“So, you’re telling me that you came to this place after a business meeting? In this part of town? Here’s the thing about witnesses: they lie. Unless you can believe 100% of their story, you can’t seriously believe any part of it. They will try to change the story to hide something, and because of that, they will forget one or two details, and that will make my job a lot harder.” Lunch has been over for a while, we’re on our fourth cup of coffee, and I still don’t have the whole story. I’ve learned a lot more about what she saw, she even told me what her phone was and why the pictures were so great, but I hate not getting the whole story at once. And I hate having to force it out, she wants to help, she should be entirely honest, guess I’ll have to play her little game.
“Look, you can tell me anything, I don’t care enough about your personal life to have it matter, but it’s about knowing everything about this story. To you, it might seem like a simple job, but I gotta make sure I don’t make any stupid mistakes. It’ll cost me, and it’ll cost my customer. She’s your friend, right? Then tell me what really happened, from the start... Was that okay? Did it sound “noir” enough for you?” Apparently Ms Blake is a bit of a sucker for private investigators. Should have expected it with the talents she represents. But she’s really been screwing with me; I had to say stuff that was entirely unneeded just to fulfill her fantasies. But I’ll play along, for now. And it seemed to have worked; she was ready to talk again.
“Well, I have to say, it was quite impressive for someone who says the job is not like that anymore.” Her voice was filled with professional curiosity, and personal disinterest, a rather unique combination. “You did lack confidence by the end. So, as I was saying, I was close by, meeting a possible new author, some poor student who believed he could write a detective story. He lives on the other side of the street, and I felt like meeting him in person. I grew up around here, and the place has changed quite a lot, but I felt like coming around. We met here, talked, and he handed me a paper copy of his manuscript. I already had the file on my computer, and I had it printed for my assistant to read, but I didn’t feel like breaking his heart. After he left, I decided to get something to eat. As I said, I was sitting over there, where that fat man is sitting.” The “fat man” turned around, looking somewhat hurt, and went back at devouring his meal. “After I had finished eating, I saw him walk in, with that woman. Well, not quite like that, he walked in, and she walked in about 30 seconds after. Seeing him here convinced me to order a dessert, I wasn’t leaving when my best writer’s husband was going to sit with a strange woman.” I raised an eyebrow at the “best writer” comment, but she misinterpreted my reaction. “Oh well, she’s also a good friend, and I also stayed here because of that, but we don’t always see eye to eye, so when it comes to her husband, I tend to think of her as a writer and not a friend.” I stopped her and asked her what was so special about her husband.
“Maddy’s been a friend of mine for a long time. I met her over twenty years ago; we were both at crossroads in our lives. I had studied law but I was going nowhere, too much of a girl for the old boys’ club, and not enough a woman to fit in with the rest. I didn’t know where exactly I was going when I met her. She was stuck in between dead end jobs, typing documents for people who did not care to read. She had typed a manuscript whenever she wasn’t working; I don’t know if you’ve read it, it was quite a unique story, not at all like what she’s writing now. It was almost children oriented, but it really got to me, it was about acceptance, and being open to difference. Twenty years ago, it was a lot different. And what is seen as educative now was revolutionary back then. But Maddy, you would not believe it now, she was extremely shy. She was afraid to even look for an agent. We met randomly at a Laundromat. It was after a guy had made a move on me, and got turned down politely. She came to my defence when he started hurling insults, claiming to be my sister-in-law. I was grateful, and we went for coffee afterwards. Anyway, long story short, I decided to represent her, my job wasn’t working anyway, so I took a big chance, pulled out all my savings and went to get her published. The second publisher was convinced, proposed a couple of changes, and that’s how it started. We actually figured out my salary after the contract was signed. By then, she knew of my orientation, and had started getting involved in some organisations, even if she was straight. She gained my respect; she could have played the game by the rules that were in place, but she decided to support us. So, five years later, she meets this Albert. He is a jerk, it’s that simple. He started looking down on her involvement in different causes, because he felt they were inappropriate for a woman he loved. He said horrible things that I really just don’t want to repeat. Maddy knew I didn’t like him, and it was fine by her. She kept her personal and professional life separate, and suddenly our friendship was professional.”
“So, when you saw him with that other woman,” I interrupted her. After a while, you learn when to interrupt people for their best interest, “you figured he was up to something bad?” She smiled and started talking again: “I did not take that long to figure it out. They were obvious, you saw the pictures. They came in separately, but they sat down as if they had walked in together. They ate food from each other’s plates, even shared a dessert, and they kissed. Albert was not afraid of being seen around here with her. He’d been here often too, because he did not look at the menu. I was pissed, that guy with all his mighty speeches on the place his wife should occupy and proper behaviour, here, with another woman. I should have walked up to him and punched him in the face.”
[So, here it is, part 4. And it's not the end of their discussion, I think. I gave a lot more backstory than I had expected to give, but I like how this story is progressing. It's so funny, I'm discovering some parts of it as I write it.
I must also share some, well, worries is not the right word for this, but I have some questions about the inclusion of a lesbian character. Basically, I'm afraid she will not feel true, after all, I am a guy. Funny thing is, I'm not worried about the many mistakes I know I'll make about the private investigator world. Oh well, I guess I'll have to deal with this, so far I don't feel I've written her in any way that could be seen as offending. If someone does find her inclusion as somewhat untrue, please let me know.]
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Zombie Panic
Dead so long. Day too bright. Wait for night. Night is better. Find human kill human. Was once human too. Died. Something bit me, now I bit somethings. Had a wife once. Ate her husband as well. Heard a noise. Someone checks it out. Loud noise. Someone not come back. More someones check it out. More loud noises. Happy I’m not someone. Nobody returns. Now I’m someone. We go. They have light. I hate light. They have guns. I prefer light. We move slowly. Ancient zombie strategy. Never fails. They kill one of us. We keep moving slowly. Very ancient zombie strategy. Never fails. More of us are killed. We move slowly. The best and oldest zombie strategy. Never fails. More of us die. The one with the gun is reloading. I bite him. I then bit the others. Only one left standing. Ancient zombie strategy always works, even if we die. Living things always die too. May take forty years, they die too. Zombies always win.
