There are seven apartments at the Pinewood 8, all of which are ground level and rent month-to-month, weekly, or by the hour.
Click Larson stands outside of Unit 3, door opened behind him, on the concrete stoop Pinewood 8’s rental agreement designated as ‘patio area’, and whose maintenance he was responsible for, at risk of losing his one hundred dollar cash deposit.
In the same practiced and slightly absent manner a long-time smoker might coax a final strike from a Bic lighter, low on fluid, Click is shaking a squeeze container of French’s Hot Dog Mustard, his stare intently eastward. Click has rented Unit 3 for the week.
Against the mold, monochrome and dark silhouettes of the apartment’s sparse furnishings encased in the doorway at Click’s back, the bright yellow mustard container is a splash of cheer, a lone Daisy growing through the cracks of an eight-lane Interstate.
Cheerful as it is, Mark ‘Piles’ Brandon, wonders no less what the fuck somebody would need mustard for at six-thirty in the morning. He pours a second cup of de-caf and watches Click as the coffee cools enough to sip.
