That’s what brought us beneath the neon lights, with the salty regulars who preferred to keep to themselves, and the pockets of young amateurs, measuring their fun in decibels. I tried to summarize a story I was finishing over the competitive voices.

“That sounds pretty good,” he said, grimacing from a swallow of his beer that burned all the way down. “You got a title yet?”
“Yeah…it’s, uh…tenatively…uhm…”

Soap’s eyes trailed off with my words as we searched together…him around the bar, me the depths of my mind. It wasn’t there…just an incomplete puzzle with all the surrounding pieces, all the related words, the synonyms, but someone had removed the pivotal piece before I’d even gotten it out of the box.

“It’s a legal term, you know, like a document…”
“Summons.”
“No.”
“Arraignment.”
“No.”
“A…contract, ledger, a testimony, a will…” he offered. I rested my forehead on my palm in silence, closing my eyes to focus the search. “Law.”
“What?”
“You know, a law. A bill. An amendment?”
“I’m an amendment to be, yes an amendment to be, and I’m hoping that they’ll ratify me,” I sung half-heartedly.
“Huh?”
“There’s a lot of flag burners who have got too much freedom, I wanna make it legal for police men to beat ‘em…Simpsons.”
“Oh, heh,”
“I don’t know why I can’t think of this.”
“Well it sounds like a solid story anyway.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip from my bottle. “You want to go have a cigarette?”
“Sure.”

We were standing up from our stools when something caught my eye on the television mounted behind the bar. “Hold on a second.” It was a promo for a new series premiering on Fox in the Fall. It had that overly polished, yet gritty, high def look of something produced by Jerry Bruckheimer. The colors were just a little bit off, the sun a bit too bright…the product of a superior universe. At first I thought it was CSI: Davenport. The Fox Voice Over Guy was doing his usual hip, throaty, radio DJ impersonation.

FADE IN

We rush over the tops of cornfields, past the young men detasseling beneath. We continue over Highway 1, which becomes Main St and fly low above the heart of an all American small town. A green sign reads “Fairfield, Iowa. Pop. 9,509.” The yards beneath are well kept, the buildings are vibrant, the architecture is classic iconic. The people going about their business below radiate simple joy that is detectable even from this height and velocity.

In the cornfield we passed, a sweaty, dark haired, unshaven detasseler yanks recklessly at one stalk of corn after another. We recognize him as self-proclaimed Mac, television’s Justin Long. He has a look in his eye that says he won’t be satisfied until he has personally seen to the removal of every tassel in the field…all the while knowing he’ll never reach his goal.

A chubby hand grabs Derek on the shoulder from off-screen, clearly standing a few inches taller. Derek throws a handful of tassels to the ground with a frustrated grunt.

He turns to look upon his overweight, rosy-cheeked, smiling friend; who I vaguely recognized because of a small role in an episode of Entourage, and would later find out is named Jareb Dauplaise. The friend’s expression quickly changes to concern, looking past Derek’s shoulder to the corn behind him.

The Friend’s eyes widen in sudden, hysterical, rage. He lets out a battle cry and stage-dives, headlong into the row of stalks, destroying at least half a dozen on impact. Derek chuckles, immediately helping his friend up by the arm and dusts him off.

It’s a quiet evening in the modest Lucas household. Mrs. Lucas, who looks older than she should, is watching the Trinity Broadcasting Network in a worn recliner with all the lights off. Derek pops his head in from the hall near the front door.

Derek disappears toward the front door.

Derek’s head is leaning back into the shot.

CUT TO:

Derek and Fred are hovering over a couple glasses of beer in a loud, busy Honky-Tonk. They appear to be in the middle of a heated discussion.

Derek’s mouth hangs open like he is about to say something, but all that comes out is air as he shakes his head, looks stupefied and his eyes wander off into space.

CUT TO:

Derek is sitting in an exam room. We hear the low but rising volume of the beginning of “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World. The Doctor is standing in front of him looking over his chart.

Derek reacts to the news he’s just been given, looking perplexed with no detectable emotional response.

The Doctor looks him in the eye with tight lips that can only mean “this is serious.”

CUT TO:

Derek and Fred are back at the bar. Fred is crying inconsolably.

Fred starts to gather himself, wiping his eyes with a sniffle.

Fred looks a bit confused, trying to wrap his mind around what Derek just told him.

