Free ideas for the taking.
Gene, a new writer friend, reminded me about the world's longest yard sale along highway 127 this weekend. In the past I thought, 'What a great event along which to set a novel." But I've had troubles coming up with a plot for it. What would you write with this event as a backdrop or metaphor for life?
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I'd have a story of escalating violence as a pair of methheads on a four day binge cruise the 127 looking for a mythical drug heaven and finding debatable clues about it in the stuff they buy, sell, and steal as they head south on 127. I, of course, am the agent of their demise, but not without a twist about the Heaven they seek and what drives me to catch them.
- Detective Roger Stark
I bought some 8-track tapes just to look at her for another minute or 2...the sunlight wouldn't stop staring at her curves.
I hadn't a thing anyone would desire but desire. But I had a warehouse full of that.
She didn't look me in the eye, but didn't move away when she gave me my change.
I figured she had heard it all before, so I just wrote her a note and walked away.
The phone rang an hour later.
"Yard Sale Trouble"
I took one look, and I knew he was trouble. The tee-shirt was too tight and the suit coat over it too large. The small bulge in the left pocket of the well-worn blue jeans told me he was packing. His hair was a retro-ducktail, Fonzi on steroids, and when he turned around, I fought the urge to stare at the patch covering the left eye. Lorraine picked a fine day to make me leave my .38 special at home. "It's undignified." She was a goddess until she spoke with that nasal voice. That's why I kissed her hard, often, and long. His one-eyed stare focused somewhere over my shoulder, as he reached behind him with the one good hand. All I had was a Zippo lighter and a big belt buckle. MacGyver could make it happen, but not me. "Hey, girlie," he said with a voice so low it croaked like a bullfrog with a cold. Here it comes I thought. His hand came front. "Great deal on noir books, eh." His smile went from ear-to-ear, staring past me with the one good eye. "Yeah," I said, trying to distract him. He latched onto Lorraine like an octopus. Lorraine squealed, "Cousin Larry." They hadn't seen each other in years. He stayed glued to one side; Lorraine to the other. They talked the entire length of the 127 yard sale, and I wished more than ever I'd brought my gun. Yeah, he was trouble.
- Detective Roger Stark
The fake I.D. was okay, not great, so I used it only at tables where the guy or girl behind the counter didn't act like a professional shopkeep.
There were plenty of them, too. More than enough for what I had in mind. On less then a mile of Highway 127, I managed to pick up three government-issue Colt .45s, a Remington over-and-under 12 gauge, and a sneaky, little one-shot .22 that disappeared in the palm of my hand.
If Barb and her new husband didn't feel like negotiating, I was ready for a war.
The detritus of so many lives was laid out before the hot Arizona sun. Who needed a time capsule when you had yard sales? Mona considered just driving past to her destination in the city but she could not resist the lure of so many lives whispering, "Come find me. I'm lost. I'm yours."
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