Where do you get your ideas from?
Good writers have incredible childhoods. They have all sorts of stories about growing up and the adventures they had continuing on through adulthood. Every day there are exciting things to write about. I envy them. Ever since I was a child I wanted to be a writer and write stories that everyone would flock to and read. My problem was my parents never told stories; their lives were boring. As to my youth and growing up, it can be summed up in one word, “insipid”.
So here I am at 6 o’clock on a Thursday evening bemoaning my fate, as usual, while riding the bus back to my shack of a home, the bus starting to fill up, and wondering as usual will I ever get inspiration for a story.
It was standing room only on this trip home. Most of the people on the bus were either looking at their phones or zoning out with earbuds on. Sitting next to me was a fashionably attired, older businessman, looking a bit nervous. I can only describe the person standing over both of us as a shoddily dressed, unkempt thug. He seemed to be addressing the businessman.
“So youse got the money?” the shoddy man spoke in a low voice, though loud enough for me to hear.
“Yes,” the man replied. ‘Twenty grand all in low denominations in a briefcase that I left where you told me to. How do I know you won’t just take the money and skip town, without doing what I’m paying you for?”
“Hey!” was the reply, “I’se got my reputation to uphold. Don’t you worry your pretty little suit about it. When I’m done, they won’t even find pieces of da dame.”
“And you’re sure I won’t be implicated? I’ve got a reputation too, not to mention the money I expect to inherit as the only heir left alive.”
The big goon laughed, “Youse ain’t gonna be involved, because youse not the guy they’s gonna be lookin’ for. The knife I use is small and disposable, and even if dey find it, all the fingerprints belong to some other schnook. He won’t even know it’s missing until it’s too late.”
The bus had reached Pennington street, my stop, and I got up to get off when the ruffian brushed into me.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Whatever, youse gonna make sometin’ of it?”
I said nothing and left quietly. That was weird. I went home, had an early dinner, watched some old reruns of MacGyver and went to bed.
Friday morning I woke up, showered, got dressed, grabbed the newspaper, sat down to a bowl of cereal and read the headlines.
———–
INDUSTRIALIST’S WIFE DISAPPEARS. FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED!
Early last night, a dismembered body of a middle-aged adult female was found in a local trash bin outside the Pennington Street bus station. This seems to coincide with the reported disappearance of industrialist T. G. Friday’s wife, Irene. Analysis of the blood samples from the scene appear to match those of Ms. Friday. Also found at the scene was a small pocket knife. Fingerprints were found on the knife as well as bloodstains. It is suggested that this might have be the murder weapon. Police are looking for any clues or witnesses to the crime or whereabouts of Ms. Friday.
———–
After finishing breakfast, I left for work. When I got to the bus stop there was police tape all over the area. All buses were being rerouted; none were going to stop here today. I had to take a cab to work.
On the ride, I thought about all the luck other people have in finding stories. I thought about the news article and the story that would be written by the person who finds the killer. I bet they make a bundle selling that story.
As I left to pay for the cab, I put my hand in my pocket and that’s when I noticed it, or should I say the lack of it. It should have been there! Being a big MacGyver fan, I have kept a pocket knife with me at all times. You never know when you might need one. I only take it out of my pocket pretty much to wash my pants. I frantically searched all my pockets but it wasn’t there. I also noticed a number of police cars in front of my building.
It was the last day of my work week. T.G.I.F was just about to come up with a whole new meaning.
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