CUT TO:

Montage…one nonsensical piece of footage after another. The music kicks in hard on cue:
It just takes some time
Derek riding a wheelie on a tricked out four-wheeler down Main St, flames shooting out the exhaust.
Little girl you’re in the middle
Running frantically through a parade, carrying a furious bee-hive overhead.
Out the right
He’s diving into a massive indoor swimming pool that has, for some reason, been filled with bright pink Jello, and the other swimmers lining the edge, in caps, tubes and scuba gear follow suit.
Everything, Everything
Derek beginning to float away in a puffy balloon suit filled with helium labeled “The Real Balloon Boy”, looking desperate, Fred chasing after, leaping to grab an ankle.
Will be just fine
Fred and Derek, in the dead of night, dancing with each other inside roped off sections of a cornfield, making crop circles.
Everything, Everything
Derek standing proudly behind eight newborn babies of various colors, in transparent hospital cribs, posing for press photos, flashing eight fingers, his T-shirt reads “Octo-Dad.”
Will be, alright, alright
Zooming down a paved hill on back of a shopping cart alongside a few others, his mother screaming, crouched in the bed of the cart, both wearing helmets as they fly toward the finish line.
It just takes some time
Derek dancing naked with innumerable hippy types, he’s holding a torch in front of a fifty foot naked woman in the likeness of an inflatable doll, the banner overhead reads “First Annual Burning Woman.”
Little girl you’re in the middle out the right
Performing what appears to be the tail end of “Puttin on the Ritz,” complete with cane, tux, and top hat, in a courtroom, for a jury of his peers, to which they erupt in standing ovation.
Everything, everything will be just fine
Countless, quick, celebratory jumps, high fives, chest bumps, and hugs between Derek, Fred, other interesting characters who aren’t recognizable from the trailer, and most notably Derek and his mother hugging and twirling, tears flowing, at the finish line
Everything, Everything will be alright, alright!
Freeze frame.

“Wow, what a piece of shit,” Soap said, turning toward the door. “C’mon, let’s go.”

I was in shock, silent. I truly could not believe what I had just witnessed.
“Novelty,” I uttered like I’d just had the wind knocked out of me by Justin Bieber… yes it hurts, but not like your pride.
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Novelty. What a joke.”
“I wrote that.”
“Wrote what?” he asked blankly. Soap was quickly losing his patience with me.
“Novelty. I wrote that. Not as a shitty sitcom for Fox… a short story. Same basic premise… not so obviously terrible. I was going to publish it but…I couldn’t remember the title.”
“I thought you said it was a legal term.”
“Not that story, this was like six months ago. I figured it’d come to me eventually…I put it in my desk and forgot about it.”
“What was the title going to be?” he asked, more amused than alarmed.
“Novelty. That was it… so fucking weird.”
“Oh well, they did you a favor…” he laughed, guiding me by the shoulder toward the door.

A big grizzly old timer in a flannel jacket must have overheard our conversation. He turned a quarter of the way around on his stool, which seemed to be about as far as he could go. “I don’t know,” he said, “I think it looks pretty good. Funny.”
Soap rolled his eyes. I approached the flannel guy like he’d just given me a piece of information that could lead me to the people who’d murdered my wife. “Really? You liked it?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I think it’s got real potential.”
“Yeah…maybe,” I nodded, gaining some irrational satisfaction from this. Just as I was making an exit once again a man in glasses and a tie decided to open his mouth.

“Nah. The whole damn thing is a rip off of My Name is Earl,” he said confidently.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demanded.
“Well, look at it…you’ve got your skinny, cynical, funny guy teaming up with an overweight simpleton as they go on single-serving adventures every week on a fantastic premise.”
“Yeah, I guess you could compare the two,” I said, “if you completely ignore how different those ‘fantastic premises’ are.”
“You’re right, I was ignoring that, because this premise sucks compared to My Name is Earl.”

Soap was aware of the rage mounting in me and took hold of my jacket by the shoulder as I tried to step forward. “And who the fuck are you asshole?” The man in glasses stood up, moving backward, alarmed, having absolutely no clue why I would take his criticism of the show personally. For that matter, neither did I.

As Soap labored me toward the exit, I continued yelling, “Are you NBC’s Senior Executive in charge of programming? Are you producing some groundbreaking fucking sitcom I should know about, David E Kelley? Or are you just the guy who’s going to go home and watch old TiVos of Yes, Dear, and uh, and fucking, Designing Women?!”

When we were outside the bar and I said I was alright; he let me go. We lit up a couple cigarettes, and by the second drag we were laughing at the absurdity of what had just happened. He looked at me, expecting some sort of explanation, but all I could say was that I didn’t know.

“Designing Women?” he asked.
“Yeah… I kind of blew my load with Yes, Dear.”
“Fair enough…but from now on, let’s leave Designing Women out of it.”
“You’re right, that was uncalled for.”
“They did some good things…”
“I know, it was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

We began walking toward our respective cars. The plan was to go get food afterward but I told him I’d had enough adventure for one night. At my request, Soap waited to make sure my piece of shit Escort would start before he pulled out of the parking lot. I suspected the starter was dying. There was no extra money to fix it if it did. After a couple initial squeals it fired up and I had life for at least one more trip home.

