A.G.E's Joint

  The Sheriff’s office looked the same, a hideous mass of concrete poured on the hillside overlooking Highway 129. A line of windows across the top resembled all-seeing eyes. Yes, Citizen. You ARE under surveillance. Gaudi himself would have loved it. I wondered how much money changed hands to get the monstrosity approved. It makes one appreciate nice buildings. Parking the car, I text my arrival. The reply came back: “I’ll meet you at the desk.” I put the gun in its lockbox and got out. Its too pretty out here to be talking to a cop. But talk I must. I pass a couple lying  head to head  on a  bench  outside the front door, lost in their  phones.  Modern romance, too busy to actually talk to each other. The last time I was here it was for a interview about a boat that was jacked in Naked Lady Cove. I was nowhere near it, but the owner thought I was involved since I knew Jerry Herrington. I was in the salvage business back and got lots of referrals from...

  The golden pastries had the smallest amount of steam rising out of them. The scene made you wish for smell-o-vision. The fat man in the purple apron delicately takes a taste of and begins a silly dance, saying it was so good you’d slap your Momma. Another psychological trick to sell the customer on it. The whole channel devoted to stuff you can pick up at the local store. We’re almost out! The call center is jammed. Use online ordering to ensure your shipment. I look at the upper left corner of the screen at the price. Right. And people watch this for entertainment. I shut it off and put on some Ramones. I wonder if fat guy was ever sedated. He needs to be. The shopping channel was on because it was mindless noise. I never ordered the crap. I had to admire the guy, though. He had to fake enthusiasm for hours straight night after night. It had to get old after awhile Sleet is pounding outside the window. Shivering, I pull the hoodie over my head. Every year the sudden change of se...

  The key dongle produces a satisfying click and I’m in. I’m glad the guy was professional and didn’t screw the lock up. The hall looked normal, no footprints or smudges on the concrete. He was careful for sure. Looking each way, I ease towards my place. What I found suprised me. The visitor wasn’t coming to see me after all. The door across the hall was hanging on one hinge. The apartment belonged to a woman named Delores. Some would call her fat: nice breasts with a slight belly roll, chocolate almond eyes, and a snaggly smile. Her background was one you didn’t talk about in public-learned her skills early and used them often. She’d told me once about a couple of pimps who ended up  swiss cheese . The details were vague other than she didn’t physically do it. I could see stuff scattered on the floor around the sofa. They were looking for something. I hang an ear to see if I could hear anybody. I didn’t. Shutting my door, I say a prayer of  gratitude.  It wasn’t my ...

  A couple of plates crash to the floor and I look up. The black waitress was standing next to the restroom, unsteady on her feet. I wonder if she’s drunk or just tired. Then I saw what it was. A naked dude ran out the door and down the sidewalk with just a smile on his face Another thing to remind me of my new project. Herrington’s nickname was “The Streak.” He’d gotten it after being caught by a jealous husband during a “negotiation” session for an investment. The thought of his pasty physique blowing down the dock made me laugh.  He was the fastest thing on two feet  and he lived to play another con. Last I heard, he had shacked up with a boat bunny who knew how to cook. My client wasn’t one of those. She just had bad taste in men. The setup sounded like one of his cons. Tell a fantastic story then blow the  flicker into a flame . It’s hard to think clearly when your breathless. I make a note to follow up on how long they had been together. I had fresh brew. It mu...

 The reflected light from the pink moon reflected gave the table an eerie glow as she gets into the Range Rover. The car fits her. Both are high maintenance, high strung machines. The slight aroma of Chanel lingered. Old-fashioned for someone her age. Thinking back, the sundress was a 1960s clone, too. An off-white number with small daisies.  The hour and a half I spent was profitable to say the least. I got the job. But not her name. Making love to my beer, I look out over the water. I'm not sure what to make of her or the situation. Claims poverty and delivers cash. Something was off. The envelope containing the target information was still on the table. It could wait until I get home. Too many people here who could tie the pieces together. Draining the glass, I pay the tab with one of the hundreds, putting the rest in my jacket. The clock on the wall blinked 9:30. Time to go home. Driving down 85, I thought about what the Cad, as she called him, might look like. Given he'd ...

