Pulling Teeth, page 8
Carla's pragmatic, but also stubborn. She makes some sense, but she's also cherry-picking details to coincide with her notion of reality. Maybe Leroy wasn't right, but something weird is going on. Marcus somehow got tangled up—
"Go. Now," Carla says.
I take the hard drive and head to the local precinct office. I finger Officer Redding's card, the officer who told us there was nothing he could do. It's grown dark out since we started watching Marcus's videos. I look up at the buildings, at the old brick and fire-escapes. The city has never faded for me. I never take it for granted. It's the graffiti. It's alive, like the city. I can tell when an experienced writer moves through. I can follow his trail, see when he got interrupted, when he had time to do things right. I can tell when a new kid picks up the can for the first time. It's a story told in the present tense.
As I pass the hardware store, looking for new tags, I see a silhouette in the alley, dark against darker. A homeless man stands there, unmoving. I look at him; he looks at me. I nod; he nods. I smile; he smiles. I run;
About the Author
Alan Ryker lives with his wife in Overland Park, a suburb of Kansas City. Check out his many adventures at his blog, Pulling Teeth at www.alanryker.com. Enjoy his most mundane thoughts by following him on twitter: @alanryker. Friend him on Facebook. And contact him at alanjryker@gmail.com.
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Alan Ryker, Pulling Teeth