More sound. More people. I go first. Get shot. Fall down. See more come. They get shot. We still not dead. We never really dead. More come. We fall. No one dead. More of us are shot. See Frank come. Frank got shot. Not first time. Frank missing an arm. Not armless Frank. Frank ate many. Frank bit me. I like Frank. Frank not lucky tonight. Frank got shot again, missing other arm. He falls. We look at each other because we can’t move. Frank missing two arms. I miss my two legs. We wait. They not fall. They will though. They bring big bag, nice present. A clock. It ticks. They leave. The clock ticks. It is attached to a bomb. We’re gonna stop being. It changes nothing. There is an explosion. Everything white. I hate light.
[Sorry about the size, I'm kinda swamped right now. I figured a short story would be better than none.]
More sound. More people. I go first. Get shot. Fall down. See more come. They get shot. We still not dead. We never really dead. More come. We fall. No one dead. More of us are shot. See Frank come. Frank got shot. Not first time. Frank missing an arm. Not armless Frank. Frank ate many. Frank bit me. I like Frank. Frank not lucky tonight. Frank got shot again, missing other arm. He falls. We look at each other because we can’t move. Frank missing two arms. I miss my two legs. We wait. They not fall. They will though. They bring big bag, nice present. A clock. It ticks. They leave. The clock ticks. It is attached to a bomb. We’re gonna stop being. It changes nothing. There is an explosion. Everything white. I hate light.
[Sorry about the size, I'm kinda swamped right now. I figured a short story would be better than none.]
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Places (Trouble Part 3)
First things first, I had to make a phone call. This briefcase deal was interesting, but first and foremost, this was a divorce case. Thankfully, Sarah Blake was available for lunch today. I find that people are much more ready to talk if they can eat at the same time. Plus I was hungry and didn’t have anything I wanted to eat at the office. I transferred some of the files on my PDA, and started thinking about the briefcase. What could he be exchanging? This was not an official business meeting, their affection showed as much, but he wasn’t on any of the watch lists. He was clean as a whistle. Almost too clean. I call the restaurant where he was seen with his mistress, that’s where I’m eating with Ms Blake. They don’t take reservations, but it’s more of a coffee place than a restaurant. I start looking at addresses. The restaurant is in the west part of town, in this tiny neighbourhood that is slowly growing. Madeline’s address, as well as her husband’s, is in the north part of town, where gated community and rich people are found, and Blake’s office is in the east part of town, where all the office buildings are. I’ll have to ask what she was doing at that restaurant. I look at my watch, and then at the bus schedule. I’m almost late, so I rush out of my office, lock the door and go to the bus stop. I’d pretend the choice was an environmental one, but when a business is slow, you have to know where you can cut expenses.
Over the bus ride I look at the city, or more precisely what the west part of town, what was once the poorest part. When this town was founded, the west was the riches parts, and so people wanted to live here. And as this part got more expensive to live in, crime found its way. At first it started with a branch of the mafia, which caused the land to lose its value. Then it was the motorcycle gangs. But then the police started busting them left and right, wasn’t that hard, they all had tattoos and jackets. So this left room for the gangs, smaller, more brutal, and less visible. There were no pipe bombs, but “random” beatings happened. That was the new face of crime. Or so it was until recently. Recently, in this town anyway, the gangs got too visible, and the punishment more severe. The police were more visible and it seemed that the west part of town was becoming a better place to live in. This was bad news for the south, but that’s where the corrupt unions were, as well as the docks and all the traffickers. Of course most people did not know that. The headlines paint a partial picture of the state of crime in a city. Probably was for the best too.
So the restaurant was there, surrounded by apartment buildings that were too old, filled with people that were too young, and in a part of town that did not know if it was old and refined, young and alive, or dead and decaying. At a first glance, the restaurant reflected all three aspects of the neighbourhood. The name, Jo-Anne’s Diner sounded like it was out of the 50s, retro and very classic in a sense. However, everything inside lacked the lustre it once had. The chrome must have been shiny back when the restaurant was new, but now it lacked any light, and life. Finally, the clientele was young and full of life, as was the staff. It was also quite diverse ethnically and culturally. Call it a sign of times changing, but I am sure that neither Jo-Anne nor her husband would have expected to see one of their tables used by a group of young Muslim women. I really hope this part of town gets better now, it was the first time I set foot here in ages and I really liked this new energy. I walked in the diner, looked around, Ms Blake was not here. I studied the place and found the table I wanted, the one where Albert Thompson sat a few days ago. I sat in his place, and pushed my hand between the cushions of the seat, maybe he had dropped something. After I “accidentally” pushed my spoon on the mystery woman’s seat, making a mental note to not order any soup, I did the same on her side. Nothing. It was worth a try.
I studied the restaurant once more. It wasn’t the best place for a date, no romance, no intimacy. If the restaurant was not chosen for its ambiance, then it must have been chosen for convenience. The woman must have lived around here. Again it was something that did not add up. If the woman lived here, then where did he meet her, he would have avoided this part of town in his daily life. As I was thinking, I barely noticed Sarah Blake walking in the front door. I waved, she noticed and walked over to the booth. Time to get some more information.
[Part 3. I am taking a lot more time than I expected to get where I wanted, but I think it's a good thing. I know where the story is going, but now it feels like the pieces don't fit perfectly, but I guess that's what rewrites are for.]
