“I’ve got a problem!” This little red headed twit would say each and every time we met. She over used the word problem like, lol on texts, and she really, really, really, according to her, had a problem with whatever we were doing, that she would excruciatingly describe in detail until I wanted to cremate myself. How can one person be so problematic? Not once, not twice. Fuck. I always lost count and began to stop listening right after she said, “I’ve got a problem.” I wanted to say, “Look you little whiney brat, I’m just a volunteer trying to control a group of fifteen prepubescent girls, and the fourteen others that apparently do not have a problem require my attention and direction, too, so stop sucking up every molecule in the room,” but how could I? So instead, I pretended I cared about Miss All About Me, me and my clenched jaw posing as a patron saint, and the problem free girls existed only in her shadow. Seriously, she tested my patience to the point of wanting to push her off the cliff down the block from the church where we met each Wednesday afternoon at 4 o’clock, when she singlehandedly turned an hour and a half into life in prison. I was happy when she allegedly contracted walking pneumonia. Hell. That germ probably wanted to run like Nike’s after landing on her, but what did I care? It kept her absent for a week. Oh. I know I sound wicked, but you have no idea. Every time her mother came to pick her up, she thought my big smile was a sign I was a good person. Little did she know, it was the relief talking, “Oh. Thank God it’s over!” But then the next meeting would come, and she’d walk in and I’d twitch like jerky at the sight of her from across the room.

Me, the “not knowing what the hell I was doing” trying my best to “fake it until I make it” Girl Scout troop leader tried desperately to each week to do what? I’m not kidding. I can’t remember anything about the experience other than the stress induced by ginger Jennifer, in the basement of an Episcopal church that surely would have parishioners dizzy on a different day of the week, had they heard my thoughts. Blasphemy!

Whatever it was that made her look at life through a lense of quagmire, in spilling my guts about this, I can’t help but wonder if I wasn’t down the rabbit hole with her. Isn’t a problem only as important as we make it out to be? Of course there are exceptions. Like rain. Rain, and the lack of rain can both be seen as problems, depending upon if you are say a bride or the farmer. And well, cancer. Cancer. That’s a problem all of us would rather not be acquainted with. We can call rain and cancer problems, one more dire than the other, unless you are a bride or a farmer with cancer, only because the weather and illnesses are situations beyond our control. But I wasn’t a bride or a farmer and I was not diagnosed with an incurable illness, I was just confronted with a difficult pupil, not unlike the countless teachers and volunteers....ah like everywhere.

But Ging’ did me a favor. As much as I never wanted to see the likes of her again when I hung up my sash, her sheer ridiculousness towards the imperative continual importance of problems made my third eye see that more often than not, it is the mind; the perception of the situation that is the problem, not the problem itself. Why was it that fourteen other girls attended and went about whatever we were doing without complaint? And I'd be remiss if I didn't contemplate if the problem was just her or my lack of patience? If she was special needs, or special ed, trust me my compassion would have been all over that, (kuddos to special ed teachers everywhere) but she most definitely was not; she was just a whiney little brat with an intense need to make avalanches out of bunny slopes, with the ultimate intent of dominating the cosmos. If I was her mother I’d want a refund.

So thanks for listening to my rant about my problem about a girl who always had a problem. My take away today is, in a perfect world, there are no problems; just situations that need attention. But it’s not a perfect world and sometimes you just can’t make this shit up.

“Sumit, I am sorry. It is not going to work between us. My family will never accept someone dark, someone non-Christian. You are a nice guy, but it’s time we must go our own separate ways,” said Julie.

“Julie, I completely understand your position. I should not have been involved with you in the first place. But if we love each other, those superficial attributes like race, religion and color of skin should really not matter. As you grow older and become more emotionally mature, you will see that those attributes become less important in life; love and mutual respect will only last. The marriages that fail are based more on those superficial attributes than the basic love and respect for each other. I know we are not superficially compatible, but I would have truly loved and adored you for the rest of my life. Anyway, learn to treat your body like a temple and don’t let those rich guys destroy this wonderful God-given temple,” Sumit replied tearfully as he walked down the college stairs.

“Julie, you look awful. What happened? Did you catch the bad bug that is going around?”

