to be filled
with thoughts and words
as they build
images and worlds
through my mind
that carry you
into others’ lives.
to be filled
with thoughts and words
as they build
images and worlds
through my mind
that carry you
into others’ lives.
So there you have it. That’s how I met Janet and with a few good months and long conversations spent swallowed by the couch and gallons of ice cream, we became friends. She encouraged me to drop the dealing – which wasn’t too easy. Buster had got a little dependent on me being his top seller and all. But things worked out in the end. I needed a real, new job then. So Janet got me started at the diner.Tommy was always such an easy pushover that we both knew it be a good start for me. He was so giddy that some one else showed even the slightest interest in his business that he hired me on the spot. Not even a background check.
And now we circle back to today, where I had to force the poor guy to even let me go. I mean, I was terrible at my job, possibly even giving his diner a bad rep. But still….
Like I had said before, it was perfect timing. Even planned, some could say. Now it was time to plan out the easy stuff. The murder, right? You’re still waiting on the name. The one who I’ve been waiting to snap like a twig.
Maybe you think it’s Rodney? With all his corruption and dire need to see myself dead. But no, he’s still in jail and will be there for many years to come. Likely his heart will go before he even gets close to parole.
Tommy, maybe? True that I”m not a fan of hipsters, but I’m not that cruel.
Buster? Well, honestly he’s not much of a threat. Remember, I said it all worked out in the end.
Trevor, of course, is who you’ve got in mind now. He seems the easy pick. All the anger and downward spiral started with him. My ability to trust ended with him. My life was torn apart because of him. Sure, he seems like an obvious motive. One very good reason. But honestly, I don’t even know the guy’s real name. And in the end, wasn’t he just doing his job? Is the jeopardy of my life worth ending his?
Let me help you out a little more.
I told you I made a lot of money for Rodney. A lot of money. I also told you I couldn’t spend it. I looked for a good launderer time to time, but no one really ever gave me the right feeling. Launderers are necessarily known for having clean hands. So most of that cash was just spent on the everyday things. Groceries, gas, clothes, etc. All the necessities of life.
Rodney couldn’t spend a lot of his amount either, so he entrusted it to me. To “take care of it.” In other words – hide it. When the Feds busted in that day, there was good amount of cash in the safe – hell – probably even laying out on the tables with the product right beside it. But that was by no means all of it. No, that half a million they looted was just a small percent. The rest of it had been carefully placed in a remote location for safe keeping, just as Rodney had asked of me. Even Trevor didn’t learn that secret.
They grilled me so many times about the rest of the cash. But poor, doe eyed me just placed it off to my distraught mother’s erratic spending and “I don’t know where he kept it – why don’t you just ask him?” Him being Rodney, of course. And the irony is even Rodney never knew the final location of the money since I had a habit of moving it every two weeks or so. He would always say I was the one who knew and I would say it was him. Neither of us put up a good case to believe, but it was enough to hold them off.
But you see? Being that the Feds never got the final answer, they knew that it would still be out there somewhere. And I knew that they would continue to watch me in hopes that one day I would lead them right to it. Desperation is a driving force that will make people do a lot of crazy things.
And they’re right.
I am becoming desperate. Real life is hard. Even harder when you know your future could be so easy if only you could get your hands on even a quarter of what you have stashed.
Are you on to me now?
I’m the one that’s going to be axed. I need to disappear and my death seems like it’s the only way to give me the best options.
And imagine…a life started with a clean slate? A completely new me.
Something strange happened to me the other day.
I was in the airport bathroom en route to Phoenix when two Latino ladies approached me. One was older with lines of age marking her face and hints of grey about her forehead. She was dressed in some heavy clothing for August and had a work apron on top of it all.
The other was younger, her wide black eyes more pronounced by the smoothness of her skin. A loose patterned sweatshirt hung about her over black leggings.
They spoke quickly in Spanish to one another as they approached me with some hesitation. The young woman said, “She would like for you to leave a comment.”
I scrunched my brow, unsure of what she meant. “You want what?” I asked.
“Senora, Senora, ” the older one said. She raced back over to a janitorial cart and brought back a stack of napkins. On one of them, someone had written some words in Spanish in a lovely, cursive font.
“See, see.” The woman pushed the napkin closer to me, keeping an expectant gaze. I stood dumbfounded, unable to read it. My one year of language class was not paying off.
“She wants you to write a comment,” the younger one spoke again, “of this place.” She held out her hands. “Of her work.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, finally grasping the meaning. The older woman laid down a new napkin eagerly, placing the previous one close by for an example.
“Olga,” she said, pointing to herself. Her smile brightened as I uncapped the pen and started to write.