Over the bus ride I look at the city, or more precisely what the west part of town, what was once the poorest part. When this town was founded, the west was the riches parts, and so people wanted to live here. And as this part got more expensive to live in, crime found its way. At first it started with a branch of the mafia, which caused the land to lose its value. Then it was the motorcycle gangs. But then the police started busting them left and right, wasn’t that hard, they all had tattoos and jackets. So this left room for the gangs, smaller, more brutal, and less visible. There were no pipe bombs, but “random” beatings happened. That was the new face of crime. Or so it was until recently. Recently, in this town anyway, the gangs got too visible, and the punishment more severe. The police were more visible and it seemed that the west part of town was becoming a better place to live in. This was bad news for the south, but that’s where the corrupt unions were, as well as the docks and all the traffickers. Of course most people did not know that. The headlines paint a partial picture of the state of crime in a city. Probably was for the best too.
So the restaurant was there, surrounded by apartment buildings that were too old, filled with people that were too young, and in a part of town that did not know if it was old and refined, young and alive, or dead and decaying. At a first glance, the restaurant reflected all three aspects of the neighbourhood. The name, Jo-Anne’s Diner sounded like it was out of the 50s, retro and very classic in a sense. However, everything inside lacked the lustre it once had. The chrome must have been shiny back when the restaurant was new, but now it lacked any light, and life. Finally, the clientele was young and full of life, as was the staff. It was also quite diverse ethnically and culturally. Call it a sign of times changing, but I am sure that neither Jo-Anne nor her husband would have expected to see one of their tables used by a group of young Muslim women. I really hope this part of town gets better now, it was the first time I set foot here in ages and I really liked this new energy. I walked in the diner, looked around, Ms Blake was not here. I studied the place and found the table I wanted, the one where Albert Thompson sat a few days ago. I sat in his place, and pushed my hand between the cushions of the seat, maybe he had dropped something. After I “accidentally” pushed my spoon on the mystery woman’s seat, making a mental note to not order any soup, I did the same on her side. Nothing. It was worth a try.
I studied the restaurant once more. It wasn’t the best place for a date, no romance, no intimacy. If the restaurant was not chosen for its ambiance, then it must have been chosen for convenience. The woman must have lived around here. Again it was something that did not add up. If the woman lived here, then where did he meet her, he would have avoided this part of town in his daily life. As I was thinking, I barely noticed Sarah Blake walking in the front door. I waved, she noticed and walked over to the booth. Time to get some more information.
[Part 3. I am taking a lot more time than I expected to get where I wanted, but I think it's a good thing. I know where the story is going, but now it feels like the pieces don't fit perfectly, but I guess that's what rewrites are for.]
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Awake
The road slowly curves to the left, revealing yet another corn field. The moon is low on the horizon, I’m heading west, like so many others before. If I look back, I can see the first glimpse of a sunrise. I have been driving since before the last sunset. Yesterday seems so distant now. I can’t sleep, not that I don’t want to, nor that my body does not want to sleep, my heart just wants to head west more.
My eyes are heavy, the road just a long stretch of darkness. I can’t see stars in the sky anymore. However last night I was the one shooting through the darkness, trying to fulfill a wish. How many miles to go? How much distance have I covered? I’m still driving, it wasn’t far enough. The curve has ended and I am back on a long stretch of straight road. I see the signs of a town in the distance, I don’t know its name, I just know it isn’t the right one. So I will drive past it, just like many others. The people sleeping peacefully will never know of my mission.
My gas tank is halfway empty. It will have to last me a while. I’m almost there; soon I will be able to rest. But for now I drive. Because I must, because I can, because if I wasn’t, I would still not be able to sleep. I don’t know if I’ll make it in time, but I can’t stop. If I stop, all of this will have been in vain. I see another city in the distance, the right one, the wrong one? I don’t know anymore, I’m driving, that is all I can know anymore.
The road curves again, I don’t see it at first, but I eventually notice it. The shock wakes me up completely. I will be okay for another hour or so, then, I’ll be able to stop. The city that was in the distance is now a thing of the past. I must keep driving, I can’t sleep. I have to drive. I can’t…
[This one was basically going through the motions. Sorry, life is getting in the way of my writing.]
My eyes are heavy, the road just a long stretch of darkness. I can’t see stars in the sky anymore. However last night I was the one shooting through the darkness, trying to fulfill a wish. How many miles to go? How much distance have I covered? I’m still driving, it wasn’t far enough. The curve has ended and I am back on a long stretch of straight road. I see the signs of a town in the distance, I don’t know its name, I just know it isn’t the right one. So I will drive past it, just like many others. The people sleeping peacefully will never know of my mission.
My gas tank is halfway empty. It will have to last me a while. I’m almost there; soon I will be able to rest. But for now I drive. Because I must, because I can, because if I wasn’t, I would still not be able to sleep. I don’t know if I’ll make it in time, but I can’t stop. If I stop, all of this will have been in vain. I see another city in the distance, the right one, the wrong one? I don’t know anymore, I’m driving, that is all I can know anymore.
The road curves again, I don’t see it at first, but I eventually notice it. The shock wakes me up completely. I will be okay for another hour or so, then, I’ll be able to stop. The city that was in the distance is now a thing of the past. I must keep driving, I can’t sleep. I have to drive. I can’t…
[This one was basically going through the motions. Sorry, life is getting in the way of my writing.]
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Names (Trouble Part 2)
Madeline Clark, author of five best sellers, three about the awful P.I. Walker. They are not bad entertainment, they are even somewhat interesting. Well written, with a complex intrigue, unique characters, interesting events, truly great books. I only hate them because the real work is so boring. In the last 5 years of work, I have not felt the need to even carry a gun. I have a cell phone in a holster now, not a firearm. Her Walker is always running, dodging bullets and solving horribly complex and important crimes. I read her books when I’m bored, and with the true nature of this work, I have read her books often.