“No mom. I have been feeling terrible since I broke up with Sumit a few days ago. I keep thinking of him all the time. I haven’t eaten a real meal since then. I cannot study. I cannot sleep. All I do is think of him and cry and as a result I started getting this horrible rash all over my face. I didn’t tell you about him. He is a senior in my college. He is from India on some kind of private scholarship. He is from a very poor family, but he is very smart, simple and down to earth. I have been seeing him for at least six months now. I know you and dad would never approve of someone like him, so I never mentioned to you about him. Mom, he is such a decent person. He never touched me. He actually adored me. I miss him so badly. I wish I could describe how I really feel inside.”

“Julie, it is your life. You have to decide what makes you happy and who you want to spend your life with. I have no problem accepting an Indian boy as long as you think he will be the right partner for you. Your dad is here. Why don’t you ask him how he feels about it?”

“Dad, how would you feel if I tell you I am in love with an Asian Indian young man and perhaps someday I want to marry him?”

“Julie, I will welcome anyone in our family as long as you think he is the right person for you. You are our only child and I will never do anything that displeases you. I have friends from all races and religions and, honestly, I never thought they are any different than we are. I don’t believe your mother will have any problem either. I have lived with her long enough to know how open she is towards others, irrespective of who they all are.”

“Mom and Dad, I don’t know what you all are saying now. While growing up in this household, I heard all kinds of racial and religious jokes which gave me the impression that you disliked others.”

“Honey, they were just silly jokes. Human beings enjoy jokes about other human beings, not of cows and donkeys. I thought we raised you with a set of good moral values. I don’t understand how you ever got that low impression about us,” Julie’s mother remarked sadly, as her father looked on and concurred with her mother.

As Julie was rushing back to her apartment, she remembered how simple and honest Sumit was.

“Sumit, how come you are so different from the other Indian guys on campus?”

“Julie, you have to understand where I am coming from. I am from a very poor family. My parents are local school teachers. These guys, on the other hand, are from very rich families, educated in posh western-style private schools that cost a fortune, and are raised with a domesticated western culture. They are ashamed of my English. They all grew up speaking English even at home, whereas in our school we all spoke our native languages. My parents and teachers were caring people and they did the best they could. I just came from the same country, but from a totally different economic class. I am here because of a private scholarship, while they are simply digging into their deep pockets to finance their education. You have seen, I eat very basic Indian foods that I cook once a week; whereas, they primarily eat out at expensive restaurants. In fact, I have never been to one of those fancy restaurants.”

“Sumit, we have been together for a while now. But you never try to take advantage of me. The other rich guys I have dated so far were all after my body only. All they cared about was how to take me to bed. Once they took advantage of my body, they would move on, as though they were tired of me. Those bustards had no respect for my body or mind. They all treated me like trash. I was stupid to run around with them too. Given my past, how would you feel to be with me?”

“Julie, your past is of no consequence to me. I really enjoy being with you. I love to go around with you. I wish I had some disposable money to spend on you. Deep down, you are such a simple and compassionate person. Previously, I used to feel very lonely in weekends; now I look forward to the weekends, as I get to spend a lot of time with you. When you leave at night, I cannot wait for the night to be over.”

“Sumit, you still didn’t answer my question. If we ever get into a verbal fight, will you use my past against me?”

“Julie, it is a shame that those monsters took advantage of you, without having to pay dearly for it. If someone does the same to my younger sister back home, I don’t know how I would feel; I will contact the local police and try to turn that monster over to them, to at least save other girls. Since these monsters grow up in very rich environments, they tend to think they can easily buy their way out of any trouble. You have not committed any crime or sin; you are just another innocent victim. You expected these guys to be equally decent human beings, instead they turned out to be monsters. Unfortunately, this happens all over the world and as long as the rich and powerful control the system, it will continue. If we continue to sacrifice our own, we will slowly slip back into the dinosaur age. What we need is to educate the young girls, followed by a grassroots movement to isolate those predators who use their wealth and repeatedly play the love game to take advantage of the young girls, physically. Anyway, getting back to your question, I promise I will never even mention anything about your past. In fact, if we ever get married and decide to have only one child, I will always pray that we have a beautiful girl – just like you. Again, all I want is to spend my life with you. I made my terms clear and now it’s your choice.”

“Sumit, you hardly have any money. You don’t need to pay for my movie ticket.”

“Julie, I know I have no money, but I feel good when I can do something for you. When we get married, I hope we have lot of money, so you can have the lifestyle of a queen.”

“Sumit, if you need some help with your airfare, please feel free to talk to me. I have a few hundred dollars left in my savings account which you can use.”

