Zelda nearly wanted to write a novel. She had thought about it. At the hospital people were always saying, “You could write a novel about that.”
Really, the things people got up to. Her mother, for example. There was a potboiler.
But then, in the hospital canteen, Zelda found an abandoned notebook. The cover read Troy’s What The Fuck Book. Zelda could imagine the title appearing in a Barnes and Nobles display case.
Chapter One: The Corner
Sitting on the corner, not really signing because I have no sign. I don’t really know what to expect but here I am anyway. Just to see what happens and is it worth doing more often. It’s a pretty popular corner. Everyone seems to want this spot. So I figured I would give it a try for a while since no one was here when I was walking by. I was here for about five minutes when I made my first four dollars. Not bad, I guess, but now I have been here for about forty-five minutes and still only four dollars.
I think it’s going to be another really long day. I am trying to raise enough cash to get a phone activated. It is so hard to do anything without a phone number for people or jobs or anything to be able to reach you. So I’m going to sit here for a while.
I might even make a sign.
Well, I just made another five dollars. So that makes nine dollars in an hour. Not that great I guess, but it was free, in a manner of speaking.
Okay, I’m going to put the pen down now and see what happens.
I wish myself luck.
God bless everyone on this day.
Chapter Two: The Corner Continued
Well shoot, it’s only been ten minutes since I was writing on the other side of this paper. Now I have made another dollar. That makes ten dollars. No, wait, make that another fifteen. So I have made twenty-five dollars in little over an hour. Not too bad.
Still debating whether I should make a sign or not. I think I will hold off until now and just see what happens. I don’t want to seem too needy or have to write something dumb on a sign.
I will let people draw their own opinion on why I am sitting on this corner today. I am putting down the pen again now.
Chow.
Wait, there is one more thing I think needs to be said. Sitting here is pretty dangerous. I mean. Nevermind. I am not going to finish this thought. I will wait until I leave then finish what I was about to say. So chow for now.
Well shit, I don’t know if I can just sit here without doing something.
I feel weird and I don’t really know what to do.
Do I just sit and stare around or at people? Play with my dog or what? I just don’t know what to do with myself.
I guess I better figure it out. Or just keep writing about what’s going on on this corner.
I really need to bring a cushion or something to sit on. This concrete is really hard on my ass. The dog is okay. He has his doggie bed to lay on and is just snoozing away without a care in the world.
I never got to finish this story, of course something came up like always so I will continue next time. By the way, I ended up making fifty bucks in a couple of hours. Not too bad for someone who doesn’t sit on a corner.
This story continues on the next corner.
Zelda thought about maybe going out and sitting on a corner, but her name wasn’t Troy. She didn't know where she got these crazy ideas. She never told Nate about them. It wasn’t like she had crazy ideas all the time. Just sometimes, she got bored with her regular old boring life. From time to time.
The last thing Gator remembered was getting back to his hotel room at the Holiday Inn Express and Suites and reading Keith Kumasen Abbott’s short story about RVs and pet rocks. The moral of the story was that death sells, that much was clear. Now Gator was back in the hospital and feeling decidedly moribund. He wondered when the blond was coming around.
The nursing staff had stabilized him. Mr. Matcha's prognosis was not good this time. They told him they had called his friend Rabbi Tirzah, thinking that would settle him down a bit. This produced the opposite effect on the patient.
Four days later when representatives of ‘S Natch, the ultra radical funeral home, came to collect Gator’s body from the hospital morgue, the driver-director-founder presented his credentials and said he had been sent by Rabbi Pyrestone.
“You sure he wanted to be cremated?” the morgue attendant asked wryly.
“Excuse me?” Police Dog Meth-T asked.
“Nothing. Here’s your package.” The attendant eyed the man’s attire, noting the unusual choice of wardrobe for a funeral home. They probably bury everyone in those linen shirts, he thought. The man was wearing sandals and it was January for God’s sake.
Keith Kumasen Abbott was feeling the breast pocket of his shirt through his sweater. He still had his pin money. Two hundred dollars in twenties. That wasn’t much money these days, and it wasn’t like he could really use the money for anything other than ghost poker. He had put his winnings in the girl’s folder and kept the capital. She was nickel and dime-ing it. He didn’t know what she was saving up for, but it sure was going to take her a long time the way she was going about it.
Thinking hard, Keith came up with a list of the matters at hand:
1. Rhino Ritz was on the job, looking for his missing manuscripts, and they were pretty good at fucking things up.
2. Christmas was over and no-one would think he was masquerading as Santa or even assume he was Santa for the coming months. The Moses thing was another matter.
3. That ghost hunting woman was close on his heels.
4. The aliens had abducted the Christian cowboy when Ernest Hemingway had harpooned the water demon instead of the first edition set of Harry Potter that Buck Rogers displayed in his buffet sideboard. Why had the aliens done that? And, more importantly, why did Buck collect the first editions of Harry Potter? Was it just an investment? Further, why was Ernest Hemingway harpooning Rowling?
No, Keith thought, I’d better lay low and consult with Michael Sowl before I make my next move.
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