She was married to Albert R. Thompson. She met him 15 years ago, got married two years later. A thirteen year long marriage, seems lucky enough nowadays. He’s not a celebrity, he’s basically a nobody. Thankfully I know where to look. When my father left the job, he left behind a ton of important contacts. A couple of phone calls, some pulled favours, some promises and I can get the info I want. He’s 47 years old, worth more than your average city block, partially owns a bunch of companies here and overseas. He seems to favour shipping companies, however I am told it is a tendency in some investors. No matter what the state of the economy is, things need to go in and out of countries. He’s been moving money around for about 17 years. Again, people like him don’t leave big traces until they start moving things. Too old for all the things kids use for social networking, these tools make my job a lot easier, when I have to do it, when it comes to twenty-somethings.
He has no kids too. That is surprising, but he also wasn’t married before Madeline. Married at 34, that seems odd. He must have studied somewhere for a while. I’ll have to search for him in academic networks. Something doesn’t quite add up. A cursory search doesn’t bring his name up in the families of movers in the financial world. He may have been getting the money needed to start his investment career. I am told, however, that the choices he makes are usually educated, with some exceptions. Could he be involved in insider trading? So far however, nothing sticks. He has money, he invests it, he makes more money. He must have work to start his initial investment because he was not born into money. He has some sort of education or works with someone educated in financial investment. He also owns enough to get a lot of money, but not enough to end up in the big journals. He is not a big player in any company either. The most he owns is a tenth of any company. My sources are drying up however, no files with the police, no records anywhere. He does not own a car, owns one house and doesn’t bring any attention to himself. He wasn’t even at his wife’s book signings or launches. Even their marriage was not mentioned in any papers. The most I get would be a mention in an interview by Madeline: “Yes, I am married, however our marriage is not something we want in the public sphere. This is a decision we made as a couple, and I will respect it.” Too bad you were the only one honouring the decisions made as a couple.
And now the third name I know, the friend who reported the infidelity: Sarah Blake. Madeline’s agent, and apparently the reason for her success. She represents many authors, most women. And if it weren’t for the fact that she was such a vocal advocate for the rights of gays and lesbians, I would almost suspect her to be the mistress, however I know the husband would be packing the wrong tools for the job. I’ve seen that happen before, the friend starts sleeping with the husband, and after a while she feels guilty and “runs” into the husband with his nondescript mistress. Sometimes they also run into the husband with another mistress, get jealous and take him down. But in her case, it would not add up. Even if I omit her orientation, she would not be the mistress, since she used her cell phone to take a picture of Thompson with the mistress. I’ll have to talk to her but now I am more interested by the picture I have just received by email. I can’t say much about her other than she is the opposite of Thompson’s wife. Short, nondescript and her eyes are weary. This is a good picture: I have to remember to ask what phone this Sarah was using, I needed to replace mine. It might just be one picture, but the body language is wrong. They are not scared; they sit in the middle of the restaurant. They have two identical mallets. They are both dressed in what would pass as corporate casual clothing. To the casual observer, this would be a normal lunch business meeting. A second picture comes in, they are holding hands, and he’s pushing his briefcase with his foot. This is odd. A third picture comes in; Madeline must not know that you can attach multiple pictures to one email. Can’t help but smile. The third one, she is standing up, she has the briefcase that was on his side in her hand. Next picture, they are kissing. They exchanged briefcases and kisses. What does it all mean?
I have a hunch, the answer lies in his past, and my only key to Thompson’s past is this woman who he seems to know well. However, I have to remember this is only a divorce case. However, I might be able to bill for time spent on my hunches if they lead to some hidden money. Plus, I have been having a boring week.
[The long awaited sequel to Trouble... I'm gonna try to update "Trouble" once a week. Mostly on Saturdays. As you can see, I have somewhat of a plan with this. I'll try to not go too fast, and I don't know how long it will take to get to the end, this might end up as a long short story, or a very short novel...
Also, I apologize for the late posting, I have been giving myself a little vacation, and I was away from the internet for most of the day. The story is here and I think it's getting better.]
She was married to Albert R. Thompson. She met him 15 years ago, got married two years later. A thirteen year long marriage, seems lucky enough nowadays. He’s not a celebrity, he’s basically a nobody. Thankfully I know where to look. When my father left the job, he left behind a ton of important contacts. A couple of phone calls, some pulled favours, some promises and I can get the info I want. He’s 47 years old, worth more than your average city block, partially owns a bunch of companies here and overseas. He seems to favour shipping companies, however I am told it is a tendency in some investors. No matter what the state of the economy is, things need to go in and out of countries. He’s been moving money around for about 17 years. Again, people like him don’t leave big traces until they start moving things. Too old for all the things kids use for social networking, these tools make my job a lot easier, when I have to do it, when it comes to twenty-somethings.
He has no kids too. That is surprising, but he also wasn’t married before Madeline. Married at 34, that seems odd. He must have studied somewhere for a while. I’ll have to search for him in academic networks. Something doesn’t quite add up. A cursory search doesn’t bring his name up in the families of movers in the financial world. He may have been getting the money needed to start his investment career. I am told, however, that the choices he makes are usually educated, with some exceptions. Could he be involved in insider trading? So far however, nothing sticks. He has money, he invests it, he makes more money. He must have work to start his initial investment because he was not born into money. He has some sort of education or works with someone educated in financial investment. He also owns enough to get a lot of money, but not enough to end up in the big journals. He is not a big player in any company either. The most he owns is a tenth of any company. My sources are drying up however, no files with the police, no records anywhere. He does not own a car, owns one house and doesn’t bring any attention to himself. He wasn’t even at his wife’s book signings or launches. Even their marriage was not mentioned in any papers. The most I get would be a mention in an interview by Madeline: “Yes, I am married, however our marriage is not something we want in the public sphere. This is a decision we made as a couple, and I will respect it.” Too bad you were the only one honouring the decisions made as a couple.
