She scowled a bit when we entered my office/apartment. It was a little dingy, I admit, and in need of some decorating, but I didn't think it was that bad considering what I pulled down following around unfaithful husbands and scouring the city for folks who forgot to pay their debts.
"Don't like it," I asked, trying not to sound too hurt?
"Needs work. It's old."
She wasn't wrong, of course, but I wasn't entirely sure it wasn't a commentary on myself.
"You don't get rich in my line of work. Well, most of us don't, especially when you hate the work as much as I do. It'll have to do. Besides, if I made a million dollars, I wouldn't know what to do with all of it."
"You could spend it on me," she remarked, so casually I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
26. Lady Loves
Every poet, every artist, every writer needs a woman to pursue. Somebody just outside their grasp but not entirely out of their reach. A possibility - a potentiality. They need somebody to dream about and obsess about and churn up every uncomfortable feeling in the book - love, lust, regret, despair. These are the meat and drink of the artist, and nothing can stir them quite like a woman or a war. War often has a terrible finality to it that really puts a damper on one's artistic output, so in all cases a woman is the preferred option.
Jake's problem wasn't a lack of women in his life. There had been several. His problem was a difficulty in falling in love with them. He could never quite get over the line in terms of love - they all turned into friends he flirted with and took out to dinner and show, maybe some dancing, a few time quite a bit more. But they never quite made it deep into his soul, that secret spot where a man really lives.
Strangely enough, this is what was running through his aching head as he sat on the front stoop, his cheek already beginning to swell, his hair a tangle of odd perpenticularities. He needed to love a woman, to get out of the snooping racket and get a job that didn't involve angry husbands and lovers (well, not as many of them, anyways). Soon enough, his head cleared and he regained his composure and his hat, brushed off his pants, and took a stab at standing up. Too soon. Back on the stoop, arms back, eyes to the clouds and more ruminating on lady loves and his lack thereof.
Jake's problem wasn't a lack of women in his life. There had been several. His problem was a difficulty in falling in love with them. He could never quite get over the line in terms of love - they all turned into friends he flirted with and took out to dinner and show, maybe some dancing, a few time quite a bit more. But they never quite made it deep into his soul, that secret spot where a man really lives.
Strangely enough, this is what was running through his aching head as he sat on the front stoop, his cheek already beginning to swell, his hair a tangle of odd perpenticularities. He needed to love a woman, to get out of the snooping racket and get a job that didn't involve angry husbands and lovers (well, not as many of them, anyways). Soon enough, his head cleared and he regained his composure and his hat, brushed off his pants, and took a stab at standing up. Too soon. Back on the stoop, arms back, eyes to the clouds and more ruminating on lady loves and his lack thereof.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
25. Morality
The girl talked about the insanity of war, and how, when you really got down to it, one side was no better than the other. Everybody was a murderer. Everybody was guilty. He smiled. She asked him why.
"You only believe in such moral absolutes because you've put yourself, at no cost to yourself, on the side you believe to be righteous. I was there. There was a difference. If you don't see it, you're either blind or your eyes are closed."
With that, he turned and walked away with a slight limp, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm and blocks under a beaming summer sun ahead of him.
"You only believe in such moral absolutes because you've put yourself, at no cost to yourself, on the side you believe to be righteous. I was there. There was a difference. If you don't see it, you're either blind or your eyes are closed."
With that, he turned and walked away with a slight limp, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm and blocks under a beaming summer sun ahead of him.
Monday, April 15, 2013
24. The Perfect Crime
Every law-abiding citizen is just a criminal waiting for the perfect crime. Frankly, Jake had never seen a more perfect crime than that leggy blonde on the arm of one Mr. Jarvis Hollister, architect and married man about town. He watched the middle-aged Casanova in the side-view mirror as he and the secretary from the office next door took a guilty walk down the street from the cafe they'd met at to the apartment his wife didn't know he rented. At least that was Jake's theory.
Taking his notebook out of his vest pocket, he scratched down that line about "the perfect crime". It was a keeper. As he reached back into the back seat for his camera, he saw the smiling face of one of New York's finest staring back in the window. It was Eddie Meacham, a fat cop who was little more than a celebrated meter maid and poster boy for small-time police corruption.
"You're not going to park here, are you Jake? The price of a ticket is going to seriously cut into your profit margin on this job."
"Of course not, Eddie. Wouldn't think of it. I was just looking for you; wanted to buy a ticket to the policeman's ball."
