’ve been working on a beard, though, I’ve only got three long hairs on my chin and one growing out of my cheek. Most important to my safety and isolation in the house, I have begun to track Anna’s doctor days and feeding times. Today is Wednesday, which means I should be clear for a few hours this morning while Mom and Anna are at the doctor and Dad is at work. I grab the remote to turn on the TV but the Gilmore Girls are already talking a million miles a minute at me. I pause for a moment and enjoy two good looking girls who get face to face tossing spit at each other while they argue over some boy but the anger is short lived because the boy picks one and ditches the other. Finally, I have had enough and turn the station to The Price is Right. I’ve watched this show since I was five and yet Bob Barker hasn’t aged a day. Maybe they keep him in a cooler over the weekends. I try to convince an old lady from Boston to bid five hundred twenty three dollars (her neighbor bid twenty two) but she seems determined to hit it right on the mark and dig through Bob’s pocket for a hundred dollar bill. The whole crew of contestants bid over (even though my guess was wrong too at least it would have been a better educated guess than ten thousand) and has to all put in new bids. I am midway through deciding what to do when Anna walks up behind me.
“What are doing in here?”
I hesitate to answer. “Well, it’s Wednesday and I thought that you would be at the doctors all morning with mom.” As I finish my statement, Mom walks in and joins our conversation.
“What are you doing in here? I could have had church ladies here today and then I would have to explain everything again.”
“I’m sorry,” I set down the remote and head to my room. “I’m sorry.”
“We can’t even go out in public anymore with people staring at us wondering about you.”
I stop and turn back to the living room but stand firm. “You ever think maybe it is cause you have a teenage mom carrying a bastard child.” I look over at Anna, tears building in her eyes. Mom sits her down on the couch and cuddles her. Anna’s cries are louder than ever. I feel I have been awake long enough today and go back to bed.
By the time I wake back up, it is dark outside and rain taps on my window. I peek out my bedroom door; the entire house is pitch black and silent. I dig through the fridge and find a chicken leg left over from dinner and a Sierra Mist. I turn the power on for the TV and repeatedly hit the volume button down. I’m able to bring the volume down before Billy Mays screams at me to buy some cheap no one needs (at least that what dad says about him). I naw on my chicken for a while and watch TV on a screen that is bigger than my wallet. I sleep without dreams and enjoy a peaceful night sleep on the couch getting some fresh air.
Unfortunately, when I wake up in the morning and return to my bed, I see how things have changed. My Nolan Ryan poster no longer throws at me. I only get a smile and wink from Cinderella and walls of Pepto Bismol. I stare at the walls for a little bit but the pain fumes begin to get to me so escape to the garage. I find my things are all conveniently already out here so I set up my own corner of the room and adjust to the new smells of exhaust and burning oil. I will learn to like it.

Other than the cold, the smell, and the lack of sunlight, the garage isn’t all that bad. I never have to make my bed and I always get to say goodbye to my dad before he goes off to work. Sometimes, it is nothing more than a “get out of the truck” (where I sleep on the colder nights, letting the car run for a while to pump some hot air in and then turning it off before I choke on the fumes) but it is nice to see him every day.
After he pours in a little extra cold on his way out, I have my solidarity. I used to really enjoy playing with some of the kids around my street but since I have my room area of the garage, its kind of fun. I’ve gone through a ton of old boxes out here and find all kinds of board games, playing cards, and even some old GI Joes. Last week, I had to destroy Snake Eyes while playing cards because he refused to show his hand after he won a pot. Said it was no different than wearing sunglasses to protect a tail but Cobra Commander said he saw Snake Eyes try to slide a hand back in the stack that didn’t look like it could have beat a pair. On non-poker nights after a solo dinner, I try to keep in shape and do as many push ups and sit ups as I can. It helps drain any leftover energy from dinner or the day in general. Once I lay down for the night, my sobbing gives me a nice rhythm to lull me to sleep.