To be continued.

Long John Silver’s seemed like the ticket: cheap, not a frequent choice, and hard to fuck up since everything was deep fried.

When it comes to fast food, I am a creature of habit. There’s security in the menu, I knew what I wanted everywhere I went. At Taco Bell it’s a Grande Soft Taco, with tomatoes. That’s a little beefier than the regular soft shell, with an extra shell wrapped around it and nacho cheese between the two. The alternate was a chicken quesadilla, also with tomatoes.

I only mention them twice, because tomatoes do cost extra…everywhere. At 26, I feel like an old man remembering the good ol’ days when garnishes like tomatoes and cheese didn’t jack the price up.

At McDonald’s, if I wanted a cheap build, it was a 99 cent McDouble, or a Big Mac if I felt like livin’ large, and occasionally McNuggets. I’d also recently given the Honey Mustard Fried Chicken Snack Wrap a trial run with mixed results.

Long John’s was strictly a chicken place for me. Their batter was delicious, but it was just too cheap and greasy to venture too far into unknown territory. Until one day, I saw the crab cakes. They were one of those rarely tasted delicacies I’d tried at weddings or on special occasions, and had never been able to get enough of. They were always too expensive and insubstantial to order at a real restaurant…but there they were, on the menu at the cheapest seafood dump in the Western World.

I gave them a shot, just one to go with my three chicken planks. They were pretty good…then, I combined them with the malt vinegar sauce: epic win.

When I pulled into the drive-thru that night, I decided to take an unprecedented step after only a couple trials: two chicken planks, and two crab cakes. Giving the promising rookie equal time with the old reliable veteran…I hoped it paid off.

Proudly, I announced my starting line up into the intercom, to which it replied,
“Sorry, sir, we are out of crab cakes at this time.”
“FUCK” I said, peeling away immediately.

It started as a choice of convenience, but the moment he said they were out of crabcakes it skipped right over “craving,” and became a mission. I had to have them.

I marked myself as busy on the trip phone and set a course for East Peoria Long John Silver’s. It was a few miles away, but that was no matter…this was bigger than fuel conservation, mileage efficiency, or job performance. This was the American Dream, damn it! Who are we if we can’t get whatever flavor of cheap, yet, overpriced, sub-standard food at a moment’s notice, whenever the craving should strike? Barbarians? Savages?

Within minutes I was in the parking lot across the river, where I pulled out all the stops. I would be dining in, like a gentleman. There would be crab cakes, and chicken planks, all I could take…and condiments from bottles instead of single serving packets. All washed down with a frosty mug of root beer. Victory was mine.

Afterwards I smoked cigarettes and read a Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius in the parking lot as the sun set over the buildings in the west.

Roughly 45 minutes later I received a massive trip out of East Peoria, going to Weaver Ridge. All energy flows according to the whims of the Great Magnet…what a fool I was to defy it…

We’re standing together in a weed ridden field. It hasn’t been plowed for a few seasons. The Arkansas sun has me pouring sweat into a cheap three piece suit. The stench of the body keeps a handkerchief over my mouth. She stands taking notes five yards away in her navy blue dress, thick white band above the hips, white hat protecting her Irish complexion. We call her my secretary to keep up appearances but we both know she’s every bit the detective I am. “Don’t smoke all of those,” she says, as I light one from her pack. “I’ll need them for later.”

In bed, waiting for her to get ready, I wondered if she’d be up for it. To my surprise, she pulled my usual routine of lying down fully clothed in jeans and black tank top. I took it as a sign of her fatigue and was a little disappointed until she put her head on my chest and asked if I knew the Catholic prayer they say before bed. “The one that starts Now I lay me down to sleep…” I recited the poem my Grandma taught me in early grade school on nights I spent with her, but added I thought it was more Protestant than Catholic. “The Catholics are into the official prayers. Our Fathers, Hail Marys…” Then I followed with each of those, surprised I still knew every word.

The building is burning around us. We’re chained in the center of the room, back to back, a good distance from anything that would be helpful. I can’t see her, but I know she’s there as the hazy scene becomes real. Her long, red hair is spilling over my shoulders, I look down and see the green leather glove of her costume, handcuffed to me. I hear metal strike the ground, she grunts in frustration; I ask what it was. “The lock pick. What are my powers besides being incredibly clumsy?” I realize she really can’t remember. The Ginger must be lurking outside, waiting. He knew his powers would be ineffective on me, so he had to knock me out. My healing factor will save me…but I need to remind her she can put out this fire in the blink of an eye, or she’s done for. And it’ll be my fault.

