Get With The Program
It was the kind of heat that falls off your face, and makes a small lake inside your shoes. It was the kind of heat that made you pray a stranger would piss on you just to put out the fire. Joseph Pinkman sucked a ice cube and sized up the newest nominee for a 'luxury vehicle' at Ace Double Down Car Dealers. He could tell this guy was skeptical of salesmen just by the way he winced whenever he could feel someone was coming close to him, like he had a personal space bubble the size of a football field. The cagey looking, well built man twitched at every foreign breeze, and even looked like a prickly pear with his muscle bound shape, all puffed up, green at the gills, and plugged in to the wind. Pinkman spat his cube into the Arizona dust, and started in his direction, determined to crack the shell of this hardball like a veteran locksmith. He slipped in right behind the man like a thief, and tapped on his shoulder. The tough customer whipped around and threw a testy glare immediately onto Pinkman's considerably smaller frame, and recoiled. A bloody vein bulged in his right eyeball as he puffed himself up to his full height.
"Can I help you with something, Mack?"
"Just wondering if I can saddle you up with one of these sweet looking rides that you've obviously got your eyes on. I can tell a man with fine taste from a mile away, and you got it, friend. How's about I get you the kind of deal that you can write home to your Momma about? What do you say bud, are you ready to 'Double Down'?"
"You got the wrong idea, buddy. I ain't looking to buy any of these here shit boxes. I'm here to give you this from your wife."
The big gorilla shoved divorce papers in Pinkman's chest with a grunt and a thrust, and then immediately lumbered off. Still stung, Pinkman stared after the thug making his exit. The sun bled from the sky as the paper pusher sped off, disappearing up the hill on Douglas Street. Pinkman's view of his ascent was marred by the powerlines criss-crossing, and making a grid across the horizon, chopping the sky into varied appetizers for Pinkman's eyes. These samplings of the landscape were unsatisfying, so Pinkman returned to the business of selling cars, which was a business slowly drawing to an end.
Pinkman was sore from the disappointing day, and worse yet, he knew it wasn't over. Thankfully, this molten rock town that seared his soul was finally cooling down. Unfortunately, Pinkman knew there were other wounds buried deeper then the surface. Lise was waiting for him at her usual space, Pinkman was fucking sure of it. She wanted him to work for her again. To give her the contacts. Pinkman wanted more then anything for her to not be there on that fateful corner, but he knew sure as shit that she would be. She was his partner in crime. The Ying to his Yang. More disturbing than all of that, she was dead as a doornail. She had been for three years now. Try telling her that though. It was tough when she'd just come right up to him like it was last week that they had done a burn on an elderly lady, taking her for all her pension, and ready to get cracking once again. Pinkman felt her presence, and knew just what was coming as he approached Atlas street with the trepidation of a prowler with cold feet.
(To Be Continued...)