And now the third name I know, the friend who reported the infidelity: Sarah Blake. Madeline’s agent, and apparently the reason for her success. She represents many authors, most women. And if it weren’t for the fact that she was such a vocal advocate for the rights of gays and lesbians, I would almost suspect her to be the mistress, however I know the husband would be packing the wrong tools for the job. I’ve seen that happen before, the friend starts sleeping with the husband, and after a while she feels guilty and “runs” into the husband with his nondescript mistress. Sometimes they also run into the husband with another mistress, get jealous and take him down. But in her case, it would not add up. Even if I omit her orientation, she would not be the mistress, since she used her cell phone to take a picture of Thompson with the mistress. I’ll have to talk to her but now I am more interested by the picture I have just received by email. I can’t say much about her other than she is the opposite of Thompson’s wife. Short, nondescript and her eyes are weary. This is a good picture: I have to remember to ask what phone this Sarah was using, I needed to replace mine. It might just be one picture, but the body language is wrong. They are not scared; they sit in the middle of the restaurant. They have two identical mallets. They are both dressed in what would pass as corporate casual clothing. To the casual observer, this would be a normal lunch business meeting. A second picture comes in, they are holding hands, and he’s pushing his briefcase with his foot. This is odd. A third picture comes in; Madeline must not know that you can attach multiple pictures to one email. Can’t help but smile. The third one, she is standing up, she has the briefcase that was on his side in her hand. Next picture, they are kissing. They exchanged briefcases and kisses. What does it all mean?
I have a hunch, the answer lies in his past, and my only key to Thompson’s past is this woman who he seems to know well. However, I have to remember this is only a divorce case. However, I might be able to bill for time spent on my hunches if they lead to some hidden money. Plus, I have been having a boring week.
[The long awaited sequel to Trouble... I'm gonna try to update "Trouble" once a week. Mostly on Saturdays. As you can see, I have somewhat of a plan with this. I'll try to not go too fast, and I don't know how long it will take to get to the end, this might end up as a long short story, or a very short novel...
Also, I apologize for the late posting, I have been giving myself a little vacation, and I was away from the internet for most of the day. The story is here and I think it's getting better.]
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Partners
I watched you grow up, you know that right? Even as you were starting to crawl, I was there on the floor with you. We’ve shared a bed, shared drinks, shared our lives. For me to feel this right now is incredible. And all the pride that this moment is giving me is barely being overshadowed by the abject terror my future without you evokes. Because when I look back, you are all I know.
Your friends never became my friends, and while I did spend some time with your sister that year you felt you had outgrown me, it never was real. We all knew it. And the time you spent thinking about me during that time indicates that back then, you had not moved on. Or at least you realized that while you had grown up, you still needed me, but in a different fashion.
And so I came back, a semi-permanent fixture in your life. And the young girl that was afraid of the dark changed a lot in that year. You became braver, bolder, you became a little woman. The teenage years were not easy on you. I remember holding you as you cried because some boy had said some horrible things about you. Who could hate you? Who could be mean to you?
I was there when you took your first steps, remember? I could not walk by myself, but when we were holding hands, we both managed to move in a new fashion. Not quite family, not quite a sister, not quite a friend, we were both something unique and indefinable to each other. And when you started going to school, and we had to be apart, it was horrible. But we still had evenings and weekends.
I was with you during slumber parties, and I patiently waited for you to share with me the details of your first dance with a boy. And I remember practicing kissing with you. And then I remember you telling me how different it was in reality. I should have let you know that I was already aware. When you share more than what we have, it’s always special.
I saw you laugh, I saw you cry, and I saw you grow. Grow up and grow distant. Again I felt that I would be separated from you. Again I felt that I would end up in some dark space, hidden in the furthest regions of your mind. But it was not the case. You grew up, and went to college. And you brought me with you in that box that was not quite full. I was sitting there on a shelf, a stuffed reminder of your childhood as you became a woman.
I saw the many apartments, the many bedrooms. I saw you make mistakes, make bad choices, and make the right ones. I never judged you. And I saw your first house, with the man you married. And now, I know that you are away, in that place called a hospital. And I know that you are about to give birth to your daughter. I know all that because you told me as you had me re-stuffed, cleaned and repaired so that I could become an important part of your daughter’s life.
I am afraid that without me you will forget how to walk, when I’m without you I cannot. But I will take care of your child, just like I have taken care of you, and of your mother. I may only have my original button eyes left, but I have watched over your family for years.
[Had to end it there, the only sentence that came to mind was: And I'll remember you as I violently kill your daughter. I spend way too much time writing horror/plot twist short stories...]
Your friends never became my friends, and while I did spend some time with your sister that year you felt you had outgrown me, it never was real. We all knew it. And the time you spent thinking about me during that time indicates that back then, you had not moved on. Or at least you realized that while you had grown up, you still needed me, but in a different fashion.
And so I came back, a semi-permanent fixture in your life. And the young girl that was afraid of the dark changed a lot in that year. You became braver, bolder, you became a little woman. The teenage years were not easy on you. I remember holding you as you cried because some boy had said some horrible things about you. Who could hate you? Who could be mean to you?
I was there when you took your first steps, remember? I could not walk by myself, but when we were holding hands, we both managed to move in a new fashion. Not quite family, not quite a sister, not quite a friend, we were both something unique and indefinable to each other. And when you started going to school, and we had to be apart, it was horrible. But we still had evenings and weekends.
I was with you during slumber parties, and I patiently waited for you to share with me the details of your first dance with a boy. And I remember practicing kissing with you. And then I remember you telling me how different it was in reality. I should have let you know that I was already aware. When you share more than what we have, it’s always special.
I saw you laugh, I saw you cry, and I saw you grow. Grow up and grow distant. Again I felt that I would be separated from you. Again I felt that I would end up in some dark space, hidden in the furthest regions of your mind. But it was not the case. You grew up, and went to college. And you brought me with you in that box that was not quite full. I was sitting there on a shelf, a stuffed reminder of your childhood as you became a woman.
