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.
… the joys of living in condo building … Love,cat.
ReplyDeleteSuch a fab writer you are
ReplyDeleteand here slightly down your page a bit.. just next to a dear friend I never met in person, I see Old Fool, Richard, I think of him so very often, what he might say about something, how he might describe something, ... then I remember the last post or two he put up and how he tried to put his thoughts out and describe what was happening to him.. I will never forget the heartache and sadness I felt when reality hit.
ReplyDeleteI miss him dearly. He keeps me together ... still.
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