One Trick Pony

For the last fifteen or so years I've been living with a bunch of dead guys at a motel in West Texas. Like the characters in my stories, I'd really like to move on, see the world, go places. But I'm just like them. Anchored by love, worn down by circumstances and fascinated by how much there really is underneath it all. So I keep writing their stories and tell myself that someday, when I've got this all out of my system, I'll write deep, meaningful literature about... something else. In the meantime, this is a place for the short attention spanned. I'm making a commitment to keep it small here. Flash fiction and scenes from the life inspired by, The Bella Vista Motel.

Thanks for reading.


Saturday, February 6, 2010

The Guest Book - 16

"You know those guys that work for the Boss out in Jersey?" Clark asked, after staring down into his empty coffee cup for a long moment. "You know the ones," he insisted when Romeo gave him a look like, guys... which guys... "they all look alike, dark, hairy, can't hardly understand them, their accents so thick, but not like regular Jersey guys..." "Like they come from the old country, but not our old country," Romeo said mostly to himself, remembering the strange pack of "brothers" that would show up at the motel from time to time. "Yeah, those guys, yeah," Clark nodded, "you do know, the ones that always just show up out of nowhere when there's real work to be done, like moving big crates of goods or building stuff. We had a warehouse out there, you know, out in Jersey, set up like a little film studio for pin-up photo shoots and stag films, and I, you know," he shrugged and moved his hand around in a circular motion Romeo wasn't sure he got the meaning of until Clark continued, "I did some acting, with the girls..." "Aww, Christ..." Romeo muttered into the back of his throat, it was going to be one of those kinds of stories, and the dark hairy guys were involved... his stomach went queer in anticipation and he wondered if he had any bromo tablets close to hand.

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