Later on, Edward Julian Watson was sitting in a jail cell and the local police force were ignoring his pleas to use the telephone again. He had tried to use it several times, but when he had picked up the reciever, there was no way in hell he could bring himself to dial his mother's phone number. "Everybody sucks!" Edward Julian Watson screamed through the bars and the officers in the lunch room laughed. They had been laughing at him for the past three hours. Jimmy popped his head out the door and yelled, "Shut-up, tough guy, or I am going to go arrest some bikers to throw in there with you!" Edward Julian Watson sat down, cross-legged on the floor. It was almost lunchtime. Maybe he would go on a hunger strike. Maybe he was gonna sue the badge right off that stupid nigger cop too... Nobody offered Edward Julian Watson lunch. But they finally did let him the chance to make another phone call. An hour and half after he had shut his mouth. Edward Julian Watson called for Becki. "You did this to me. Now you need to get over here and get them to let me outta here, Becki." And Becki said, "I do not know what to tell you, Edward. I don;t want to." And Edward Julian Watson hissed into the phone. "Quit acting like a mother-fucking princess and get your ass down here, Becki. This is not funny anymore." And Becki knew it was not. But her senses were offended by his hash words. Becki said nothing. "Becki...are you still there? Becki...Becki....oh, do not have hung-up!" She could not help but laugh at his anxiety. "Come on, Becki," he said, "I have to go home and feed Orange." He knew it work. Becki walked six blocks over and Jimmy let Edward Julian Watson out of jail. But she did not stay at the police station and when Edward Julian Watson figured this out, he drove the sideroads that took her home.
Across the road from my home is an apartment building. It is made of brown brick and has three stories.
It also has plenty of windows I often forget about while I go about my daily and nightly routines.
I also forget my curtains are white, lacey and see-through scraps purchased from an aisle in Wal-Mart.
Fifteen apartments. That may all house people with binoculars.
It was the muggiest night this past summer had owned.
Brenda was down for a visit and when she comes, it usually means a night spent over on my couch for her. Brenda lives in another town.
It was one in the morning, no sleep to be found between the two us. We sat slouched on my front porch trying to capture the occasional breeze offered, sucking it deep into our lungs, praying it would cool us down.
Our glasses of Pepsi sweated warning us how warm the drink would taste in our mouths.
"Tilly! Tilly!" the shout sat our spines straight as we looked across the street to the where the sound was coming fr...
Comments
No one has his back.
Q