As a special treat this week, G.B. Pool will share her short story, Ladies Man, in four parts. Gayle teaches short story construction seminars and on Saturday, April 10th, she will be on a panel of short story authors at the Burbank Library, Buena Vista Branch.
Ladies Man – Part One
Call me Sly. That’s short for Sylvester. I started using the name after I snuck into a movie theater running old Stallone movies. It was just me and a bunch of strays with no place to go. I curled up on a seat and tried to catch forty. Gunshots jolted me from my nap and I decided to watch the flick. Boy, that Stallone could take care of himself. If I could have tied a red rag around my head, I would have called myself Rambo, but Sly’s good enough.
You see, I ran away from home when I was a punk. The mean streets have been my address, on and off, ever since. It’s rough out there. I’ve got the scars to prove it. But I’m tough.
It wasn’t all bad. I lived with this gorgeous showgirl in Las Vegas when I was younger. We both kept late hours, but she never asked me any questions. And I never asked her what she did between shows, so we got along great. I always had enough chow to eat at her place, but I didn’t like being tied down. So one night when she was takin’ out the garbage, I slipped out the back door, snuck aboard a southbound truck, and kissed Vegas goodbye.
I slept most of the way, not really knowing where I’d end up. The driver stopped at a diner somewhere along the freeway. I heard another trucker mention Barstow. That’s when my “chauffer” saw me stretched out in the back of his flatbed and started yelling.
“Hey! Get outta there you no good…”
He threw a rock at me. I’ve had worse. Remember the scars?
I ran down the dusty street, checking out my new digs. If times got lean, I could do some second story work. An open window on a hot night was easy. I’d sneak in, grab a few things, and scat before the owners or their dogs picked up the scent.
Dogs and I don’t get along. I tolerate them… from a distance.
Tune in tomorrow for Part Two!