When I’d become satisfied just lying there, eyes closed, not falling asleep, talking, she started kissing my chest and neck. I kissed her lips, full with red wine. I skimmed her breast outside the tank top, she gasped lightly. She pulled her top over her shoulders and I told her the black bra with white pin stripes was cute, before she unsnapped it. Then I saw that the panties matched and I told her to leave those on. As she went down on me, I rubbed them until I could feel her straight through the cloth. She stopped and reached behind the bed. “I got something for us,” she said. For us? With a coy smile she revealed five feet of soft, dark rope. “Now we don’t have to use your belt.” I told her I was a little drunk, maybe too drunk for that sort of effort. She started to put it away and I said, “Wait, leave it…maybe I’ll change my mind.” She went down on me generously while I manipulated my fingers with the pin striped panties pushed to the side. No rush, she was as skilled with her mouth as I was with my hands.

Her scent is strong. The beat of her heart grows louder as I float effortlessly from one building to the next. She’s been tracking me for weeks, maybe longer. Now, I’m hunting her. At first I thought she was trying to kill me…vengeance, maybe. The closer she’s gotten, the more I’ve known the truth. My suspicions are confirmed as I see her below, walking down a dark, littered alley, showing a lot of skin in a red dress. She’s making herself a target…but she’s no groupie. I’m not the only one who has noticed. Two jean jacket thugs are following close behind. The bigger one slips in and muffles her scream with his palm. The other pulls out a knife and waves it in front of her eyes. He slides it beneath her shoulder strap and cuts. He’s gone before the cloth falls. The other is dumbfounded that his partner has just disappeared. She hears the sound of his neck snapping, his grasp on her loosens and he collapses to the pavement. “I’ve been looking for you.” she says, without seeing me. “You know what I want.” I do, and I would have given it to her already…but this isn’t a world I’m anxious to bring her into. “I’m ready.” I know there’s no sense fighting it…she is one of us. I open her neck up delicately, and drink.

We moved to the carpet and I tied her up. She was on her stomach, bound at each wrist and ankle, bent at the knees. The tightening of the rope had her making delightful little noises. I toyed with her awhile longer before I slid a pillow beneath her hips, pulled the panties to the side and mounted. We went for a long time, varying the pace, her song revealed the intensity. I pulled out and stained the black to release some pressure, before continuing. She bit down on my hand to quiet herself, I planted my lips and teeth on her neck and shoulders. When I felt she’d had enough, I closed my eyes and finished hard. I removed the restraints, fell into bed and she wobbled after me. We came together, just as we’d started, and slipped away into other worlds, hand in hand.

I was headed South on Knoxville toward the bright lights and hysteria. The dreaded sound of the trip phone rung over the All 80’s Weekend on 106.9. Damn it. I’d have to accept, there had been plenty of good trips thrown my way that night, no reason to get greedy and ungrateful.

Burger King on University going to Sheridan and Main. Not bad, the drop off point was only half a mile from the bars. If I hustled, there would still be time for at least one more.

The BK employee popped out of the building upon my arrival and told me it’d be just one minute. He had to get his stuff together. I kept my patience, and tried to hide my annoyance even after it took him about five to get in the cab. He explained that the dispatcher told him it’d be ten or fifteen, which is the standard estimate…I said that I understood, but really all I was thinking was “call the cab when you’re ready to leave.”

After a detour off Sheridan, he had me pull into a closed gas station at the corner to keep the meter at $9.60. He handed me a ten, and I told him to have a nice night.

The clock read twenty after four. I knew there would still be a few stragglers downtown, but the question was, would there be any tippers…any trips that wouldn’t just waste my gas and effort? “What the hell…” I said, it was worth a shot.

I bypassed the Pere and it wasn’t looking too good. Nothing I was interested in…Richard’s seemed like my last shot, but at the corner of Jefferson and Main there were three flaggers, two hot young skirts and a curly haired guy with a beard. I pulled over and they rattled off multiple drop points. First Farmington Road, past Jimmy’s, then Seven Oaks apartments on Brandywine. Win.

The one with long, dark hair asked me, “Do you like music?” I chuckled. It was the second time in my life I’d been asked that question. That’s like asking “Do you like food?” I said I did.
“Me too,” she said. I assumed she asked to imply she wanted me to turn up the radio, so I did.
“What kind of music do you like?” I asked
“Country.”
“So you don’t really then.”

The girls talked amongst themselves. They were friends, the guy was silent, he looked out the window for most of the ride. There was some debate about plans for the rest of the night. The long dark haired girl was talking to the peppy one about what to do after the ride.
“I seriously want to go home and drink,” the peppy one said.
“Well you could come over…”
“Aren’t you just going to go to bed?”
“I don’t have to.”
“Isn’t he going back to your place?”
“Him? Hell no. He’s a douche-bag. Look at him.”
“Oh…I seriously thought that was the plan.”

