One Last Job

Image generated by the author with DALL-E 2.

I reach the address and scan for any red flags. I hate aborting a job once I’ve started, but I don’t take unnecessary risks. Ever. No curtains move in any of the windows with sightlines on 1311 State Street. Everyone is watching TV or fucking. That or they’re not home. Either way, I’m good to go.

I take a closer look at the house. Number 1311 is a rundown bungalow. I guess you could call it white. It’s dingy gray now. It’s two decades overdue for a fresh coat of paint. The shutters are busted, and anyone with a putty knife could break into the house in a few seconds. A rusty El Camino with no wheels sits on cinder blocks in the weeds in the side yard. This is not a happy place. The roof is a mess. Dozens of the Spanish tiles are broken. The ridge is marked by two hefty bags duct-taped in place. Yeah, there’s not a lot of joy here.

Just get in. Do your thing and get out.

I remember this is my last job. I wonder if I ought to do something to commemorate the event.

Are you out of your mind? You’ve played it safe for eleven years, and now, on your last job, you want to change your routine?

That is true. I’ve always avoided risks. The idea of getting caught has zero appeal to me.

I will do this job just like all the others; no need to change things on my last day.