Chinks
Predator Press
[LOBO]
When I arrived, I was roughly thirty hours late. But the itinerary was fairly arbitrary: I'm still several days ahead of the truck with my stuff, and I don't start work until next week. The only thing I consider a "drawback" is that I'm supposed to meet the new boss today: no more Skype interviews in my dress shirt and underpants. Today is the real deal.
But the property manager's office didn't open for another two hours, and I had no keys.
I woke under windshield-lasering sunlight, with Phil II sleeping on my chest. She went back into her cage with mild protest, and once I stopped bleeding, I traversed the ankle-breaking cobblestone walkway. Everything screams weather-beaten pastel at me. With a few years of experience with ink, it seems ironic to me in that bright colors are the first to fade in sunlight ... and this place reputedly has relentless sunlight, only rudely interrupted by occasional nightfall.
For a place that the most attractive people in the world come to have their dreams ground into a fine paste, the property manager does not disappoint. Mid thirties, petite, and in a loose fitting sundress. Her "office" is a large desk in her living room.
"How many keys do you need?" she asks. "Each additional key requires a fifty dollar deposit."
"Just one."
She stared into her computer screen, eyebrows furrowed. "You don't want to get more keys for your family?"
"I'm divorced," I kinda lie. My wife of seven years is currently in the "honeymoon phase" with her new beau, and inconveniently forgot about how polite an official divorce would be. For a split second, I consider the weirdness that the happier they are, the closer we get to making it happen. But either way, the marriage is moot.
The property manager looks directly at me, and I have this strange feeling it is the first time. There is some sort of weird and palpable change in the atmosphere, and about five minutes later, she is picking Phil II's cat fur from the sternum of my shirt.
Is she flirting with me? I thought.
Let's be fair: it has been a almost a decade since I have use these skills. My ability to detect flirting has been seriously eroded by "Happily Ever After" fantasies.
Eyes are bright, but kinda sad. Prom queen, moved here to become an actress or a model ...
But that's just shooting fish in a barrel here.
No visible tattoos. Great complexion -possibly vegan. Botoxed lips, and breasts possibly fake ...
-Apparently I hate fish.
No wedding ring, but she has at least one kid -the glaring absence of kids screams, "I have kids!"
So she dated a bartender with an armload of screenplays, and they just fizzled out. He was getting some success, and this did nothing but create tension between them.
So what happened to the screenwriter/bartender?
Then I spotted the house arrest ankle bracelet.
Bingo.
The property manager circled my apartment on the map, and it was only about a four block drive. A page stapled behind it lists convenient shopping areas and restaurants.
I towed in Phil II's cage and my luggage only to find this place way to big. Even when my furniture arrives, it will be sparse. But that's a great point: I don't have my books, my game stations, cable -all I got is this cellphone wifi hotspot thingy Terri taught me to use.
Lars Arson shows up with a bottle of red wine, and the orientation packet. He has wide shoulders and skinny legs. His body type would be "Spongebob Squarepants."
"Wanna tour the plant?" he asks.
"Sure!" I says.
I am encouraged by the fact he drives a Tesla.
I am discouraged by the fact he only drives forty feet.
"Here we are," he explains.
I am skeptical.
"What can you film here?" I ask innocently. "Is this just some sort of waystation for actors making movies?"
"Son," Lars replied. "We don't do those kinds of movies"
[LOBO]
When I arrived, I was roughly thirty hours late. But the itinerary was fairly arbitrary: I'm still several days ahead of the truck with my stuff, and I don't start work until next week. The only thing I consider a "drawback" is that I'm supposed to meet the new boss today: no more Skype interviews in my dress shirt and underpants. Today is the real deal.
But the property manager's office didn't open for another two hours, and I had no keys.
I woke under windshield-lasering sunlight, with Phil II sleeping on my chest. She went back into her cage with mild protest, and once I stopped bleeding, I traversed the ankle-breaking cobblestone walkway. Everything screams weather-beaten pastel at me. With a few years of experience with ink, it seems ironic to me in that bright colors are the first to fade in sunlight ... and this place reputedly has relentless sunlight, only rudely interrupted by occasional nightfall.
For a place that the most attractive people in the world come to have their dreams ground into a fine paste, the property manager does not disappoint. Mid thirties, petite, and in a loose fitting sundress. Her "office" is a large desk in her living room.
"How many keys do you need?" she asks. "Each additional key requires a fifty dollar deposit."
"Just one."
She stared into her computer screen, eyebrows furrowed. "You don't want to get more keys for your family?"
"I'm divorced," I kinda lie. My wife of seven years is currently in the "honeymoon phase" with her new beau, and inconveniently forgot about how polite an official divorce would be. For a split second, I consider the weirdness that the happier they are, the closer we get to making it happen. But either way, the marriage is moot.
The property manager looks directly at me, and I have this strange feeling it is the first time. There is some sort of weird and palpable change in the atmosphere, and about five minutes later, she is picking Phil II's cat fur from the sternum of my shirt.
Is she flirting with me? I thought.
Let's be fair: it has been a almost a decade since I have use these skills. My ability to detect flirting has been seriously eroded by "Happily Ever After" fantasies.
Eyes are bright, but kinda sad. Prom queen, moved here to become an actress or a model ...
But that's just shooting fish in a barrel here.
No visible tattoos. Great complexion -possibly vegan. Botoxed lips, and breasts possibly fake ...
-Apparently I hate fish.
No wedding ring, but she has at least one kid -the glaring absence of kids screams, "I have kids!"
So she dated a bartender with an armload of screenplays, and they just fizzled out. He was getting some success, and this did nothing but create tension between them.
So what happened to the screenwriter/bartender?
Then I spotted the house arrest ankle bracelet.
Bingo.
***
The property manager circled my apartment on the map, and it was only about a four block drive. A page stapled behind it lists convenient shopping areas and restaurants.
I towed in Phil II's cage and my luggage only to find this place way to big. Even when my furniture arrives, it will be sparse. But that's a great point: I don't have my books, my game stations, cable -all I got is this cellphone wifi hotspot thingy Terri taught me to use.
Lars Arson shows up with a bottle of red wine, and the orientation packet. He has wide shoulders and skinny legs. His body type would be "Spongebob Squarepants."
"Wanna tour the plant?" he asks.
"Sure!" I says.
I am encouraged by the fact he drives a Tesla.
I am discouraged by the fact he only drives forty feet.
"Here we are," he explains.
I am skeptical.
"What can you film here?" I ask innocently. "Is this just some sort of waystation for actors making movies?"
"Son," Lars replied. "We don't do those kinds of movies"
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