I saw the many apartments, the many bedrooms. I saw you make mistakes, make bad choices, and make the right ones. I never judged you. And I saw your first house, with the man you married. And now, I know that you are away, in that place called a hospital. And I know that you are about to give birth to your daughter. I know all that because you told me as you had me re-stuffed, cleaned and repaired so that I could become an important part of your daughter’s life.
I am afraid that without me you will forget how to walk, when I’m without you I cannot. But I will take care of your child, just like I have taken care of you, and of your mother. I may only have my original button eyes left, but I have watched over your family for years.
[Had to end it there, the only sentence that came to mind was: And I'll remember you as I violently kill your daughter. I spend way too much time writing horror/plot twist short stories...]
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Trouble Part 1
As she walked in the door, I knew she was trouble. Or at least, I knew that was what I was expected to think. Horrible stories written by authors who don’t know a thing about the job always started the same way. The woman walks in, and says something along the lines of: “You have to help me, my husband is in danger.” But they always end up coming too late, and then they fall in love with the gruff detective. The truth is: most women who walk in here are not “trouble,” they are trying to get as far away as possible from trouble. And they never fall in love with the detective, especially after they receive the bill. So this woman walks in, she looks as if she’s been crying a lot. The box of tissue on my desk is there for a reason. No one walks in my office with a smile. She’s about five foot six, brown hair, green eyes. She’s wearing jeans, and an old shirt with a university name on it, but the shoes don’t match. They are the expensive kind, and her purse, while old, was a very popular and expensive brand a couple of years back. When you see a lot of women walk in, you know what to look for. She’s rich, but she doesn’t want me to know. She’s also here anonymously, since I can see sunglasses poking out of her leather purse. It’s raining today.
Her husband must be cheating on her, or something. They usually come for this. She doesn’t look familiar, so this means that she is not a celebrity, at least as far as I know. She’s been here for 10 seconds, and already I know that her husband is cheating on her, she has that look in her eyes, and I also know that she wants some proof of said cheating, probably for her divorce. The world has changed a lot since the days of my father, and his business, our business, is changing. We don’t investigate that many disappearances and we don’t help the police force quite as often. In fact, it has become a hassle for me to carry a firearm. Nowadays, it’s mostly cheating spouses, Internet research, and electronic surveillance. She looks still ready to burst into tears. With the calmness that accompanies motions often repeated, I grab the box of tissues and hand it to her. I look at her with a comforting smile and say: “It’s alright, take your time. When you feel ready, you can start talking.” I return to my thrilling game of solitaire. Another thing about the private investigator business: it is slowly dying. Been doing this for as long as I can remember, the better part of the last decade without my father who decided that sunny beaches would be a much better place to hang around, and business is dying down. Who needs a P.I. when they can install webcams, and other surveillance equipment? The cheaters have also gotten quite sloppy. I usually find out more than I need simply looking at emails.
Something in her breathing has changed. She’s about to start talking. I open a document, and I’m getting ready to type everything. She takes a deep breath, and says: “My husband is cheating on me.” I try to feint surprise, she feints believing me. “He’s been seen by my friends in restaurants with strange women, and I want to have definitive proof. I heard you were the best in town.” I was also the last one in town but I won’t correct her. She gives me the usual, her name, it sounds familiar but in my business you hear a lot of names, his name, doesn’t ring a bell, the name and phone number of the friend who saw him with his mistress. She lives in a nice neighbourhood. I know the place, been there often. The richer the houses, the darker the secrets. Because they can afford secrets. She also makes the unusual request of wanting to know all of his assets. Smart girl. She doesn’t just want proof of his infidelity, but she wants to take his money as well. This means that I can also charge her a bit more. I start telling her my price, but she stops me. She doesn’t care about money; she has more than enough as it is to pay me. She wants to know everything. I still make her sign the form that says she was informed about my pricing. Saves me a hell of a lot of trouble when they no longer are in a vengeful mood. I ask her about his job; he’s involved in companies, owns a lot of stocks everywhere. He’s a rich guy, but she does not know how rich. He may also have been lying about a lot of stuff; she mentions that early on in their marriage, he was already distant and seemingly obsessed by work. However, he was seen sharing an apparent intimate moment when he was supposed to be at a meeting. She can’t trust a thing he’s said. Poor girl. We make some arrangements, she gives me her cell phone number, and she leaves. As I usually do, I start my investigation on the Internet. His name doesn’t get me any good results. When I look her up however, I realize why her name was familiar. I turn around and look at my collection of books. In the novels I read in moments of boredom I see her name.
She writes these horrible P.I. Walker books I read to laugh at all the misconceptions. I already like her a lot more.
[Well, this one is a lot more interesting than I expected, which is why I am not gonna call it "over". I couldn't do it anyway, the story is just starting. Dunno when I'll work on part 2, but so far I like it more than my other attempt at making a longer narrative. Hopefully my 3 or 4 readers will agree.]
Her husband must be cheating on her, or something. They usually come for this. She doesn’t look familiar, so this means that she is not a celebrity, at least as far as I know. She’s been here for 10 seconds, and already I know that her husband is cheating on her, she has that look in her eyes, and I also know that she wants some proof of said cheating, probably for her divorce. The world has changed a lot since the days of my father, and his business, our business, is changing. We don’t investigate that many disappearances and we don’t help the police force quite as often. In fact, it has become a hassle for me to carry a firearm. Nowadays, it’s mostly cheating spouses, Internet research, and electronic surveillance. She looks still ready to burst into tears. With the calmness that accompanies motions often repeated, I grab the box of tissues and hand it to her. I look at her with a comforting smile and say: “It’s alright, take your time. When you feel ready, you can start talking.” I return to my thrilling game of solitaire. Another thing about the private investigator business: it is slowly dying. Been doing this for as long as I can remember, the better part of the last decade without my father who decided that sunny beaches would be a much better place to hang around, and business is dying down. Who needs a P.I. when they can install webcams, and other surveillance equipment? The cheaters have also gotten quite sloppy. I usually find out more than I need simply looking at emails.
