Read Online We Will Be Crashing Shortly by Hollis Gillespie - Free Book Online
Authors: Hollis Gillespie
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so I can look busy while I’m ignoring all the customers in line at the DMV,” Anita said.
“You’d make a good flight attendant,” Flo complimented her. “Ignoring customers is my specialty. I don’t even bother to look busy while I do it.”
Both women laughed while Flo wiped the soiled stamp onto a napkin to set aside and continued her task. “Found something . . . it’s a dime. Ooh, here’s something . . . looks like the ear pad off a set of headphones. Okay, what’s this? I think it’s a button . . . yep, button . . .”
Roundtree had approached and retreated so many times during this interlude that it almost looked like he was walking in circles. His radio continued to crackle softly. I had no idea which station he was playing, but whatever it was I kept thinking I heard my name.
“Scooter, what’s with your radio? Can’t you get any tunes?” asked Flo.
“It’s a police radio, Flo,” he said impatiently.
“Wait, what?” I said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I use it for work,” he said.
“You’re an entertainment blogger,” I said. “Why would you need a police radio?”
“I have my aspirations, you know,” he said petulantly. “I don’t want to always be writing about drunk-driving celebrities and poorly behaved heiresses and whatnot.”
Poorly behaved heiress? I would have been rankled if I didn’t suddenly feel bad for him. Who aspires to be a real journalist anymore? I thought. You may as well set your sights on becoming a chimney sweep or something. Sure, some probably still exist, but it’s not like there’s an overwhelming market for them these days, what with bloggers doing the job for free and no one giving a crap about the truth anymore. Flo often commiserated with me on the state of the news media.
“Ain’t no such thing as journalism anymore,” she would grumble, making sure to blow the smoke from her menthol away from my face. “These days it’s just a bunch of baboons bloviating on the Internet. They should all go to the Middle East and get their heads whacked off like respectable reporters.”
I peered at Roundtree from a distance and suddenly it occurred to me—the suit, the goatee, the comb-over, the gas-guzzling throwback for a vehicle; Roundtree was the epitome of old school. Even his name, “Roundtree,” like a character in a Dickens novel. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made it up as a pseudonym for future novels. It occurred to me he hadn’t asked a single paparazzi-type question this whole evening. In fact it appeared as though he were doing his best to keep from interfering with events as they transpired, like he literally handed over the wheel to us and took a backseat to better be an objective recorder of events. Begrudgingly I realized it couldn’t hurt to have someone like him on our side. Still, though, he did nickname me “Crash” and the moniker stuck. He was far from getting a free pass in my book.
I decided to keep my mouth shut and continued to crane my ear toward his radio. Flo and Anita discerned that all foreign objects had been effectively ejected from Trixi’s anus, so Anita gathered everything and headed back to Kroger to use the bathroom to toss the excrement and wash off the contraband.
“There it is again,” I said, pointing to the radio.
“What?” asked Flo.
“I swore I heard my name.”
Roundtree hurried over and reached through the driver’s side window to turn up the radio.
Attention all cars in Fulton County, the dispatcher buzzed, again, be on the lookout for a female subject, approximately 16 years old, five feet ten inches tall, long brown hair, khaki cargo pants and brown hooded sweatshirt. She was last seen in the Milton Parkway area and is wanted for questioning in connection with a possible murder, home invasion, and arson. Two witnesses report she was seen entering the residence of one Morton Colgate at 801 Milton Chase Way in the Milton Chase subdivision of Alpharetta. The subject’s name
“You’d make a good flight attendant,” Flo complimented her. “Ignoring customers is my specialty. I don’t even bother to look busy while I do it.”
Both women laughed while Flo wiped the soiled stamp onto a napkin to set aside and continued her task. “Found something . . . it’s a dime. Ooh, here’s something . . . looks like the ear pad off a set of headphones. Okay, what’s this? I think it’s a button . . . yep, button . . .”
Roundtree had approached and retreated so many times during this interlude that it almost looked like he was walking in circles. His radio continued to crackle softly. I had no idea which station he was playing, but whatever it was I kept thinking I heard my name.
“Scooter, what’s with your radio? Can’t you get any tunes?” asked Flo.
“It’s a police radio, Flo,” he said impatiently.
“Wait, what?” I said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I use it for work,” he said.
“You’re an entertainment blogger,” I said. “Why would you need a police radio?”
“I have my aspirations, you know,” he said petulantly. “I don’t want to always be writing about drunk-driving celebrities and poorly behaved heiresses and whatnot.”
Poorly behaved heiress? I would have been rankled if I didn’t suddenly feel bad for him. Who aspires to be a real journalist anymore? I thought. You may as well set your sights on becoming a chimney sweep or something. Sure, some probably still exist, but it’s not like there’s an overwhelming market for them these days, what with bloggers doing the job for free and no one giving a crap about the truth anymore. Flo often commiserated with me on the state of the news media.
“Ain’t no such thing as journalism anymore,” she would grumble, making sure to blow the smoke from her menthol away from my face. “These days it’s just a bunch of baboons bloviating on the Internet. They should all go to the Middle East and get their heads whacked off like respectable reporters.”
I peered at Roundtree from a distance and suddenly it occurred to me—the suit, the goatee, the comb-over, the gas-guzzling throwback for a vehicle; Roundtree was the epitome of old school. Even his name, “Roundtree,” like a character in a Dickens novel. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made it up as a pseudonym for future novels. It occurred to me he hadn’t asked a single paparazzi-type question this whole evening. In fact it appeared as though he were doing his best to keep from interfering with events as they transpired, like he literally handed over the wheel to us and took a backseat to better be an objective recorder of events. Begrudgingly I realized it couldn’t hurt to have someone like him on our side. Still, though, he did nickname me “Crash” and the moniker stuck. He was far from getting a free pass in my book.
I decided to keep my mouth shut and continued to crane my ear toward his radio. Flo and Anita discerned that all foreign objects had been effectively ejected from Trixi’s anus, so Anita gathered everything and headed back to Kroger to use the bathroom to toss the excrement and wash off the contraband.
“There it is again,” I said, pointing to the radio.
“What?” asked Flo.
“I swore I heard my name.”
Roundtree hurried over and reached through the driver’s side window to turn up the radio.
Attention all cars in Fulton County, the dispatcher buzzed, again, be on the lookout for a female subject, approximately 16 years old, five feet ten inches tall, long brown hair, khaki cargo pants and brown hooded sweatshirt. She was last seen in the Milton Parkway area and is wanted for questioning in connection with a possible murder, home invasion, and arson. Two witnesses report she was seen entering the residence of one Morton Colgate at 801 Milton Chase Way in the Milton Chase subdivision of Alpharetta. The subject’s name
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