The guy still said nothing and I instantly hated the dark haired one. I didn’t like women who went out to dance in packs, let guys hit on them, buy them drinks, led them on, split a cab, then wished they’d found someone better, badmouthed the guy to their friends, and then hung them out to dry. I wanted someone to get laid…it reassured me. Maybe there was a happy ending for those frustrated guys at the bars once in awhile…sometimes it wasn’t just a fruitless fucking charade.

“Did you have fun tonight?”
“Yeah, I had fun tonight? Did you have fun?”
“Oh, I had so much fun.”
Smiles, smiles, smiles. Mission accomplished, girls had fun. What a fucking joke.

When we were approaching the peppy one’s house on Farmington Road I asked, “Alright, what’s the deal?”
“Ok, you’re going to drop her off, then me at Seven Oaks, then he’s going to…”
The guy blurted out some street.
“Cause he is not staying at my place.”

“Alright, what’s the deal, as far as, where this fucking house is?” I asked, because I couldn’t care less who was going where at that point.
“Oh, two more up on the left,” she said. “With the car in the driveway.”
“Ok.”

They discussed payment options and the dark haired one started harassing the guy, asking how much cash he had on him. He was defiant, and I liked him more by the second. “How much am I going to have to fucking pay?”
“I don’t have any cash on me, and she only has enough to pay to here.”
“Relax, I take credit cards.”
“Oh, he takes cards, so we’re fine. Give him your money.”

The peppy one handed me her fare and apologized there wasn’t enough for a tip. She assured me the dark haired one would take care of it. I said that was fine, have a nice night.

The guy handed me up a dollar, “Here,” he said, “that’s for the slut.”

There wasn’t any talking during the ride up to Seven Oaks. Just the eighties music playing from the speakers. They sat on opposite ends of the seat, looking out the windows. They seemed to inch closer during Purple Rain.

When I parked in front of her building I was expecting her to hand up a credit card, but instead, the guy handed me a twenty on a thirteen dollar ride, and told me to keep the change. Our eyes met for a moment, I gave him an understanding smirk and said “thanks a lot man, I really appreciate that.” He got out without saying a word to her, followed her toward the door.

“So you just assume you’re spending the night here?” she asked. He swatted her on the ass. She seemed to like it.

It was gorgeous, and warm for Spring. I had just gotten the good word on the promotion I’d been working toward for two years and decided to take the rest of the afternoon off to celebrate. Have a few drinks, maybe buy a dog…because that’s what successful people do.

Maybe one of those dogs, I thought, just before I realized those six large dogs were headed for the street. I tried to brake, too late; the runaway dogs crossed my path and the leashes that trailed caught my front tire.

I went down face first like one of those walking tanks from Star Wars.

“Oh, you poor thing,” were the first words I heard upon coming out of the daze. There was cleavage in my face. They were attached to the blonde: the tits and the dogs.

I sat up on the pavement. She came into focus, heavy pink lip gloss, yellow sundress, wide, blue eyes.

“I hope you’re OK!” What she meant was, I hope you don’t press charges
“I’m fine.”
“Thank God! You saved the dogs!”
“The dogs?”
“Yes. I really need this job.”
I gathered that she was a dog walker…or, trying to be.
“Maybe you should cut back to three at a time.”

Her laugh was exaggerated and obnoxious, but it shook her tits, which was nice. I became aware of a small crowd gathered around us. They were all watching anxiously. All except the mysterious girl on the bench behind them. For some reason, even as I continued flirting with the blonde, I couldn’t keep her out of the corner of my eye.

Brown hair, turquoise top, purple skirt, and stockings…despite the scene, there was no surprise in her. It was like she’d seen it all before. I think she even rolled her eyes at our conversation, knowing the slutty blonde was trying to win forgiveness with sex appeal. The mystery girl knew as well as I did the blonde had no interest in me, she just wanted to be off the hook.

I found myself drawn to the girl on the bench.

The blonde gave me her card with a wink and a smile, before she let the dogs drag her off again. I moved what was left of my bike out of the street and abandoned it against a building.

“Hi,” I attempted, standing beside the bench. She looked my way briefly, then turned back to a stare that went miles down the road. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
She shrugged. I took a seat.

“What are you listening to?”
She sighed, pulling a headphone away from her ear. “What?”
“What are you listening to?”
“Blood on the Dance Floor.”
“Any good?”
“No.”
“Can I have a listen?”
Her lips tightened for a moment, then she exhaled. “Sure. But it’s not going to change your life or anything.”
I put the headphones on and bounced a little to the techno dance beats to show that I was fun and charming, “This isn’t so bad!” I said, realizing I was speaking far too loud as I took the headphones off.
“There’s no accounting for some people’s taste.”
“If you don’t like it, why are you listening to it?”
“It’s a long story,” she said, hanging the headphones around her neck.
“Care to tell me about it over some coffee?”
“Not really.”
“Well…how about just the coffee?”
“I don’t care,” she yawned.
“Close enough, let’s go.”

