A Fragment

Been writing again, which is a pleasant surprise. I'm in the midst of some character discovery, so I figured I'd drop a bit of what I have in here:

Fucking phone. Ringing right as I slot the pick, scaring the fucking shit out of me so bad that I almost drop the fuckin pick. Only thing that stops me is that all my muscles seem to be locked up. I must have made quite an interesting sight: a guy leaned over like he’s got his keys in the door, frozen in place for God knows how many fucking seconds.

Anyway, I take a quick look around, jiggle the pick until the door opens, walk inside and close the door behind me. It’s probably been 30 to 40 seconds, so I wonder if anyone noticed me outside. They’re not as swift down here as they are back in New York, but if you’re slow you’re suspicious, and if you’re suspicious, you’re gonna get talked to. My phone rings again. Fuck.

“Yeah,” I say, not really caring who it is, cuz whoever it is, they’re gonna want something from me and I’m going to have to give them, whatever that is.

“Johhny Boy,” Clem says, “what are you doing?”

“Busy.” I try to sounds natural about it, like I’m on at the job.

“Are you in fucking Anita’s apartment again?”

“Fuck, Clem, what do you want?”

“Well, you can start by getting the fuck out of there. She’s gonna figure out you been there sooner or later. And you don’t want a B&E down here. You’ve been clean so far. Don’t go get burned.” Yeah, clean so far, but anything was lower profile than my job back in Brooklyn. Fuck, Brooklyn. Better not think of that shit now.

I moved out of the doorway and walked toward the kitchen, which was straight ahead from the door. “Yeah, I’m not gonna get burned, okay? Jesus.” I noticed that the shades weren’t pulled on the terrace door, so I ducked back from the kitchen right before I got there, just in case. No need to be seen somewhere at a time of day when the occupants wouldn’t be home. Anita was at work, like always. I’d tailed her for two months when right after we broke up, so I was sure, for the most part, that she’d be where I knew she’d be at any given time.

“Fuck, son, why can’t you drop it? That shit was over months ago. She will not understand the subtle signs and portends that you deposit, well, as often as you deposit them. I’d be fucking astounded if you understood them.”

I’d walked to the pull of the shades and had begun to draw them closed. Talking on the phone was making me feel like I couldn’t cover everything, like I’d forget something or fuck it up. “Clem, I gotta go. I’ll call ya later. I hit “end” and made sure I muted the fucking thing and dropped it back into my pocket.

There it is. Not too fleshed out, but I'm working through it. For me, characters--and often stories--seem like an archeological dig: you see something in the sand or rock that looks like it could be something, so you get out your tools annd start digging it out. Sometimes it turns out to be something innocuous, but sometimes, just sometimes, you uncover a whopping find. I have no idea what this might turn out to be...

OK, it's an AMAZING day outside, so I can't stay in here any longer. I'm Audi 5000!