"Lucille, don't look now, but there's a police car behind us." Lucille took a left turn off an I-40 frontage road, cruising the gauntlet of apartments, duplexes, and ranch-style homes. They viewed a perversion of nature: harsh desert turned lush by extensive watering systems. Some homeowners simply rolled out astroturf. Others landscaped with stone. 
"Hey. I wonder where these girls are headed? Maybe we should pull 'em over on a pretense. Feel 'em out. Ask ‘em for their phone numbers! Ask 'em out for drinks! Our shift's almost over you know."

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My apartment was near the river. I was between a liquor store and a voodoo supply. I could conveniently shop the odd assortment of wines at Jimmy's or drop in at Rita's for herbs, gris gris and candles. Local real estate could be a mishmash of residential and commercial, eye candy and eyesore. Buildings seemed slightly askew, threatening implosion, cartoon-like: from the inside, seemingly spacious - from the outside, smallish, individual frontage mere slits in the block. N'awlins was sinking. The delta was eroding. The buffer zone was going. The big storm was coming.

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The Road Killers had a growing rep. They'd kicked a big bunch of ass at a bar outside Tulsa. They'd been minding their own business, having a dance together when the Okie opined on their colors. "'Waste not, want not'? What kinda sissy shit is that? Y'all one a' them anti-litterin' groups?"
A melee broke out, a mix master of pounding fists, cracking teeth, and cracking heads.

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Stuart Metzler sat in his 1959 Pontiac Chieftain on his Maple St. driveway. Mmm . . . that new car smell. One day they’ll bottle and sell it. He pulled a small memo pad and pen from a suit pocket and made a note. ’New car smell — replicate and market!’ He took in the car’s interior. ‘Dashboard needs more knobs! Bigger!’ he jotted. As a Strategy Formulation consultant, he had diverse information and ideas but  felt occasionally envious as he watched clients succeed in their projects. He experienced random, uncontrollable urges to lie, and enjoyed gauging reaction. Stuart anticipated the day’s work, and wondered what his secretary Vicky would be wearing. 

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"Oh, I absolutely love negative ionization. It makes me high!” Marilyn squealed. She wore a low-cut black silk dress and black heels. Her skin well took the sun. The tip of her nose had been shortened and narrowed; concavity below her cheekbones had been enhanced by the extraction of a few back teeth. Short platinum blonde locks contrasted with tan skin, like vanilla frosting on a caramel cake. The mole on the right side of her face seemed an asymmetrical accent to her physical perfection.
“Marilyn, darling, are you sure it’s not the margaritas?” laughed her small blonde companion.
“Truman!”
“Would you believe who’s here tonight? Am I hallucinating, or is that the president of the United States standing near the buffet table?”
She laughed. “Perhaps you ARE hallucinating." 

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Under a skylight I crawled on the hardwood floor and arranged three-by-five cards. Breaking down a novel into key film scenes could be torture. How to effectively condense, yet retain meaning? I agonized. Many screen treatments in any case eventually suffered drastic re-writes; the further into the process one got, the less original meaning likely remained, until a work could appear unrecognizable. Casting-wise, Cate Blanchett and Jeremy Irons might devolve into . . . who knew? I thought the first scene would be of protagonist Claire giving direction on a film set. Scene two would begin a series of flashbacks Claire in the early years, as continuity person and script supervisor on various low-budget location films, including the comic relief of behind-the-scenes on horror films. Relationships would be broken into love scenes, interspersed with her industry climb and disappointments, climaxing in her Cannes win for Sighs And Whispers. I gathered my three-by-five cards, mixed them up, and threw them into the air. I spun and chanted as the cards fluttered to the floor. Not bad! I thought of their re-ordering.

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A dark man in a white linen suit, brown wingtips, and white Panama hat chain-smoked Pall Malls, downed Wild Turkey and animatedly talked to a small blond man seated opposite him.
"Just listen to them go at it, would you? Their paroxysms of passion make me positively dyspeptic. It's always the same, people from the other side inhabiting our special places and  invading our space. And entities capitalizing on our names. The Southern Gothic. Indeed! How long have we been here now? I wouldn't have predicted qualities of the afterlife. It takes a period of adjustment. " 
"I suppose. I was here for weeks before I figured it out. I have difficulty keeping track of things." 

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