There was a small coffee shop just around the corner. It wasn’t too busy, the customers looked like they’d been there for awhile sitting in the air conditioning, sipping coffee with nothing else to do. We found a table just big enough for two inside.

She was beautiful, but detached…completely unphased by the change of scenery and the new company. She didn’t even bother looking at the menu, or any of the people in the shop…yet somehow, she was fully aware of all of them. The girl looked like she had secrets.

I got the feeling she had no interest in me, she would have been just as happy still sitting alone on that bench. That only made me want to try harder.

“So, what’s your name?”
“Amber,”
“Oh, that’s pretty. Amber what?”
“Amber Lamps.”

The waiter walked up, wearing black frames, his hair was cut short, highlighted blonde. “Hello, my name is Travis, I’ll be taking care of you…”
“Decaf for me please, and bring Amber Lamps uh…”
“Mocha.”

Amber was steadfast and revealed nothing. She was like a professional poker player, her eyes were impatient and unimpressed…but her body language told me she could sit there forever without flinching or saying a word.

“So, Amber, where are you from, originally?”
“You haven’t heard of it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I just know. It’s a town in Indiana.”
“Try me.”
“Pawnee.”
I’d never heard of it. I was reluctant to say so…but she knew.
“See.”
I smiled, and my phone started vibrating. It was a miracle it still worked after the crash. I put up the traditional “I need to take this” finger and answered. She didn’t seem to care. It was my boss. The conversation was very brief, so much so that the gut shot didn’t hit me until I’d clicked “end.”

“That was my boss,” I said, already panting.
“Ok.”
“I just got fired.”
“Oh. Why?”
“He said they found pornography on my computer…”
“That makes sense.”
“No it doesn’t. I never look at porn at work…it makes no sense at all.”
“Then how’d it get there?”
“I have no idea! I can’t believe this…”
“It’s just a job,” she said, the way you’d say It’s just a sandwich when they screwed your order up at McDonald’s, the way you’d say it’s just a scuff mark when someone stepped on your Pumas.

Trent showed up with the coffee. He set Amber’s down in front of her, she went to take a sip immediately. The tray was somehow knocked off balance and my cup came tumbling down, end over end, directly into my lap. I screamed like a little bitch.

Amber raised a concerned eyebrow, which made me feel a little better, until she said “I think I got your decaf…”

As I frantically began wiping the scalding coffee away with the white cloth napkin provided by the sympathetic Trent, Amber spoke. She spoke for the first time, without provocation.
“I should have warned you.”
“Warned me about what?”
“Me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They used to call me disaster girl.”
“Who?”
“Whoever. Bad things just seem to happen when I’m around.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to bother you too much.”
“I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I haven’t.”

The coffee shop began filling with smoke. Thick, dark, smoke pouring out of the back, followed by a deep voice that could only belong to someone serious.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a fire in the kitchen, the extinguisher is malfunctioning, we ask you to calmly and quickly exit through the front of the building! The fire department has been called, they are on the way.”

Before he’d finished speaking most of the customers had already made their way past us to the door. My first reaction had me standing, turning to flee with them, then I remembered Amber.

I looked back, and she was still sitting there as if nothing was happening.

“I think it’s time to go!”
“I never got my mocha…”
“Forget the mocha, bitch! The building is on fire!”
“…whatever…”

She walked deliberately behind me as I trotted out of the building, coughing and choking. It could have been a stroll through the park for her. I kept going when I reached the sidewalk, headed for the street, she followed all the way to the curb and stopped.

The sound of a train whistle echoed in my ear as I looked back for Amber. I saw her steady gaze, just before the black sports car struck me, sending my body high in the air. I seemed to hang there forever, I could feel Amber watching me, as if she’d been watching this moment the entire time.

There was a loud pop when I hit the ground. No feeling, no movement. I could see the lake of blood forming around me.

Amber knelt down next to me and whispered something in my ear that I must take to the grave. It was only meant for me.

As she pulled away she put her index finger to her lips “shh. That’s my bus…”

Amber, my bringer of chaos, my watcher of destruction, my culling messenger…I thought of her, riding that bus, as I slipped into darkness and uttered my final words…

“Amber Lamps…Amber Lamps…”

“What’d he say, Sis?” asked the driver of the car, hovering over me.
“I think he said,” responded the passenger, “Call the paramedics.”