When I handed it back, she thanked me repeatedly and then went right back to work, wiping all the counters down even though they were already clean.
I’ve thought back on this interaction in several passing moments now. And what I always circle back to is the woman’s sheer joy for the comment. She had no idea whether I would write something good or bad. But yet she seeked it all the same – language barrier or not.
And I could see her dedication to the job, too. Cleaning bathrooms is not a pleasant job – and the ones at the airport are nowhere near the top of the easy list. But here she was, so motivated and happy. Utterly happy.
And then I think about my own job and how a day with an emotion like that is nonexistent. I would never ask for a comment card for the fear of making the day that much worse. But why is it like that? Why shouldn’t I seek the same joy?
That’s when Janet walked into my life, like some god-damned guardian angel. She had apparently been watching me since I had moved in across the hall and wasn’t a fan of the people who I kept dragging through the door. Trash I believe was the proper term she used.
And she really didn’t like the smell of schnapps that radiated off of my presence.
“Everyday,” she complained at my door, her face infused with rage, “you walk out this door waddling like a fucking duck. Stumbling into things. You like my wall a lot–particularly when it’s fucking three am and I’m sleeping.”
She screamed at me for what felt like hours that morning. The next time I pulled any of that crap, specially bringing around the trash because she knows who they really are–she lowered her eyes–she was calling the cops.
Now that last bit finally got my attention. Jail had been fun and all, but I certainly didn’t want to go back. Cops were not what I wanted to see when probation was still hung around your neck.
And then, as she just kept on yammering, I realized something. The person she was describing….the woman she was so pissed about….was my mother. I had become just like my disgusting, delusional mother.
In my shock, I started crying. I think at one point it got so out of control I had to sit on the ground, clutching my knees to my chest as a strange source of comfort.
I didn’t know Janet and it had become apparent that she hated me with the list of complaints she just presented. But even as I went into this fit of hysterics, she didn’t leave. She stayed right there with me. A little astonished and taken a back at first, but for whatever reason she understood. She sat with me and held me, not saying a word.
For the first time in my life, someone cared. She stayed.
Man has it been a while since I reviewed a book! You might ask, why is this? Well, honestly it’s because I haven’t really read a book that I felt was worth my time in reviewing in a long while. I’m a pretty picky reader and I don’t apologize for it at all : )
In the Woods is a mystery novel by author Tana French that takes place in a fictional Dublin suburb. The story takes off first with a gripping background history of the lead character, Rob (Adam) Ryan, as a child found in the woods near his house. He is unable to say what happened to himself – or his missing friends.
We then fast forward quite a few years and Ryan is now a detective working on the Dublin Murder Squad and is called to a case with his partner, Cassie Maddox, for a new crime committed in the same woods where he was once found. A gruesome killing of a young girl is immediately evident and questions speculate as to why she was left admist an archaeological dig site. The new case starts popping questions about the old one and brings several respectable theories as to the how and why that will keep you guessing.
I really enjoyed this book as it kept me entertained through the use of two mysteries, one cold and one hot, and French also took the time to really develop the characters. Most mystery novels I read today are very short and popularized so that the plot keeps moving at a non-relenting pace, which often keeps character development at bay. But this novel does a fairly good job at it. Watching Ryan’s character unfold is just as important of an element as solving the actual case(s).
My only complaint
is that French never actually has the cold case solved. You are just kind of left with a fleeting feeling that Ryan will find his peace, but the annoying angst that you will never know the true how and why. I personally speculate a stranger, homeless perhaps, that was living in the abandoned property in the woods with some mental issues. But I will unfortunately will never know…or perhaps French did this on purpose as so many cases in reality are truly left in this same manner? The families and victims just have to find their own peace even though justice will never be gained.
**END SPOILER ALERT**
If you are in the mood for a good, hearty mystery with a heavy Irish heritage and interesting characters, this one is for you. Enjoy!
I mean, come on? It can’t be that hard. Pull the trigger. Slide the knife. Drop a forty ton cement truck on his head.
Okay, maybe the last one is a little eccentric, but…
Before you judge me just like everyone else – Tommy included – you should probably know the story first. Like actually take the time to understand. Don’t dismiss me or write me off for a stereotype. There is a lot more to me than that.
When I was ten, a bucking blonde brat that didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘quiet,’ my single, trailer-loving mother met a man. Rodney.
His sudden presence in mine and my younger brother’s life was surprising. You see, my mother had always worked hard. She pulled two jobs and rarely ever took time off throughout the year. And the time she did have was filled with her collapsed on the sofa watching soap operas and filling her veins with booze. And I can’t forget the constant slurred shouting at us about her feet that felt like jello and the endless exhaustion she had felt since the day of my birth. It was, of course, our fault that she had to work so hard. Nevermind the fact that she chose risky sex in the back of sedans as a highschool past time.
