Morgan oompahed the last note on his tuba and sighed a long breath. When he’d recovered, he shrugged the beast off his shoulder and dropped it in the waiting case.
With any kind of luck, he’d never have to play the miserable thing again. He stared at its brassiness a long time, focusing his eyes on the ivory topped fingerings and realized it
might actually be worth some money. He needed some money. Was it time to get
rid of this brassy fart-maker, or should he hold on for a while?
Well, it all depended. She’d said she would return just as soon as…well, okay maybe she'd said it was when hell froze over. Still...
She hadn’t really meant it, he told himself again. He looked across the living room and saw the nearly dead soldier of whiskey, uh, breathing. He’d been using the medicinal powers of Dr. Beam quite a bit lately…while he waited for her to come back, maybe with bag of groceries from Thompson’s, or somewhere else, maybe with a new CD or something.
It had been three months, okay four, so maybe…maybe she wasn't....
Why in the world had he promised her he would keep practicing? His eyes drifted over to the bottle again. Oh yeah, that might have had something to do with it.
As his ears started to un-ring, he began to pick up the road noise outside. Someone was hollering, sounded like Mrs. Klendle screaming at Jimmy, “You come in the house this instant!”
Morgan knew Jimmy. It would take a lot more bellowing with ever higher pitch before Jimmy showed. The little red-haired punk seemed to know just the right frequency that had to be answered.
A “thub – thub – thub” sounded from overhead. What the heck?
Then the boxer hitting the heavy bag turned into a heavy duty blender. Morgan went to the window and looked up. The helicopter hovered over the street for a moment – had Mrs. Kendle sent out the troops to track down Jimmy? But it buzzed off and was swallowed by the darkening air.
Morgan suddenly felt hungry. There was some garbage in the fridge, but he didn’t feel like it, so he grabbed his light tan coat, turned the dial on the door lock as he pulled it closed behind him.
On the street the building shadows were cooling the mustiness and he zipped up. On a whim, he turned left. What was down there? His mind began google-earthing. Hmph, Tracy’s, a few blocks further, The Corner, and of course, some grease-ball joints.
He wasn’t really in the mood for any of those – wasn’t in the mood for much – maybe his 100 proof medicine.
But then he saw the roach coach. That was weird. Didn't see them around here much. He suddenly felt like a burrito. He crossed against the non-existent traffic and saw they were indeed vending their wares.
Hmm, what to get. The plastic wrapped pop-up-window menu showed the same stuff as always, so he just angled up to the window.
“Beef burrito and a…” he started, but then stopped. Inside, leaning out with mild interest was the heroine of all the cowboy movies he had ever seen. Deep black hair, deep dark eyes and a shape that would make a cowboy forget about the deer and the antelope playing.
“Yes, senor?” she smiled, “…to drink?”
But the flash of her pearly whites had blinded him.
He stuck his hand up thru the window, “Hi, I’m Morgan…will you marry me?”
She grinned, but…
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