“Julie, that is so kind of you. This gesture shows how much you already believe in me. You are an angel in my life. By the way, I have already borrowed the money for my airfare from my cousin in South Carolina. Again, thank you very much for thinking of me.”

“Sumit, I know how much I will miss you when you are away during the summer vacation. Do you really need to spend six weeks in India? Why not just three weeks? I already miss you.”

“Julie, I am visiting India after three years. My parents are eagerly waiting for my visit. They will be upset if I don’t spend some time with them. I know I will be miserable without you too, but this is something I really need to do for my parents. In fact, I will be spending the final week of my visit in New Delhi attending an international seminar in science and technology.”

“Sumit, if we decide to get married someday, don’t you think that our inter-racial marriage will hurt your parents’ feelings?”

“Julie, this is one point you and I have been differing. I know you are extremely concerned about your parents’ acceptance of our inter-racial marriage and I totally respect that. But I must say I do not feel that way at all. My parents have done a great job in bringing me up and for that I will be grateful to them to my grave. But who I decide to spend my life with should strictly be my choice and thus my decision. If they are unhappy about it, it is my bad luck. Then again, I don’t want to think negatively about it before I even approach them. I think they will not fuss, rather they will be happy with my choice.”

As Julie came back to her apartment, she was happy to see her room-mate, “Becky, you are supposed to be my best friend. Please help me find him.”

“Julie, I hope you learned your lesson. You must learn to respect people the way they are. Do you know how you hurt his feelings? He just made one simple mistake – he behaved like a decent human being. You didn’t have the guts to do the same to the rich guys who shared your race and religion. The monsters who abused you will, using their wealth and in the name of love game, find other innocent girls to terrorize, again. This terrorism must stop.”

“Becky, I am only twenty-one and I already feel so old and exhausted. You are right, I should not have fallen for their wealth trap and played into their fake love game. In return, they simply ripped my body apart. They had no respect for my body. They did not even realize that I have a human body. Sometimes I have so severe pain all over that I don’t feel like even getting up from the bed. Sumit was so different; he always comforted me. I still remember how his face used to lit up to see me and how it used to go down when I would leave him at night. He really loved me, Becky. He had no lust in his eyes. He just wanted to be with me. To break up, when I was saying all those horrible things to him, his eyes were tearful but he was still smiling. He asked me not to let those monsters abuse my body anymore; instead, he reminded me to treat my body like a temple. Becky, I am so miserable without him. Please help me find him. I promise I will be nice to him.”

“Julie, did you speak to his room-mate?”

“Yes, I did. The room-mate thinks Sumit is transferring to another university. He didn’t leave any forwarding details with his room-mate. Sumit’s cell was disconnected. I even contacted Sumit’s cousin in South Carolina, but he was clueless too. Becky, do you think I will ever find him? I don’t know why I did this. I should have at least spoken to my parents before I broke off. I was just trying not to hurt my parents’ feelings. If I knew they wouldn’t object to our being together, I would never do it. Becky, I am not able to eat. My stomach is so empty that I started vomiting blood. Do you think I will be okay? Since he is gone, I cannot think straight. I don’t care to find a rich guy anymore. I want him back. I just want him back. I really do. Becky, suddenly I am feeling very sick. Can you come and hold me, please?”

“Julie, somebody is knocking. Can you get the door? Julie, I cannot come out. Please get the door. Julie, are you there? Please get the door.”

By Drake Patterson

The only sound is the rain and an occasional car swooshing by. It’s 3 am. I should be home in bed. But I’m here at the office, catching up on paper work. I got a tip from someone in the know that the IRS is planning a surprise visit. I’m ready for a paperless world. These old file cabinets are busting at the seams, reminding me of how long I’ve been at it. Before I came to this jerk water town, I was young and ambitious but twenty years tailing philanderers and snapping pictures for insurance companies has worn me thin. Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder who it is staring back. I’ve gotten gray at the temples and my eyes look like a crinkled bag. I guess we all get stuck in the past, when in the present, we’re knee deep in shit.

