Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Get The Hell Out Of Dodge

Why the blue suit?
Different job tonight, he says.
Barney ain't a talker.
He's a glarer.
His eyes of glass stare right through you.
And suddenly you ain't a talker either.
So I wasn't asking anymore questions.
He handed me my own suit, blue.
Blue suits.
We don't wear suits, and we ain't once worn blue.
Put it on, he says, hurry it up.
I don't know nothing about the new job.
And I don't want to know, yet.
Its better not knowing most of the time.
Just get in, get something done, leave.
I came out wearing the blue suit.
Barney grunted.
It'll do, he says.
We climbed into his car.
GTO. Black. Sleek. Sexy.
But we never took this car on a job.
This car was his baby.
And our jobs weren't the atmosphere for normal babying.
I stared out the window, allowing the silence to fill.
His knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel.
That's how he always drove.
Like he was mad at the world.
Jaw clenched, knuckles white.
All I could think of was the siren I left on the stage.
Maybe she liked blue suits.
We ain't coming back, he says.
We ain't what?
Coming back, he says. We're leaving town.
What the fuck for?
I killed the boss, he says.
He just signed my death certificate.
Let's get the hell out of dodge.

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