On the surface, it was a normal client meeting at the Dockside Cafe, sitting on the patio making small talk. It wasn't. The Hazel eyes told a story. It was my job to find out what it was.  The server came with our drinks, beer for me, vodka and cranberry for her.  Over her shoulder,  a baseball game silently flickered over the bar. She might have been forty in a flowered sundress with a red carnation in her hair. The pink tints in her hair clashed. But who was I to judge? It was a possible job and the rent was due. The project was simple. Her estranged husband had hidden assets and she wanted me to find them. Usually, I was hired by an attorney for this kind of work, not directly by the client. When I told her, the excuse was she didn't trust the lawyer to do it. He was lazy. I'd heard this before. It made me wonder if was her stealing. I made a mental note to do an NCIC check if I took the job. An Aiding and Abetting charge would not make my day. As the sun sank close ...

I was going to post a story about another bottle blonde teenager making a bad decision, but the thing ever seems to come together. How do you handle failed stories or concepts? Do put them aside and hope they'll work out later? Or do you just kill them and move on? It is one of those dry periods where I can't quite get things to work out. I could blame the phone binging every twenty seconds with a political pitch, or my son's move into his new place (Yay for empty nesting!) But I've put out more with a lot worse going on. I guess I'll just look at this Orangutan. It's better than the Presidential Debate. Or wondering if my saying "Happy Birthday" is just another advertising data point.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Topic-Failed Stories Hard prompt Use Binging Easy prompt  Data point Pic-Rebecca Gruessendorf Pic guesses; Orangutan, monkey business, balance, nose, why?

 It's Friday and I was at a loss on how to handle the topic this week. Yesterday, I was scrolling around, trying to avoid the subject when a Facebook notification came up for an exhibit called "Tiny Parks Atlanta", which is on display now until Sunday afternoon (10/18/2020). A group called Livable Buckhead organized it to promote green space, they set up the project along   Path400 near Lenox Square. It's a short distance from home and I'd rather spend my day in the sunshine than listening to the political bullshit hitting me from all directions.  The weather was glorious. I found a place to park and spent a minute chatting with the organizers. They explained the concept and how I might vote for my favorite. I made my way up the hill towards Lenox Rd.  42 dioramas were scattered on either side of the path. The theme was to envision the ideal park environment on a small scale. It got its idea from another project called Tiny Doors Atlanta ( #tinydoorsatl ), whe...

  Fluffy clouds hung in the slate sky on the drive home. The colors reminded him of Sarah’s soft eyes on the dock. He relaxed and smiled. How he wished everything could have been different. That Mother hadn’t been such a bitch and pushed him to do what he did. That he’d never met those nasty cops. Sarah was more than a cousin. She was his little sister even though she was three years older. Someone to protect and nurture. Aunt Barb and her mom were dead and she was left with two shattered legs. Mother had to be convinced to take her in. If it had been up to her, Sarah would have gone into foster care. She didn’t want the burden but was forced by the court. Her resentment was palpable, complaining about cleaning the braces and extra food. There had been many times he had taken the hits from Mother, just to keep her away.  But that was in the past. It could never change. It was the day before his tenth birthday when he came home from school and Mother announced they were moving...

The parking lot was dark as he went across it. He heard the roar of the plane as it approached. It sounded like one he'd heard when he was in the military, a bomber. Looming over the roof of the building, the thing turned and dove toward the ground. There was no shockwave on impact, which struck him as strange. Just silence. The fire began under what was left of the nose. It grew exponentially. There was fire, but no heat. The others around him seemed unaffected, more spectators to the wreckage. He sat in wonder... Jimmy's eyes popped open. The same dream every night. Had been since the shop closed.  The bedroom was dark except for the slit in the middle of the curtain. The sound of Kathy's quiet snoring beside him was both soothing and disturbing.  He looked at the clock. 4:16. He knew sleep was gone for the rest of the night. Stay here or get up? He already knew the answer. With a practiced twist, his feet touched lightly and he made his way to the bathroom. He winced at ...

  "Breathe Deep, the gathering gloom..." 5:00 AM. I never had to look. 94-Q always played it the same time Sunday morning. Like Pavlov's dog, the gong seemed to give me energy. The poem matched my mood this morning. The paper drop had been late and I was at least a half-hour behind getting things done. It was humid and I was already sweating. I chug my old car into the open space and shut off the motor. Sunday sunrise wasn't for another hour, but noise didn't matter at Nob Hill. It was the pinnacle of the Swinging Singles lifestyle. 425 units done in a faux Mediterranean style, spread over 16 wooded acres. The parties had made it the place for up and coming image-makers. They were the Young Americans. The parking lot showed what was important, Morgans, Jags, and Mercedes. The only thing it didn't have on its main rival, Riverbend, was a river.  For a sixteen-year-old kid, it was paradise.  Buildings 10 and 11, by the small pool, had 18 customers and the crazie...