Projects, Inc

Of course, I wasn't too pleased with myself, either – Yeah, he had a gun to my head, but I certainly could have told him where to shove the cash. I could keep telling myself it wasn't my fault – as Melissa did time and time again – but that didn't really help me sleep at night. And, as I said, I was a bit agitated with myself mainly so the next words I said were a bit harsher than intended: "Shut the $%&! up, would you?" She did.

* * *

A few days with very little sleep later, I couldn't handle it for any longer. I cracked. We were in the middle of Macy's, and I kept seeing this one mall guard... he was staring at me, following me around the mall, staring, and staring, and staring, and staring... I couldn't take it, the guy was creeping me out. He knew I had done it. He knew I had robbed that place! I knew I had two options... grovel and beg, or shut him up. Usually, I'd probably have begged for his forgiveness, but no, the last few days had left me in such a jaded mood that the first chance I got, I darted off to the bathroom – and sure enough, he followed.

"Yo, buddy, nice bum ya go—" His voice was deep, but his chest was soft. One blow to his sternum knocked blood out of his mouth and he hit the urinal behind him with a pleasingthunk! And then the brick wall stood up, and hit me with everything he had – and for a guy who looked like he could have lived to see pre-Enola Gay Hiroshima, he had quite a lot! The next thing I knew, I was in a police station in God-Doesn't-Even-Know-Where-The-$%&!-I-Am. My jaw hurt – a lot.

From the looks of the place, it was a very poor city I was in, or at the least, not a very well-maintained one. Grime coated the walls, even outside of the cell, where I was certain, but I thought I was the guy who assaulted me – alright, whoI assaulted – arguing with a really fat guy in a black uniform. Cop. Must be his boss, because Enola Gay was reluctantly deferring. I shouldn't have, but I felt a very distinct sense of pride – or was it indigestion? Still can't figure that one out – at the sight of a deep purple mark impressed on the side of his face. He must have hit the urinal hard. Yeah, pride.

Karma come quicker... they saw me. $%&! Black-coat – Detective M. Bridgers, now I could see the badge – asked me my name, which I gave over without thinking. "Jorge Busche."

Detective Bridgers gave me a questioning look, but he also nodded, accepting the name. Enola Gay, behind him, was glaring daggers at me. "Sorry about the behavior of my underling, he's hot-blooded at times. And he's not supposed to be drunk on-duty, ever. Which he was." I think I almost had a heart attack. At the least, it jumped three feet out of my chest before landing like a hydrogen bomb. I wasn't going to be put away for life? "However, you did assault him, so I'm going to have to hold you." And I thought I was going to steal his pistol and shoot myself. I wasn't free? "Overnight.

* * *

My cellmate's name was Russell. He was a very thin guy, and quite feminine. I could picture him quite at home sitting on a couch in pink lingerie. I swear I could. But, he was an interesting person. To pass the time, he told me of his ex-boyfriends and such over the years, and then I told him of the former-mundanity I called my life, about meeting Melissa, and agreeing to take her to Austin (I also found out we were only slightly outside of Austin, in some small community that didn't matter a hill of beans) and that I had planned to go back home afterwards, and about all the things that hat happened to prevent that from being possible. His jaw just kind of hung for a bit, especially at the point of being held at gunpoint in a bank robbery.

"I was there," his voice was laden with such a lisp that at times you could hardly understand the things he said. "The First Memorial, right?" Yeah. Exactly. "I was hiding on the floor, after the robbery, one of the robbers had thrown his mask over me on his way out. I was scared as $%&!, so I just laid there. One of the security guards, and then the police, restrained me, and brought me here. I tried to tell them I was innocent, but they need a scapegoat. Political $%&!, you understand. Doesn't look good not having a criminal along with a crime scene. Election year, and all that."

He was so nonchalant about it, it was really amazing. He didn't care. I had to know why. Oh god, I just had to ask. "Over 90% of prison life consists of sodomy. Whywouldn'tI want to visit? We can work out the specifics later." Creepy. I decided to sleep with an eye open that night. He didn't touch me.

* * *

I have to get my singular vision checked. I can't see $%&! out of one eye. When I woke, I was lying on a park bench some day, with a letter beside me in a very messy scrawl. All it said was:

Election year, my apologies. Fifty dollars in your pocket. Mistakes look bad. Sorry for the inconvenience.

P.S.: Some pretty girl stopped by looking for a Nathan Sampson that matched your description. I don't know who you gave the false I.D. but if you keep my secret, I'll keep yours.

Signed,

Marty Bridgers

Melissa had been to the station looking for me? Why? She was in Austin, where she wanted to be. Why would she care where I was, now?Women.

Took me awhile to find my bearings. I was closer to the main part of Austin now, than I was in the police shop. About thirty blocks from my hotel. The key was in my back pocket. Taxi!

* * *

At the hotel, I found Melissa. She was inside the room, writing letters to all the precincts in and around Austin, querying if they had a man of average height, average weight, brown hair, and brown eyes, wearing a gray shirt and jeans, by the name of Nathan Sampson. She also had a personal correspondence – someone I didn't know, obviously – who lived in Winterbridge, Austin, wherever that was. I noticed something peculiar, on one of the lines.

...and the $%&! crook had the guts to try and bribe us, so we have a lot of money, to do what we will. I want to see if he'll move in with me. We can find a house, or something. It'll be romantic. ...I'm sure he won't though, hopeless $%&! romantic that I am...

It wasn't the content that shocked me – in fact, it didn't even register untilway later – it was the cursing. I could tell what the individual curse was, but the form of it. I asked her why she did that. "Cursing is so ... vulgar, when it's written. In speech, some times you can't really help it, you lose control of your tongue with anger or whatever, but on paper... you can refrain from it. This gets the point across, but it's not so rude." Made sense. Wait... she wanted me to move in?

"Why?"

"I just told you."

"No, why do you want me to move in?" She blushed.

"Well... it'd be fun." Oh.

"Will you go to the movies with me, Melissa?"

"Uhh... I have a confession. My name is actually Lina. Lina Bridgers." Coincidence. It had to be.

"I'm Jorge. Jorge Busche." She laughed, and we lived happily ever after.

Okay, or not. At the movies, I threw popcorn on her when the movie ended and it was obvious we weren't going to eat any more. She was still sitting down, and I dumped the entire tub onto her lap. Even she enjoyed it, I think. It wasn't completely "happily ever after," we had our problems, but we were able to work through them, together. We didn't lie to each other, again, ever – at least, I didn't. I can't speak for her. I still think I'm in shock, despite being married to her for forty-some-odd years. It just seems so natural, once I got over the initial surprise of her being attracted to me, that I never felt the shock. I always thought the world would freeze for a second when I'd get married, but it still doesn't feel any different. Happily ever after.