An Ally in Ester

     To most, Ester is the neighborhood crazy cat lady. To me, she's an ally. When she isn't going off on her pizzagate rants or explaining how Donald Trump is going to make her rich off of Iranian currency, she is watching. Watching how the town moves, and how the town breathes. She sees the trends, the patterns, the abnormalities. She screams to distract, when people react to strangers yelling, for their split second of surprise she can read a person and everything they are feeling and thinking. So, when she yelled at me, hiding behind her doorway, "Jamie, you no good hipster trash" my alert, poised reaction cued her to add "Come here a second" I stare at her, pushing my thick glasses up my nose, before walking up the driveway. When I reach her house her pale face looks a deeper shade of white than I had ever seen before. Her lips an acute shade of purple, scabs encrust her eyes. She pulls me inside.

      I say, "What's going on?"

      She pulls me close "I just saw Herman, Clara Jean, Daniel, Bess, Star, Halle, Annabeth and Lamar go into Alice's." She thinks for a second, canvassing her CCTV footage like mind and adds "Daniel hasn't been in there for years. Something is up, you can smell it in the air"

     She was right. Suddenly the air felt sticky like syrup, oozing, coating my body with a thick film of sweat. A warm breeze caught the sticky air coating my body and nearly pushed me off my feet. "Hear that?" she said.  I heard nothing, all sounds of the busy street were suffocated by the dense air. But then, piercing the syrup air I heard a sound I had heard many months ago, the sound of Mr. Evan's cane smacking the cold tile floor of the Maitland. That's all I remember.

     I woke up at 2:30am that night on the floor of my studio, staring at the biggest canvas I had ever dreamed of creating. On the canvas was a painting of Mr. Evans, with such vivid reality, staring at me, his slight smile seeming to follow me as I came-to. I close my eyes thinking it is some sort of dream. I open them again, Mr. Evans smile has suddenly shifted to a demonic grin, his teeth sharpened to points, his lips a deep shade of purple.

      

Conrad Shmonrad

     I can not believe this. The disrespect. The pure apathy. A man died, and Mr. Maitland wants to sweep it under the sheet and then build on top of it a carnival to distract the masses. That carnival is Conrad, days after Mr. Evans died.   I used to care about ghosts and spirits but times have changed. Everyone used to care about spirits, but now Mr. Maitland is worried about the residents of the Maitland, not because it was a traumatic experience, but because he's worried about his bottom line. Depressed people might move to be less sad and moving people means less $$$ for Mr. "Moneybags" Maitland. So, what does Maitland do? Does he honor the death with a memorial? No. He hires another pandering-country-artist to come in and distract the residents. AND THE WORST PART IS: IT'S WORKING. People are excited to distract their goldfish-like attention spans. There is a real murmur of excitement in the Maitland for the concert.  Mr. Maitland has turned a conversation that should be about how a man died in HIS parking garage, where he could culpable for negligence, and turned it into a celebration.
      The worst part is, when I scheduled a haul to the Maitland on my way back from Vegas, I unknowingly picked up the trailer carrying the stage and set for the concert. I am an accessory to to this serial distraction of the masses happening here in the Maitland. In my trailer is Conrad's guitar, I am to give the guitar to Friedrich. It would be a shame if something happened to it.... But no. That is not my job. That guitar alone is worth more than my rent for years. They would know that I was the last person responsible and the guitar would ultimately be my liability. But, I'll keep them waiting.
 I might stop off at the rest stop and suddenly feel inspired to paint, I'll paint a chalky portrait of Conrad, with the word SOMA* stamped across his face. Then he'll finally look like the pill he is.


*This might be worth a Google, you sheep.