Something in her breathing has changed. She’s about to start talking. I open a document, and I’m getting ready to type everything. She takes a deep breath, and says: “My husband is cheating on me.” I try to feint surprise, she feints believing me. “He’s been seen by my friends in restaurants with strange women, and I want to have definitive proof. I heard you were the best in town.” I was also the last one in town but I won’t correct her. She gives me the usual, her name, it sounds familiar but in my business you hear a lot of names, his name, doesn’t ring a bell, the name and phone number of the friend who saw him with his mistress. She lives in a nice neighbourhood. I know the place, been there often. The richer the houses, the darker the secrets. Because they can afford secrets. She also makes the unusual request of wanting to know all of his assets. Smart girl. She doesn’t just want proof of his infidelity, but she wants to take his money as well. This means that I can also charge her a bit more. I start telling her my price, but she stops me. She doesn’t care about money; she has more than enough as it is to pay me. She wants to know everything. I still make her sign the form that says she was informed about my pricing. Saves me a hell of a lot of trouble when they no longer are in a vengeful mood. I ask her about his job; he’s involved in companies, owns a lot of stocks everywhere. He’s a rich guy, but she does not know how rich. He may also have been lying about a lot of stuff; she mentions that early on in their marriage, he was already distant and seemingly obsessed by work. However, he was seen sharing an apparent intimate moment when he was supposed to be at a meeting. She can’t trust a thing he’s said. Poor girl. We make some arrangements, she gives me her cell phone number, and she leaves. As I usually do, I start my investigation on the Internet. His name doesn’t get me any good results. When I look her up however, I realize why her name was familiar. I turn around and look at my collection of books. In the novels I read in moments of boredom I see her name.
She writes these horrible P.I. Walker books I read to laugh at all the misconceptions. I already like her a lot more.
[Well, this one is a lot more interesting than I expected, which is why I am not gonna call it "over". I couldn't do it anyway, the story is just starting. Dunno when I'll work on part 2, but so far I like it more than my other attempt at making a longer narrative. Hopefully my 3 or 4 readers will agree.]
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Monday Morning
Monday morning. Wake up at 6:30, get up at 7. The sun is still hidden behind the trees next door. The morning is cold, I feel tired. After an unsatisfactory breakfast, I walk to the bathroom. I undress, and after taking a piss, I shower. The water is cold, again. After a yawn that seems to never want to end, I leave the shower, freeze myself while I dry off, and try not to butcher my face as I shave. I start getting dressed soon after. I start the car remotely, finish putting clothes on, grab some food in the fridge, and then I leave. There’s no snow on the car, it’s a blessing. I get in, it’s still cold but I’ll have to endure. I back out of the driveway, and slowly make my way to work. After stops and traffic lights, I make it to the parking lot. I park in a space I have been using for about three months now. It is not reserved, but the routine makes it mine. I go in, punch in, go up, boot up, doze off. The next four hours are filled with nothing, a big empty coma filled with moments of fading happiness as I talk with a co-worker. I eat lunch, and pretend to be alive and care for the next few hours. I leave, go back to my car, and head to the grocery store. I need food to live. I drive back home, make myself something to eat, turn on the TV, wrap up the leftovers, sit down, and lose myself in brain-dead hobbies. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am alive, and then I sleep.
Tuesday morning. Wake up at 6:40, get up at 7:05. The sun is hidden behind clouds and branches. The morning is cold, I don’t want to be up. The food I eat is bland. The bathroom is still cold. I still need to undress and empty my bladder. I still need to clean myself. This time the water is warm enough, but all it achieves is making the end of the shower more miserable. I get out of the shower, dry up, skip shaving and go into my bedroom. I ran out of underwear. I walk to the dryer, grab some, get dressed, start the car, grab some food, and head out. I remove snow from the car, shovel the snow bank left by the city trucks, get in, the car is a bit warmer, and drive to work. The same stops. The same traffic lights. The same parking space. The same punch clock, the same stairs. My computer again. Different work, the same pointlessness. The same co-worker. Always the same. Always wonderful to talk to. Lunch time, the same food as last night, but better company. Then another bland afternoon doing things for people I no longer care about in a company that does not care about me. The day is over, I wish I knew the right words to say to chase that loneliness, but I head home alone, as always. I eat. I need food to stay alive. The TV is on, new news but the same stories. Always the same stories, they just have different names. I make myself some leftovers, sit down, shut down my brain and wait for time to pass. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am not alone, and then I sleep.
Wednesday morning. Wake up at 6:00, mentally complain about the neighbours until 7:00, then get up. The sun is a distant memory. It no longer exists on this plane. The morning is cold, or is it me that can’t feel warmth anymore? The food is the same I always liked, why doesn’t it bring joy anymore? Head in the bathroom, and take a long shower after showering the toilet rim by accident with the wastes a wasted life accumulates. I step out of the shower, and I shave. I head to the bedroom, head back to the dryer, and then back to the bedroom. I dress. I start the car, grab some food, head out and drive to work. The same stops and traffic lights. The same cars surround me. I make it to work, park in the same spot as usual. I punch in, do the happy employee dance to convince my boss that I still think what we do has a meaning. My co-worker is late this morning. I don’t worry, but I miss her smile. She’s finally here. We talk. I forget for just a second where I am and why I am there. For one second, I am happy. Then I start working again. I eat lunch again. I work again. I leave work alone again. I still wish that somehow, I had something more in my life. I get home, make myself some food, and some leftovers for the next day. Same stories, different channel on TV. I yawn. I sleep awake, so it makes sense that I feel awake when I sleep. I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am happy, and then I sleep.
Thursday morning. Wake up a 7:00, get up at 7:15. The sun is dead. The morning cold. The food moves fast. I piss, then take a shower, then grab the last pair of boxers from the dryer. I get dressed, get in the car and drive to work. The same road, only 10 kilometres per hour faster. Work. The same parking spot. Punch in, on time. Pretend to work. Pretend to care about anything other than the co-worker who cannot know that she is the only reason I still get up in the morning. I eat lunch. I still work, I still go home. I still wish she was with me. The same news, I make myself something to eat. I wash some clothes. Don’t really care about folding them. The same nothing. The same bed. I pretend for a moment that I am real, and then I sleep.
