Write a flash about resisting a temptation.
Cheap hotel pen, taxi, British agenda
Prom night and all the seniors are penned in cheap hotels breaking things; hearts, furniture, cherries, livers. Me I’m in a dented crown Vic I got at a blind auction with a long lens on an old SLR waiting for a guy who isn’t supposed to be here with someone he isn’t supposed to be with.
The kids come and go in taxis, limos, mommies mini-van. I snap some shots just to feel like I’m doing something, who knows, maybe one of those little bastards will run for President or Prime Minister and I’ll have a shot of them puking on their date or with a cummerbund around their neck.
The guy shows up around midnight, alone, rental car. I got seven shots of him arguing with the night clerk. He leaves. I’ll check the cell records later. The crown Vic starts up like a WWII vet with T.B. which beats the hell out of a stone and a flag and six feet of dirt. She diesels a bit, spits out blue smoke, but she makes the turn and I’m three cars back as the rental cruises the Stroh. I think it’s short for Ho’s row, but I don’t know. I been here five years and if there’s hoing going on down MLK it’s awfully discrete.
Doesn’t cross my mind he’s looking for some strange. He’s the kind of guy arranges his own strange; Prom night, not a hotel clerk in town is going to make as reliable witness. If it weren’t for two fifty a day plus expenses he’d be all but invisible.
Rich kids. I could have charged five. The wife doesn’t give a shit. She’s pretty dead. Natural causes a few years back. Neuropathy; her organic brain figured it would naturally look better on the wall. It was the kid. Dad does something funky enough, kid figures immoral works, and dad ends his tenure as a trust fund guardian. The fuck do I care? Morality is for priests and politicians; more a talking point than a lifestyle.
He pulls into a Seven Eleven. I get ten shots of him waiting in line to buy a pack of gum. His eyes keep darting to the smokes behind the counter. He just gets the gum. I got three shots of him standing in front of the store looking up the street. Two of him unwrapping a stick of gum. One of him throwing away the wrapper.
We roll on down the Stroh. He parks in an empty Municipal lot, leaves the engine running. It flashes in my mind for a second what a good place to off himself, join his wife, shuffle off this mortal coil, lose the ingrate kid who hires a dick with malice of forethought.
But when dawn rises gray and ugly, when the cream of the high school wander their walk of shame in soiled dress clothes, we’re both their, alone, in the lot. I follow him back to the rental dealership. How much money is the kid willing to spend on this?
Prompt
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