Noir

My life has degenerated into a slow, reflective and jazzy sort of a life. Always pondering my situation. Where do I work? Why do I work there? Why am I a reporter? Why do I drink? Why don't I have a woman? Why does Valentine's Day suck so much? Why does chocolate taste like shit? Why do my flowers always wilt?

* * *

I get off work at 5 p.m. and exit through the door with my friend reporter/kindred spirit/about-to-be-married man/co-worker. He needs to stop at the convenience store next door to buy some candy. I guess his blood sugar was down. I light up a Camel and stand at the intersection of Gale Street and Milwaukee Avenue, looking passively at the hordes of crowds that have decided to populate this area at this particular hour; running red lights; walking when the "Don't Walk" sign is on; fucking with traffic.

And it's Thursday. Pay day.

Then a little Asian teenager gets almost plowed by some driver in a hurry because she stepped out onto the busy street with that dumb high school sort of excitement, causing the man to break abruptly, tires squeeling like pigs, swerving to the left, missing her by inches.

"Holy Shit!" me and the other reporter utter.

We wait to see what happens. The driver, a very sordid sort of man gets out, yelling at the hapless girl, telling her that he almost killed her. He almost did. And cops are right behind, but they do nothing, but pull into a McDonald's parking lot.

"Fuck," I say.

That kind of a hit would get us both soaked in crimson.

My friend agreed.

Would we cover the event?

Yes.

But it would be overtime.

Major shit.

But the girl didn't die. She just felt stupid in front of her friends, especially when the driver of the mini-van came out and yelled at her, telling her that she was almost killed.

But it didn't bleed so it didn't lede.

* * *

At this point I needed a drink. A stiff one, too.

And I thought about death.

And money.

I thought about how many times I came face to face with death. And how sad yet liberating it was. I heard the serpent rattle its tail.

But listening to some poor rendition of Jessica Rabbit's number of "Why don't you do right," got me in the noir mood.

And I started drinking bourbon.

It was Valentine's Day. I hated this day ever since I was single and had trouble with love.

I didn't want to think about the past loves since it depressed me. I was alone. Sitting here singing "Get out of here, get me some money too."

Why don't I do right like some other men do?