The transparent white curtains kept them there, against the glass. They surveyed every inch, testing the system for weaknesses, but they never hit the same place twice…they remembered…

There would always be a few, buzzing around the room, no longer trapped but no closer to freedom.

One morning I got so sick of looking at them I began shaking the curtains, leading them toward the open front door. Most of the flies figured it out, some lingered on the porch and eventually settled into death, in an empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

Last night I lit a white cylinder candle as I smoked my cigarette. A fly landed on the rim and watched the flame. He seemed to be considering something. Maybe wondering where all his friends had gone…or why he’d been left behind.

In the blink of an eye, the fly went directly into the fire, there was a pop, then silence.

I looked down and saw the fly’s carcass sinking into the wax.

“Well,” I said, “at least you had the courage.”

All around, people looking half dead
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head

Every time I hear that song on the radio I think of this scene, the opening minute of Die Hard With a Vengeance. One of the greatest sequels ever made, and a memorable introduction. They really capture the feeling of a city on the brink, when the pavement’s so hot you’re sure the whole place is ready to explode. Then it does. I just watched it the other night streaming on Netflix. Good times.

Yesterday was the hottest day of the summer here in Peoria. Thankfully I spent the daylight hours in bed and went into work just before midnight. The city had cooled, a light breeze, no need for air-conditioning…not that I’d ever use it.

After picking up all the flag trips Farmington Road had to offer me on a fairly busy Wednesday night, I ventured a few miles North to Walgreens on War Memorial Drive to find some cigarettes.

Buying cigarettes for most smokers is relatively easy, find a 24 hour gas station and pop in. I am not most smokers. There was a time when I smoked Camel Turkish Royals, before whatever disgusting chemical they use to “fireproof” cigarettes was invented. Now, that’s all I taste.

American Spirits to the rescue. No additives, no chemical taste, just glorious tobacco. They are on the expensive side, but each cigarette is so dense you can’t even pack them and the smoke lasts twice as long as any Marlboro, Camel, or Newport.

Once you’ve experienced the genius of American Spirits, there’s just no going back to the polluted smoke of the white-man.

The only problem is finding a store that carries them. Casey’s does, Thornton’s, but any other place is doubtful and I was too far away from the sure things. Then I remembered glimpsing a stocked shelf full of American Spirits at Walgreens one time and decided it was worth a shot. It paid off, they didn’t have my blues (full flavor), but the yellows (light) were a better substitute than anything else I’d find.

That left me parked in zone 10 after most of the bars outside of downtown had closed. Catching a trip out there would be a long shot unless a prescription run came through…but that seemed unlikely since I’d just gotten one the night before from that Walgreens going to Rosewood Nursing Home in East Peoria.

Despite this, I waited patiently and decided to work on my novel a bit. Half a page in the trip phone chirped. Thank god for Spidey-Sense.

It was Raphael, the owner of the Dormitory on Farmington Road. He had stuck around to close his place and was taking the cab home a little later than usual.

I enjoyed his trip whenever I got it. He preferred rock music, spoke of the struggles of the Cubs, or made small talk about how business had gone that night. Always a very nice guy who tipped consistently.

The route was simple, I knew the routine and got him to his house quickly.

When I cleared the trip phone rang out immediately…a double edged sword. I liked to keep running, but Zone 9, the East Bluff/North End could be problematic.

I pressed “Accept,” and the screen presented an address most of the drivers have memorized: 700 N Adams…The Taft Homes. Brilliant.

The Taft isn’t necessarily a bad trip. Many people who live there call cabs, I’ve taken a lot of them myself, and none of them have given me any problems. Most are just as friendly as anyone else I pick up. The customer is not who I’m worried about, the majority of the time. The Taft is gang territory, there’s always a risk, shit happens…but it could be worse.

My customer was going to a residential address on the South End a couple blocks off Western, a decent trip, if it turned out. When I was just short of the Taft I called the number provided. A young man answered and said he would meet me out front on Adams.

A dark figure in an over-sized red t-shirt started calling to me from one of the buildings when I was still a hundred yards from where I expected to see my customer. I braked, unsure, and the red tee told me to hold on as he disappeared behind a building. My phone rang and I recognized the number I’d just called.

“Hey, don’t you see me? I’m up here, walking to you,” he said. I looked ahead and saw the guy in a white tee taking long steps toward my cab.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, somebody else was trying to flag me down. I didn’t know if it was you.”

I rolled forward to my customer despite the protests of the red tee. He got in and I pulled off a safe distance before recording all the pertinent information.

