Out of Ideas, Out of Time: Chapter 6

A collaborative story

John K Adams
Oct 28 · 3 min read
Pixabay

Out of Ideas, Out of Time

I was getting into this deeper than a French fry in a vat of hot oil. I had to make some choices.

I felt no need to look down the wrong end of that pistol again. Besides, if I spent my time chasing after that lug, who knew down what blind alleys I’d find myself?

On the other hand, he had her notebook. I owed it to her to retrieve that, if nothing else.

And he might know better than I did, where to find this Fayeth chick.

The most important thing though, was where to find some Pepto Bismol? I couldn’t afford to be on the road with my guts stirring like a pot of slumgullion.

While I looked for a pharmacy, I couldn’t stop thinking about that cute picture of K. Fayeth. It wasn’t clear, but were those red earrings, festooning the lobes beneath her luscious curls? Maybe they were a clue. Being red, they couldn’t be turquoise, but that didn’t rule out her cabin being near Four Corners at some time. Sedona is nice this time of year. Maybe her cabin is near there. I love the high desert.

But then it occurred to me, Sedona is in the wrong state. I need to find her in New Mexico, not Arizona! That’s the trouble with those western states, on the map, they all look alike. And why did they have to make them all so big? Why couldn’t I be looking for Ms. Fayeth in a manageable state like Rhode Island? Or Delaware?

Such are not the least of the troubles we gumshoes face.

After downing a bottle of the pink stuff, I felt much better. So I gassed up the Honda and headed west on the I-40. As I drove, I mused about what I would do were I in the state of writer’s block. Coincidence can be valuable, if not over used.

And there is the old chestnut about having someone with a gun walk through the door whenever you get stuck.

Well I was stuck. As it happened, just out of Tucumcari, I saw a hitchhiker with a badly spelled sign indicating he was heading to Albuquerque. I knew him immediately. I pulled to the side of the road and let him run up to me. Only this time I was ready.

It was the creep who pulled a gun on me outside the Coney shop. He pulled open the car door and hopped in, only this time it was me who held the gun.

“Where you going?” I said.

He slammed the door and turned his attitude up to eleven. “Can’t you read, mister?” Then he turned and came face to face with my snub nosed .38.

I told him his sign had a quirky spelling and he started to cry.

“Dry your tears, chump. Hand over your gat and the journal you lifted off me.”

I reminded him of my pistol by pressing it against his forehead. He couldn’t stop blubbering while he fished for the journal and his gun.

He handed them to me and started to wail. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You’re crying because I took your gun?”

“No! You said I was a bad speller!”

“Stop sniveling you idiot. I said it was quirky.”

“That’s the word my mother used.”

“Oh jeez! Shut up. You can tell me about your mother in the next chapter.”

The idiot blew his nose. I pressed my pistol against his chest.

“Listen up, stooge. I need you to sober up and tell me where I can find Fayeth.”

He sniffed. “My sister?”

O. M. G.

“Fayeth. I need to know where the Fayeth chick is. You get me?”

He tried to look like a puppy. “Maybe we can partner up? I’ll tell you everything.”

“Start talking.” I put the Honda in drive. It was time for chapter seven.

Out of Ideas, Out of Time

A place where collaborative stories go to lose momentum and disappear in a tiny dust devil in the middle of the desert.

John K Adams

Written by

A journalist, photographer and blogger. I write to see how memory and language wrestle with reality.

Out of Ideas, Out of Time

A place where collaborative stories go to lose momentum and disappear in a tiny dust devil in the middle of the desert.

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