Last night was the worst I have had in the garage. It was so cold that the door into the house from the garage was frozen shut. I couldn’t even get the keys to run the engine much less find a nice place to curl up on the couch. I finally resorted to piling a stack of dirty clothes along the front seat of Dad’s truck and burrowed as far as I could underneath. This morning, I know I have a few extra minutes to clean out the truck before day takes off on his Saturday golf adventure, so I wiggle my finger and toes to try and get them to warm up. While I try to open and close my hand to get circulation going, the garage door flies open and Dad comes to the car.
“Get out of the way,” Dad yells at me opening the driver side door. I slide over to the passenger seat, bringing as many clothes as I can with me. I look up at Dad and expect him to get me for making a clothes mess inside, but he focuses on revving the engine and doesn’t seem to notice I’m even in the car. I sit quietly, hoping this rush means he doesn’t have time to kick me out of the car. The garage door flies open with Mom helping Anna to the car. I jump out and help. Anna pulls herself into the truck, moaning, Mom at her back pushing her the whole way. Mom jumps in and places Anna’s head on her shoulders.
“Get out of way Benjamin,” Mom tells me now caressing Anna’s head. I shut the door and follow the truck down the driveway waving goodbye. The morning holds the cold air around me waking me up more as much as two cans of pop. I am now awake enough to hear how loud my stomach is grumbling.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen; every cabinet opened trying to decide what I want to eat. I devour a sleeve fig newtons that I find stashed in the back corner of a cabinet but other than that, nothing else is edible. I find a half eaten package of hot dogs from our last freedom celebration and pop them in the microwave. I luck out and have to only use one heel to roll my weenies up in, the rest go on real pieces of bread. I plop down on the couch and turn on an episode of the Gilmore Girls.
After my hot dogs are eaten, I take a shower and walk down to Saint Mary’s hospital and check in at the front desk.
“Are you family?” the nurse asks. I pause and consider my answer. “Should be some people in the waiting room,” she tells me without waiting to hear my response. I visit the waiting room to see close family and the distant ones as well. The men puff on their pink candy cigars and the ladies talk about what name will be given to the newest family member.
“Loretta, Andrea, Gertrude!” everyone has a say. I talk to a man whose wife is in surgery. He says it is fifty fifty if the cancer has beaten the time clock of the surgeons. I wish him luck, give a glance to my family, and walk out of the room.
I find labor and delivery and sneak back to see Anna. I really don’t want to hold the kid but I would rather that than have anyone else back there. I peek my head around the curtain and see Anna sticking her finger in the babies face.
I walk inside and give Anna a hug. “I think I’m going to leave.”
Anna looks up at smiles and me. “It’s okay silly, you aren’t going to infect Gloria with anything,”
“No, not that.” I stop talking while I stick my finger in Gloria’s face. “I’m going away for a while. Maybe even Tahiti.” Anna stops playing with Gloria and looks me in the eyes. She knows how to read me and she seems determined to see if I’m telling the truth. After she does, she reaches over and grabs an envelope from the table. I glance inside and see a stack of money bulging out.
“Come on now,” I try to hand it back to Anna but she has returned her focus to Gloria giving me no place to return to sender.
“Send me a postcard,” she says then laughs with Gloria. I kiss my hand and place it on Gloria’s forehead. I back out of the room.
Back at the house, I go to work cleaning up my spot in the garage. I box everything up and shove it as far back in the corner as I can get it. Dad would find me just for leaving the boxes far enough out that it would block his truck from getting inside. I stop by the bathroom, pee, and wash my hands. In my parent’s room, I dig through Dad’s pants for his wallet; he always leaves it in times of crisis. I sit down at the computer and begin a search for Tahiti. There are a lot of pictures of sandy beaches and pretty girls so I know it is out of my price range and move on. Mexico seems cheap and easy to fit in. We had family friends that moved to Durango and said they only took one thousand dollars and they lived doing nothing for six months. My envelope had to hold twice that much. I type in the credit card information and print my bus ticket to Mexico via San Antonio. I grab my bag and start walking. I hope my neighbor on the bus doesn’t mind a little sweat. It is a long way to the bus stop.