Just then I hear the bawl of a child. My first instinct is that someone has abandoned it at the soup kitchen across the street but the screams become long and drawn out like a motorbike stuck in first gear. I look out the window but all I see are the local bums trying to stay dry. I pop out on the stoop to get a better look when I see two cats rolling in a ball of fur. I should break it up but I’ve got a ringside seat. There’s an orange tabby on top –all claws and teeth. It’s a helluva fight. They finally part and I see the other one—a scrawny alley cat that’s missing one eye. There’s blood coming from his nose. I’ve seen enough. I shoo the orange one away but the scrawny one still wants a piece and chases after him. That’s what I get for butting in. Let them kill each other. I should be home in bed. I should burn all my paperwork in a garbage barrel. The IRS would have their suspicions but what could they prove? The only witnesses down here are the drunken bums and who’s gonna listen to them?

Since I’m out, I light a smoke. The rain isn’t hard enough to wash the scum off the streets but it feels good on my face. Just then some mangy bum appears, begging for a smoke. I give him one to just to make him disappear but I know it’s only a matter of time before all the zombies come dragging their wet blankets across the street to bum away my whole pack.

I go back inside. My phone rings. I jump three feet off the ground. Who the hell calls my office at this ungodly hour? It’s probably a wrong number from the west coast, when normal people are up and about. It keeps ringing.

“What the hell do you want?” I yell into the phone. There’s a long pause but I hear breathing on the other end. I soften some. “Who is it?”

“…Lester?”

“Yeah?”

“….I need to talk to you.” The voice sounds familiar but I can’t seem to place it.

“Talk then.”

There’s another goddamn pause. I want to yell, ‘What kind of ass calls at this time of night?’ but now I’m curious.

“Can we meet?”

I knew that was coming. Now I give the long pause right back at them. I hear the two cats ripping each other up again. I look out the window but only see my reflection. What kind of fool have I become?

“I’m guessing it can’t wait?”

“You know Leo’s…the all-nighter off of Front?” It’s almost a whisper.

“The chicken and waffle place?”

“I’ll be there in thirty.”

They hang up. It feels quieter than before. I wasted a whole cigarette. It died in the ashtray. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. But then again, I get a bad feeling about most things. I could go home, crawl inside my sheets and get some well-deserved sleep. I could crack open that bottle of single malt I was saving as a reward for organizing all my damn paperwork. I could grab my pole and waste a morning catching bullheads. With all these options, you’d wonder why Leo’s Diner at four a.m., would be the one I go for.

I drive down the city streets. Bridgeview Falls looks almost decent at this time of night. But I can smell dead fish coming off the river and I realize it’s not night but early morning. The street lights blur in my windshield. A cop pulls up to me at Sixth and Amsterdam and gives me the once over. I nod. He doesn’t nod back.

There’s a small crowd at the diner. It’s mostly iron workers getting a bite before the factory opens. Tough bunch. I usually sit at the counter but these thugs aren’t moving over. I grab a menu and take a booth near the window with a view of the bridge. There’s one lone barge chugging up the river, leaving brown foam in its wake.

“Coffee, baby?” An African- American woman, wearing earrings you could use in a hoop toss, shows up with a pot of each. She has purple eyeshade and fingernails painted like the American flag.

“Is it fresh?”

She doesn’t respond. She just pours some in my cup, which sloshes over the side and onto the table. She doesn’t bother to wipe it up. The fatigue is suddenly on me. No amount of coffee is going to keep me up. This is no time to conduct business. I toss a couple bills on the table and stand to go when someone in a wet raincoat takes me by the arm and leads me to a table in the back. If it was a stronger grip, I’d be obliged to waylay their ass across the counter but the hold on me is more guiding than pushing. I have a feeling this is my contact.

We sit. The person across from me is wearing a scarf and a hood. They look like the Grim Reaper or a visitor from Islamabad with bad intentions . They undo the scarf and pull the hood back. What’d you know? A gorgeous blonde. She looks like a girl I use to know.

“Hi Lester.”

“Karissa…what a pleasant surprise.” She hasn’t aged a day since she left me. As good as those blue eyes look, I stand to go.

“No wait.” She stops me with her hand. She smells like a vase of flowers. “I know I was a real shit but we have to talk.”

“Business or personal?”

“Whichever you like,” she says, sliding her lips into that smile that could melt a rock.

“Business.” I sit back down. What did she expect? That I’d wrap my arms around her and say ‘I missed you, baby’?

The waitress is suddenly on us. “You forgot your coffee,” she says, putting it down in front of me, making it slosh again. “We like it when you pick a table and stick with it.” She realizes I have company. She smiles. “Well good morning. Coffee, gorgeous?”

