Forget it Jake.....it's Shawtown

Friday. 4 pm. The kind of hour that working stiffs the world over dream about all week long. Not me though. You don't stay in the private dick racket by taking weekends off, and you sure as hell don't look forward to idle time when you got problems like mine. Alimony, taxes, high-arched feet....you name it, I've lived it...twice. Not to mention the owner of the firm, a real Dick, has been breathing down my neck all week about my lack of progress. I'd like to see him handle some of these mugs I'm trailing. Can't wait for the day I give ol' Oney his.

4:15 the phone rings. I stub out my cigarette into the overflowing coffee can and pick it up. Frantic voice on the line.....something about an underpass and a bad man with a bad plan....and a dame. Dammit it sounds like a setup, but I'm a sucker for the dames. One of these days they'll be the death of me, but not today. I gotta get even before I get dead.

I hop on my clunker and head up the ravine. Aguajito is a mess, rich people driving around in nice cars. Should have been my first sign to turn around. These kind of people shouldn't be here. Not now.

I get to the first bridge, right before the hospital, and a hunch tells me I'm about to drum up some business. Underneath the bridge something catches my eye. A plastic bag. I've seen this before, and I swore I could smell that scorched motor oil.

A closer look and it wasn't a body. But what it was sent chills down my spine. What kind of a sick fuck leaves moldy garlic bread for me to find? Where's the dame? And why do I kind of want pasta for supper?

On to the second bridge, where I knew it was Showdown City. I parked the Cross-Check out of site and tipped my bicyling helmet squash hat to cover my face. Something in the same bridge corner as the garlic bread grabbed my eye. A closer look.......and there she was! The dame looked a little roughed up, but was double bagged (our man is a confirmed Safeway shopper), and most importantly had beers.

Some days I don't even know what side I'm on anymore, but once in awhile, for that slimmest of moments, I remember how I got into this mess in the first place. Big things. Things like Justice. Dames. Cycling. Screaming down hwy 68 with yahoos driving the shoulders through corners. So if you see me out there, say a little prayer for me. And God help the day that comes when I finally catch the cat that's been shitting in my garden.

Cold Front

No dammit, you're not even listening to me, I said COLD FRONT.

Ok that's better. The morning temperatures here have been sniffing near the crack of frozenness this week, and I for one am not used to it. All that nonsense about growing up in winterland doesn't mean you don't get cold, although people wearing coats and/or biking with facemasks here when it is 60 degrees is another story.

What kind of a world do we live in when a grown man can't hop on his excessively nice road bike, don his nancy spandex tights, and put on a silly headband without getting a chill?