Please never let this happen to me

“Everyone got a ride?” Brad asks, scanning the employees to make sure no objections were raised.
“I don’t,” came Sarah’s voice from behind the counter, muffled because her head was currently inside the popcorn machine cleaning it out.
“Then you get to stay.” Brad unlocked the back door for everyone to scurry out into the dreary winter night. He watched the kids climb into their cars and peel away as fast as they could from this place. Brad wished he could do the same.
Brad walked back into the concession area where Sara was still hard at work, “you don’t have to keep cleaning,” Sara pulled herself from under the machine, her shirt dipped down just enough for Brad to see her light pink bra.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
Brad shook his head, “no, just let me finish some stuff upstairs and then if someone’s not here for you, I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll try them again,” Sara picked up her phone and stuck it to her ear.
Brad watched her for a moment, not sure what answer he was hoping for from the other end of the phone but he figured regardless, it would be a much less awkward trip home if he backed away now and didn’t stare at Sara while she called.
Upstairs, Brad reviewed the receipts for the evening, stacked all the money in the safe, and set out the instructions for the morning crew. He had so much trouble dealing with his hands shaking his only instruction for the morning crew was, “Open Doors.”
“What’s the verdict?” Brad’s step took a hop once he saw that Sara was still in the building.
“Look’s like it’s just you and me tonight.”
They walked out to the car together, Brad finding it way too creepy to open Sara’s door so he unlocked the door from his side and climbed in and shut his door. After the engine was started, Brad realized that Sara was not in the car. He glanced over to see Sara pulling at the door to no avail. Brad leaned over and opened the door.
“Sorry about that. It hasn’t stuck like that in a while.”
“I’m only half frozen now.”
“I’m sorry,” Brad looked at Sara and dropped his eyes. Sara leaned over and patted him on the cheek.
“I’m just kidding with you.”
Brad sheepishly looked back through the windshield, “Where to?”
Luckily, Sara was on the way to Brad’s house, though, he would have driven twenty miles the other way just so his car could smell like coconut for a day. As they turned around the last curve, Sara pointed to the sidewalk, “You can drop me off here.”
“There’s some creeps out there,” Brad stopped hoping he hadn’t just painted himself into that corner, “I mean, I just don’t someone to grab you.”
“Are the my big bad protector?” Sara reached her hand over and squeezed Brad’s thirteen-inch arm. It wasn’t much but Brad squeezed it as tight as it would go, “you don’t have to pose for me.”
“I’m not,” Brad protested though held his arm tight as Sara continued to hold on. Sara slid up on her left knee and leaned into Brad, kissing him square on the mouth, her dainty lips immediately sucked up inside as Brad settled into the pleasant surprise. Sara pulled back into her seat and grabbed Brad’s arm again.
“Told you were.” The two laughed for a moment, Brad staring through Sara, trying to decide what to do. “Can I touch you?” her words fell out nonchalantly.
“Touch me?”
“If you have to ask then you don’t know what I’m talking about and so it doesn’t matter,” Sara turned to the door and grabbed the handle.
Brad reached over and grabbed her arm; “do you mean,” Brad groped his crouch with his left hand. Sara let go over the handle and readjusted her head directly aimed at Brad’s lap. Brad held onto Sara’s arm and tried to unzip his pants with only his left. Sara grabbed the right and set it down, her hand brushing just inches away from Brad’s rising lap. Brad lurched back; the touch was almost too much for him to stand. “Are we on the same page now?”
“Yea,” Sara bit her lip and batted her eyes. Brad moved slower, allowing the moment to fester. As Brad pulled out his cock, he closed his eyes as if to soak in the moment and then rolled his head towards Sara. He seemed hesitant to open his eyes when the light hit him, it seemed a little cliché even for his imaginations to shine the light of heaven on him in this extraordinary moment but when he did, euphoria disappeared. Thoughts of large black men and bunk beds flooded his mind as he stared back into the lens of Sara’s Nokia phone.

Testing out

Thats about it.