“Is it fresh?”

“I crushed the beans myself.” She pours her a cup and doesn’t spill a drop. “Ya’ll ready to order?”

“No…can you give us few, Honey?”

“I’ll give you anything you want, baby.” She laughs and leaves but not before she gives me a look that says, ‘ I’m a piece a shit and I better treat her friend right.’

“Let me guess…you heard “Reunited” on the radio and thought of me?”

“No…I got real problems Les,” she says, shaking rainwater from her golden locks.

The rain is now coming down with purpose. Maybe we’ll all get washed away in a flood.

“Just to be fair, I’m officially on the clock.”

“I expected as much.”

She must be in the money. She didn’t bat an eye. And a further look at her, I know those fancy clothes and jewelry didn’t come from the local Goodwill. She’s wearing a big rock but I don’t want to know why. I just want her to spill her guts so I can go home.

“I met this guy—“

“Your first mistake.”

“… A real looker. Brazilian, blue eyes, built like a swimmer. What’s a girl to do?”

“Run away. You know, like you did to me?” My coffee’s gone cold but I don’t expect Honey will be back for a warm up.

“Lester…please.” She takes her coffee down in one sip. “This guy…he’s a winer and diner and I’m head over heels before I hit the ground. But it doesn’t take long to realize I’m not the only filly in his stable.”

“Karissa…as much as I’m enjoying the chit-chat …you better get to the punch because I’m about to drop.”

“Ok…this guy…if it’s dirty, his paw prints are on it. And guess what? He’s not the Prince Charming he came off as. He’s a real hot head.”

“He hit you?” I feel my guts twist up. I realize my hand is a fist.

“Easy there Rin-Tin-Tin... just threats.”

“What kind?”

“Like…he’s gonna put me a shipping crate and mail me to Sao Paulo where there’s a nice warm whorehouse waiting.” She looks out the window. Rainwater is spilling off the gutters.

“You want me to talk with this guy?”

“He’s no longer the problem Les.” Since her cup is empty, she finishes off mine. “The streets clean up themselves.”

“He’s dead.”

“They found him tied to a pylon under the pier. They stuffed a pipe bomb in his mouth and walked away.”

“I hear that’s not good for the gums.”

She cracks a half-hearted smile. “They identified him by the monogram on his Italian loafers.”

“And you want me to find out who did it?”

“Ready?” Honey appears. She’s got her pad out and it looks like she isn’t coming back. She’s smacking on some gum and blows a pink bubble.

“Give me the Man Slam with sausage,” Karissa says.

I look at the menu. The Man Slam has about everything you could ever order at a dump like this all on one plate.

“You?”

“Just more coffee.”

She pops her gum again and sloshes me another cup. She grabs the menus and walks away.

“She doesn’t like you.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She digs some smokes out of her purse. She takes one out and lights it with a lighter that looks like it cost more than my car. She blows smoke rings. Who taught her that?

“He called me Tweety.”

“Cute.”

“Yesterday morning,” she says, taking a long drag and stubbing her cigarette out, “…there was a dead canary on my windshield.” Her hand is shaking. I want to grab it and hold it still. I want to hold her. I want to dance with her in a smoky bar with a stack of quarters on the jukebox. I want to kiss her deep and taste the gin on her tongue. I want to tell her she’s the only girl who’s done anything to me in a long time and life has gone black and white since the day she left. But I know better.

Honey arrives with the food; a heaping plate of pig meat and eggs. Karissa tears into it like she just came out of the desert on a forty day fast. She looks up and half a ham is hanging out of her mouth but she looks sexy doing it.

“They sent you a message.”

She raises her eyebrows to let me know I got it right. Her jaws are too busy on the Man Slam. The second wave of exhaustion now comes. It’s a tsunami. It’s been close to forty eight hours since I felt a pillow under my skull. I don’t want this job. I’ve got enough problems with the IRS. I promised myself a vacation—a long weekend in Atlantic City where I can booze and whore it up and no one will mind. This is not a little job but I remember that face. It was young and sweet at one time and those eyes once had a shine. She’s someone else, I’ll admit, but I feel a sense of responsibility and it’s a feeling I don’t want.

“It’s gonna cost you plenty.”

She opens her purse and pulls out a folded envelope. She tosses it on the table. She gets butter on it from her toast, which she is now sawing down like branches in a wood shredder. It’s not sealed. I see a stack of Franklins and do the quick math and there’s probably close to three g’s. That should cover my Atlantic City trip quite nicely.