Friday morning. Wake up at 6:30. Turn off the alarm. Get up at 6:45. The sun is still missing, a corpse hidden behind the funeral veil of clouds. The food is somewhat better, probably because it’s Friday. Head into the bathroom, and since I feel so god damned important this morning, I won’t wait until I’m at work to take a dump. I get in the shower. Cold this morning. I get out, shave, and get dressed. Start the car, get out, get in the car and drive to work. I park in the same spot, punch at the same clock, go up the same stairs, and then I decide to be extra lazy today, they won’t notice, I’m ahead of my schedule by at least a week. The co-worker comes in. Who needs the sun when I have her. We may be just office friends, but she is the best thing in my life right now. And that is depressing. My brain shuts down, I work for a couple of hours. Then I say something, put on my coat, wait for my co-worker to put on hers. We head out and drive to a fast food joint. For the next 30 minutes, we sit and eat together. This makes the day much better. We then go back to work, and we both lose a lot of productivity. We head out at the same time, exchange a few words, and then we say goodbye. I won’t see her until Monday. I go back home, stopping to buy fast food, I go back home, turn off my brain. Later I will fall asleep again. But now, I eat alone, I can’t help but wish I was back at the restaurant. These moments, they made this almost seem worth it.
[I wish this was purely an invention. I really do.]
Tuesday morning. Wake up at 6:40, get up at 7:05. The sun is hidden behind clouds and branches. The morning is cold, I don’t want to be up. The food I eat is bland. The bathroom is still cold. I still need to undress and empty my bladder. I still need to clean myself. This time the water is warm enough, but all it achieves is making the end of the shower more miserable. I get out of the shower, dry up, skip shaving and go into my bedroom. I ran out of underwear. I walk to the dryer, grab some, get dressed, start the car, grab some food, and head out. I remove snow from the car, shovel the snow bank left by the city trucks, get in, the car is a bit warmer, and drive to work. The same stops. The same traffic lights. The same parking space. The same punch clock, the same stairs. My computer again. Different work, the same pointlessness. The same co-worker. Always the same. Always wonderful to talk to. Lunch time, the same food as last night, but better company. Then another bland afternoon doing things for people I no longer care about in a company that does not care about me. The day is over, I wish I knew the right words to say to chase that loneliness, but I head home alone, as always. I eat. I need food to stay alive. The TV is on, new news but the same stories. Always the same stories, they just have different names. I make myself some leftovers, sit down, shut down my brain and wait for time to pass. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am not alone, and then I sleep.
Wednesday morning. Wake up at 6:00, mentally complain about the neighbours until 7:00, then get up. The sun is a distant memory. It no longer exists on this plane. The morning is cold, or is it me that can’t feel warmth anymore? The food is the same I always liked, why doesn’t it bring joy anymore? Head in the bathroom, and take a long shower after showering the toilet rim by accident with the wastes a wasted life accumulates. I step out of the shower, and I shave. I head to the bedroom, head back to the dryer, and then back to the bedroom. I dress. I start the car, grab some food, head out and drive to work. The same stops and traffic lights. The same cars surround me. I make it to work, park in the same spot as usual. I punch in, do the happy employee dance to convince my boss that I still think what we do has a meaning. My co-worker is late this morning. I don’t worry, but I miss her smile. She’s finally here. We talk. I forget for just a second where I am and why I am there. For one second, I am happy. Then I start working again. I eat lunch again. I work again. I leave work alone again. I still wish that somehow, I had something more in my life. I get home, make myself some food, and some leftovers for the next day. Same stories, different channel on TV. I yawn. I sleep awake, so it makes sense that I feel awake when I sleep. I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am happy, and then I sleep.
Thursday morning. Wake up a 7:00, get up at 7:15. The sun is dead. The morning cold. The food moves fast. I piss, then take a shower, then grab the last pair of boxers from the dryer. I get dressed, get in the car and drive to work. The same road, only 10 kilometres per hour faster. Work. The same parking spot. Punch in, on time. Pretend to work. Pretend to care about anything other than the co-worker who cannot know that she is the only reason I still get up in the morning. I eat lunch. I still work, I still go home. I still wish she was with me. The same news, I make myself something to eat. I wash some clothes. Don’t really care about folding them. The same nothing. The same bed. I pretend for a moment that I am real, and then I sleep.
Friday morning. Wake up at 6:30. Turn off the alarm. Get up at 6:45. The sun is still missing, a corpse hidden behind the funeral veil of clouds. The food is somewhat better, probably because it’s Friday. Head into the bathroom, and since I feel so god damned important this morning, I won’t wait until I’m at work to take a dump. I get in the shower. Cold this morning. I get out, shave, and get dressed. Start the car, get out, get in the car and drive to work. I park in the same spot, punch at the same clock, go up the same stairs, and then I decide to be extra lazy today, they won’t notice, I’m ahead of my schedule by at least a week. The co-worker comes in. Who needs the sun when I have her. We may be just office friends, but she is the best thing in my life right now. And that is depressing. My brain shuts down, I work for a couple of hours. Then I say something, put on my coat, wait for my co-worker to put on hers. We head out and drive to a fast food joint. For the next 30 minutes, we sit and eat together. This makes the day much better. We then go back to work, and we both lose a lot of productivity. We head out at the same time, exchange a few words, and then we say goodbye. I won’t see her until Monday. I go back home, stopping to buy fast food, I go back home, turn off my brain. Later I will fall asleep again. But now, I eat alone, I can’t help but wish I was back at the restaurant. These moments, they made this almost seem worth it.
[I wish this was purely an invention. I really do.]
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