“Yeah, I’m glad you called me back, man. I don’t know what that other guy was on…”
“Yeah, I don’t know what he was on either if he didn’t call for a cab.”
“I don’t think he did.”
“But I don’t think ya’ll have to worry about getting robbed or anything at that Taft.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve lived there my whole life and I never heard about that shit. Maybe when I was a lot younger, but a lot of people call cabs out of there and they don’t want to do shit…”
“It doesn’t make much sense to me, robbing a cab…”
“Because you ain’t gonna get shit,” he confirmed.
“Exactly. You could get more ripping off a McDonald’s register.”
“Yeah, and see most of them know that. That’s why they ain’t gonna do shit. They know it. Unless you get somebody real stupid, some drug addict or somethin.”
“Hell yeah. I’d expect it more at the Harrison, or somewhere down there.”
“Yeah, probably.”

He was a good guy, I liked him right away. It never took me long to realize who I needed to worry about, and who I didn’t. The trip was mostly quiet the rest of the way, I dropped him off and he left me a very generous tip.

“You gonna be around later? I’ll be callin back in about half hour, forty-five minutes.”
“Yeah, I’ll be out all night.”
“Aight, I got your cell phone number, is it cool if I call you direct?”
“Sure.”

When I cruised downtown the stand in front of the Hotel Pere Marquette was full of cabs. Around the block at the Holiday Inn City Center, I went inside to use the restroom and spoke to the security guard sitting on the front steps. He was a nice man with keen eyes and a lot of respect. We usually made small talk.

The other side of Main Street, directly in front of the bars, had a few open parking spots when I made my way back around. I pulled in there and took in the scene of loitering bar customers, some smoking cigarettes, some just talking.

There was a disturbance in progress that caught my eye about ten feet in front of me. A young woman with wavy hair was irate with a broad shouldered man. There was a handful of people between them, trying to talk some sense into the situation. The woman required more restraint, as she yelled, and attempted to aggressively wiggle free of her friends.

The tough guy was pulling at his shirt like it was about to come off…he was going to reveal the guns. They were throwing all the typical signals, the body language of two people about to unleash hell on each other.

If she was smart, she was faking it. A sensible man would not want to fight that guy…the woman, roughly 1/3 his size, would not stand a chance.

I saw it all the time, people going through the motions, trash talking, neither wanting to back down, but most of the time, neither really wanted to fight and face the consequences either.

It appeared that would be the case. The crowd had them pretty well broken up when I stepped out of the cab and lit a cigarette. She was being forced East toward Madison, he was headed West toward Monroe. There were twenty-five yards between them and the tension eased a little.

Then she sprung, like a running back, breaking to the outside, she made the edge and there was no one left to beat. She closed quickly on her target, he was ready for her.

She didn’t break stride as she reached him. He swung around with a perfectly timed hay-maker right hook that caught her on the bridge of the nose. POW. The ol’ brick wall. She went from sprinting to on her back in the sidewalk in half a second. Everyone on the street said “Oh!” in unison.

They were all shocked…except me. I saw it coming the second she cleared that edge and all I could do was stand there, smoking a cigarette with an unimpressed, borderline disgusted look on my face that should have been interpreted as “What the fuck was she thinking?”

It was pandemonium for the next twenty-five seconds. Their fight continued on the ground, the frenzy at the scent of blood in the water brought on a couple skirmishes around the fringes. You’d see a reluctant leg kick at the guy on the ground with the girl, others pushing and shoving and yelling, then the first squad car pulled up.

The large officer with the shaved head had his nightstick drawn as he approached the scene deliberately. I was surprised and impressed with how calmly he walked up to the fight, he wanted to see what was happening exactly before he started peeling it apart.

The tough guy shot up when he realized the police were starting to arrive. I expected to see him maced, tasered, and in hand-cuffs immediately, but it wasn’t totally clear to the officer what’d just happened…could’ve looked like two people rolling around on the ground.

The puncher darted across the street toward the alley next to Big Al’s. With all the fingers pointing his way, and the obvious guilt in fleeing, the officer knew who to chase. Over his shoulder, the guy yelled back, “I didn’t do shit!”

He disappeared down the alley with the officer in pursuit on foot and a squad car not far behind. Then another cruiser raced down Monroe to cut off his path and I was confident he’d be in custody very quickly. Even Steve, the Hoops bartender with the legendary mullet, made a track-star break toward Madison to make sure he didn’t get away.

The woman stumbled down the street, helped by a couple bystanders, there was blood gushing from her nose and she looked dazed to say the least.

You could feel the outpouring of sympathy for her there, leaning against a wall in front of the bars, as someone gave her a bag of ice, as they comforted her, this poor, helpless, assaulted soul, this battered woman…this victim.

I couldn’t help but think about how she had to sprint twenty-five yards around a mob of people to claim that title.

Oh well.

The street was filling with flashing lights and badges. It was time to move my cab, or risk getting pinned down there until they were finished taking statements. My customer going to the Taft would be calling back soon, and I had something to talk about.