Friday, August 04, 2006
Fritzing it in the parking lot
This blog is really about me being able to position illustrations properly. The copy is almost incidental.
Fritz the Cat sleeping in the parking lot.
Fritz the Cat, thrown out by his wife, propositioned in the parking lot by some lonesome woman.
All of a sudden not homeless, and getting it on.
Afterwards, we go dumpster-diving and she falls right in. "It's not funny. Get me outta here."
Fritz the Cat sleeping it off in the parking lot.
Knock on the window.
It is the chief of police.
Whatcha doin'? Just wanted to see if you're all right.
Good thing it's a small town.
Fritz the Cat hitchhiking to Toronto (car won't go; it is only used for sleeping)
Fritz the Cat picked up by off-duty Metro cop.
Hit all the bars with Metro cop.
Back to ":home" in the parking lot...Barbie set up just back of the trunk. I fry something, hoping the cops won't come. But the cops are right here. Man, this is real camping.
Cop and I have a drink out of the trunk.
How the hell are we going to have a leak, out here, with all the cars, all the people?
"Here, I'll show you says the cop....Trouble with you is you don't get out enough."
Cop kneels down, hauls her out, pees righ under the rocker panel of my broken-wown old Dodge.
I follow suit.
Looks like two guys, in turn checking something under the car.
"You don't get out enough."
Fritz the Cat now all alone.
Swiss Chalet guy brings some chicken. "Ding-Hao," I say in Cantonese.
The parking lot seagulls are alighting, screaming their heads off. They are after my chicken scraps.
Tomorrow, it'll be scouring in between the white and yellow lines, looking for cigarettes.
Somebody else taps at my window.
It is another hobo.
Turf war. He won't leave. Wants my "Home". I get on the cell phone that doesn't work. He sees me and leaves.
Another bum greets me in the morning. He wants to know my secret. How come you a rich bum, have car and never be out of cigarettes? I want to know your secret. I want to follow you around.
I go out into the parking lot and he follows me, as if out of a Charlie Chaplin movie, out of some antique caroon, where if I walk with a limp, he copies, also walks with a limp and the occasional hop.
I tread on a cigarett package, walk on. He also treads on the cigarette package and walks on.
"I read your book," he says.
How come a bum has read my book?
"I spend a lot of time in the library. What is your secret?"
"Glad you read my book, but you're starting to get on my nerves. Stop following me."
Quiet again in the parking lot.
A gorgeous woman taps on my side window. "Here is five dollars for gas. Keep you warm. It's a cold night.
"Why thank you. What's your name?
And with that she was off in her pert blue Audi.
Ah, the gutter and other good places.
But the timing must be right.
Wrong time, wrong place and you are dead.