Two blocks and a five-spot later (thank goodness Eddie was a pal), Jake was taking the steps up to the door of a brownstone, camera in hand, hoping to finish this job and collect his fee from Mrs. Hollister tonight. Rent was overdue, and he hadn't had a solid meal all week. Coffee and chicken soup can only take a fella so far in life.
Taking his notebook out of his vest pocket, he scratched down that line about "the perfect crime". It was a keeper. As he reached back into the back seat for his camera, he saw the smiling face of one of New York's finest staring back in the window. It was Eddie Meacham, a fat cop who was little more than a celebrated meter maid and poster boy for small-time police corruption.
"You're not going to park here, are you Jake? The price of a ticket is going to seriously cut into your profit margin on this job."
"Of course not, Eddie. Wouldn't think of it. I was just looking for you; wanted to buy a ticket to the policeman's ball."
Two blocks and a five-spot later (thank goodness Eddie was a pal), Jake was taking the steps up to the door of a brownstone, camera in hand, hoping to finish this job and collect his fee from Mrs. Hollister tonight. Rent was overdue, and he hadn't had a solid meal all week. Coffee and chicken soup can only take a fella so far in life.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
23. Scrum
"Sometimes, when those thoughts pop up, I feel like there's some kind of fight in my head. The destructive thoughts rushing the barrier, my mind trying to hold them back. I'm just not always sure which side I'm rooting for."
He crushed out the cigarette in the arm of the chair and stared at me, waiting for a reply or a nod. I just stared back.
He crushed out the cigarette in the arm of the chair and stared at me, waiting for a reply or a nod. I just stared back.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
22. Love
Even when love is ill-considered, inconvenient and terribly unwise, it is still love, and love is good.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
21. Aftermath and Prelude
Into the tavern, up to the bar.
"Mike," he said with a low bark - almost a moan if such a thing is possible.
The man behind the bar gave him a look and shook his head.
"Loretta's gone again, huh?"
"Yep."
"Beer?"
"No sir. My nerves call for whiskey. Five years of this shit, and I've definitely earned whiskey."
"Neat?"
"What else?"
The bartender complied, and almost as soon as the glass hit the bar, Jake snatched it up and high-tailed it to a back booth. The bar was empty this morning except for the usual crowd, who went by the name of Abner and who had lived through a mustard gas attack during the war, much to his regret. Once in the booth, he kicked up his feet, tasted the whiskey (he hated it) and pulled a small book and a pencil out of his coat.
Twenty minutes later found the glass empty and a few pages of the notebook filled with bits and pieces about love lost and the rarity of pure and true love and all the other things that cross a poet's mind after his wife has left him for, he was assured, the last time. In fact, he actually believed that this time was the last time. He read it in her face and even now could feel the hollow ache in his heart. The ache of finality.
Another hour would pass in Pete's Place, two more glasses of whiskey, a somber conversation with Abner, who was foolish beyond his years and wonderfully sad, before Jake was ready to continue with life. He had appointment with a Mr. Brown this afternoon, which promised a fee that would help him pay for the whiskey and the office/apartment and his secretary's salary, such as it was. Jake's heart wasn't in it, but his stomach was insistent.
"Mike," he said with a low bark - almost a moan if such a thing is possible.
The man behind the bar gave him a look and shook his head.
"Loretta's gone again, huh?"
"Yep."
"Beer?"
"No sir. My nerves call for whiskey. Five years of this shit, and I've definitely earned whiskey."
"Neat?"
"What else?"
The bartender complied, and almost as soon as the glass hit the bar, Jake snatched it up and high-tailed it to a back booth. The bar was empty this morning except for the usual crowd, who went by the name of Abner and who had lived through a mustard gas attack during the war, much to his regret. Once in the booth, he kicked up his feet, tasted the whiskey (he hated it) and pulled a small book and a pencil out of his coat.
Twenty minutes later found the glass empty and a few pages of the notebook filled with bits and pieces about love lost and the rarity of pure and true love and all the other things that cross a poet's mind after his wife has left him for, he was assured, the last time. In fact, he actually believed that this time was the last time. He read it in her face and even now could feel the hollow ache in his heart. The ache of finality.
Another hour would pass in Pete's Place, two more glasses of whiskey, a somber conversation with Abner, who was foolish beyond his years and wonderfully sad, before Jake was ready to continue with life. He had appointment with a Mr. Brown this afternoon, which promised a fee that would help him pay for the whiskey and the office/apartment and his secretary's salary, such as it was. Jake's heart wasn't in it, but his stomach was insistent.
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