“Where you staying?” I ask.

She wipes the grease off her face. She takes the cigarette out of the ashtray and re-lights it. She looks me dead in the eye and I know I’m about to get swindled again.

“That’s the other problem,” she says.

I wake up somewhere around seven. It’s still raining. The other side of the bed is empty but her heat remains. I have a felling she left hours ago. She’s probably at the airport clutching a one way ticket to Miami or New Orleans or Toledo, for all I know. I wish I could say good riddance but old feelings have been stirred, so I stir some scotch right into my coffee and John Coltrane’s trying to help me to understand.

I wake up the next day slumped over the kitchen table. The bottle of scotch is empty. It’ll make a nice candle holder. I feel like the Belmont Stakes ran me over. Its dark out and I can’t tell if it’s morning or night. The clock says five. A knock. I scramble for my pants and throw open the door expecting to see the one thing that could cure me but instead I see Bridgeview’s finest.

“Lester Waits?” The big one says.

“What I’d do… park in a handicapped?” I hate these guys. I’ve been dealing with them for twenty years and they seem to get dumber and uglier.

“Mind if we come in?”

“I’d mind very much.” Who the hell do they think they are? Think they’d let me just walk right into their place?

“You know a Karissa Quinn?”

I plead the fifth. I’m still reeling from the booze and I don’t want to give these Barney Fife’s anything.

“A waitress pegged you two in Leo’s a few days back,” the runt says. “You got an alibi?”

“I was abducted by a bottle of scotch.”

The runt doesn’t laugh. “Maybe you need thirty days in the drunk tank?”

“Now I remember...cute, blonde, blows smoke rings.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Look fellas…I got a hangover that could kill big game. This line of questioning will have to wait until I’m rested and my lawyer is present.” I try to shut my door.

The big ape grabs me and throws me into my apartment. These donut munchers have their pistols drawn before I hit the floor. The big ape puts his foot on my chest. The runt gets close so I can hear him.

“Look asshole. We know everything about you. We know why she came to you. We had people watching the whole scene from the parking lot and we saw you leave together.” He smells like salami and shaving cream. “I hope she was a good lay because you’ve seen the last of her.”

He drops a couple polaroids on me. I look. It’s Karissa. Her head is against the driver’s side window of a brand new Mercedes. Her blonde curls hang in her face. It looks like she’s blowing me a kiss. She looks almost perfect except for the blood that runs down her cheek and the bullet hole in her head.

I make some kind of inhuman cry and they let me up. They want me to identify her but I can’t look at the picture again. I want a drink, a tall one. But I know where that will get me and I’m still poisoned from the scotch. The big cop takes me by the arm and leads me over to the kitchen table. He pours me some coffee from the pot. It’s a day old but I gag some down.

“We’ll give you an hour to get it together Waits. We’ll be expecting you down at the station.”

He gives his partner the signal that it’s time to go. I know the little asshole wants to work me over. Let him. I’ll get a few licks in before they knock me cold.

“Don’t make us come looking for you pops. I might not be in a good mood.” He smacks me behind the head. They leave and I lock the door. I fire up a smoke and go out on the deck even though there’s a bite in the air. Poor Karissa. She thought a man was her ticket out. Well, she was right.

I could go down to the station and tell them what I know but I don’t know much. Maybe they’ll try and pin it on me. It’s not like I can recollect the last twenty four hours. Or I could go do some investigating myself. But like Karissa said, the streets clean up themselves. I go back inside and open the fridge. A beer won’t hurt. Stuck inside my six-pack is an envelope. I tear it open. There’s a note.

Dear Sweet Lester: Here’s everything you’ll ever need. No one deserves it more. Kiss..Kiss, Karissa.

There’s a key attached to a plastic ring that says G-233. There’s nothing to tell me what it’s for. I got a gut feeling it’s a storage locker and an even bigger gut feeling that’s it’s got more than patio furniture inside. It’s then I realize why she left it. She knew she might not get out of Bridgeview alive. I guess she picked me to be her benefactor. I decide against the beer and stick to my coffee. Everything I need, huh? Then why do I feel like crawling back under the sheets and letting Bridgeview just rot in the rain?

Drake Patterson

303 s. B street

Fairfield, IA 52556

323-204-2932

Moonlymandave@yahoo.com