With all this work my mother did, I was stunned in how she found the time to meet a man. And more stunned that any man took the time to notice her. Rodney was okay looking if you go for the tight wife-beater and pot-belly types. But what my mother really liked was his money.
He bought her things. Lots of things. Flowers, clothes, jewelry, cars. Yes, cars plural. My mother even go to go to one part-time job with him around. She was in heaven.
So you’re thinking much like my twelve-year-old mind was one day after fixing me and Jake our third box of mac and cheese. Where does this guy get this money? And why on earth my mother? I mean, I heard the screaming and bed bumping game they loved to play at night, but was that enough?
It didn’t take me long once he found me old enough to start taking on responsibility. That’s really what he said. “You are now old enough to start taking on responsibility.” With that he shoved three pounds of cocaine into my Hello Kitty backpack and told me to stop at fifth and Lewis on my way to class. The guy there would know what to do. Just say Rodney sent you. I still remember seeing my mother standing behind him, smirking with white powder crusted around her nose. Now her kids may finally start knowing what working hard is all about.
And that was my first drug run.
I made out with a whole single chocolate bar from the ordeal. With each visit that continued after, the reward got sweeter.
By the time I was sixteen, I was running the system with Rodney and we worked well together. Really well. I handled the clients and delivery. He handled the cash and product. He was never late in meeting my customers demands, and I was never late in bringing in the profits. My own brother even became my top runner. (It’s hard to believe those sweet kids could do any harm.) It became the family business. Sure, mom had a little concern every now and then but a new bottle of Captain Jack would always shut her up.
The money was amazing. True it was hard to leave and take a vacation on it, but it could still get you what you wanted to make home that much more comfortable.
Everything was smooth sailing. I even became popular at school. “Paging Paige,” they would say. Highschoolers were constantly in need of a fix. Something had to transcend them out of their boring, suburban lives. And they would pay you close to anything to make it happen.
At one of those parties is where I met Trevor – this red head, geeky kid with dad jean’s and a plaid button up. He looked so out of place in the crowd, just standing with his hands tucked neatly in his pockets. Everyone around him drunk or high and shouting to speak. But his voice was calm and smooth – he had everything under control for a teenager. Or so it seemed.
Trevor was unlike the other boys I had met before. That usually started with a nod and ended with a quickie on the bathroom counter. But Trevor was shy and was actually more interested in me. You have to understand that was a total shock. Everyone else just wanted to know what I could do for them. Never would they ever ask about what they could do for me. Or even about me for that matter.
And so we started dating – me and Trevor. I told him a lot about myself. Rodney, Jake, my mother. Everything from age one to present day. And he just soaked it up. Nodding, smiling, offering advice. Listening – it was a new part of human life for me.
He would park his bike in the drive at five sharp and we would take off for our daily walks. Down and back my street, stopping sometimes at a small park; enjoying a streak of normal in my otherwise strange life. I learned a little about him and he learned a lot about me. For months this continued, just me and him.
Funny thing is, Trevor never forgot a word of our conversations. No, it was near possible for him to. Oh and he just played it so well on the witness stand, spilling our secret words and amusements to every fucking reporter, judge, attorney, and god-forsaken juror in the courthouse. You see, every time we met he wore a special little wire that fed our magnificent lovebird voices to a DEA van a few blocks away. For him the whole thing was just another undercover job. I was the mouse and he was the cat, tenderly waiting to sink in his teeth. And sink them he did.
All said and done, our operation was raided and picked bone dry. I missed out on the action, being cuffed and sitting in a cell at the time, but word has it that Rodney fought back, firing all the AK’s that we kept lying around. He didn’t win, but did manage to accidentally nail my brother in the back of the head during the commotion. They say he died instantly with my bereaving mother dwindling between tears and vomit beside him. I have always felt regret for my brother – it should have been me beside him instead of the trainwreck called mother. His thirteen years were short and ugly.
Since that day, I never trusted anyone again.
I pinched my lips and gave her a slim nod. Janet may be nosy, but she was always looking out for me. I often wondered what I would doing if she had never moved in next to me. Probably still laying on my couch waiting for my mother to call. A few bottles on the floor, a few pills down my throat.
She let go of the basket and turned back into the kitchen, giving out a loud sigh.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I can handle it. One more week and it will all be over. I promise.”
She looked up and gave a a weak smile. “I hope so.”
I left the counter, feeling somewhat better about our conversation. It wasn’t until I had crossed through the double doors back into the main room that I realized the burger had onions on it. And the grump was talking to Tommy.