Pick your risk and take it
Mortimer breathed a heavy breath onto the interior glass of the station wagon he had just broken into. He wrote "la Mort était ici" on the glass with his finger, thinking it more discreet than pissing.
It was bitter outside and he had been sleeping across from the parking lot for the last two days. Nobody had moved the car and the owners neglect warranted the intrusiveness Mortimer deemed necessary for his very survival.
Mortimer also deemed activities such as stealing Armani brief cases from clueless baguette buttering cafe goers necessary for his survival. He never felt the need to justify the frivolous theft, even upon discovery of the lack of value in a stranger's personal business portfolio. Though he did gain a certain amount of joy in thinking of the time it cost his financially bloated victim, and he always caught himself muttering the phrase 'time is money' as he used the papers as fodder for the fire that keeps the cold at bay. That cold always caught up with Mortimer when he finally drifted into the oblivion every night.
Mortimer truly was sleeping in the rusted station wagon as a method of survival, not a mere indulgence for his over inflated contempt of everything better off than him. Besides, he had no intention of stealing the abandoned machinery, he doubted there was even gas in the thing. If Mortimer had wanted to steal the car he wouldn't really have a clue where to start. He had no idea how to hot wire a car, he did however know how to smash a window, and he had the presence of mind to smash the front one so as not to get any glass on his bed of a back seat.
By the time the message he had breathed upon the window was fading Mortimer was doing the same.
He dreamt but the landscapes were barren and not worth mentioning. One thing that surprised both Mortimer and his narrator was the unexpected visitation of the blushing visage of his daughter who's name he is not privy to by order of the domineering parental unit he half-heartedly calls his baby's Momma and whole-heartedly calls a fascist bitch. He met his offspring once while on her way to daycare. He had gone to the house of his former lover with flowery language on his mind and the promise of a job in retail on the horizon. The language was paved over with what could only be described as a parking lot of incredulity as he saw a shy apple blossom cowering behind her mothers stern presence. Her cheeks glowed in harmony with her strawberry blonde hair, sunlight illuminating uncombed wisps forming an undeniable halo. Mortimer hadn't said one word that day, and before he could really comprehend the experience he was back on a bus heading east. He remembered squinting into the sun and wishing he had been traveling west.
The job fell through as things tend to and the restraining order actually held some bearing in Mortimer's mind as they tend not to in the domes of the less civil.
Mortimer believed deep in his heart that he still had manners though the contradiction didn't occur to him as he swept the broken glass from the center console of the station wagon upon waking.
He wondered how he had let her steal into his consciousness after so much training to keep the thought of her at bay. Mortimer was not fool enough to turn to drink or drugs and he knew full well depression was a homeless man's death sentence, instead he survived with an unchecked confidence in his upbringing that he held above any man's position in life. He thought of himself as a nomad and he embraced nothing but the waterlogged concept of self-respect.
When he was finished his superficial cleaning job of his mobile bunk he peered into the rear view mirror and gave himself a wink and climbed wearily from the car.
The morning was getting warmer but Mortimer still shoved his hands into his pocket as he spit. He thought of a knight spitting on a shield then rubbing it in for polish before saddling up for nowhere. Mortimer squinted as he walked into the warmth of the rising sun not even considering the comfortable view behind him. There were men that walked East and men that walked West; Mortimer had accepted who he was a long time ago so he left that station wagon that held the inviting concept that startled him gently in moments of weakness. He closed his eyes to the sun and the orange glow that washed through his lids embodied the coal's heat he was trying to outrun. He told himself that he could outrun her, no matter how much she had grown she would still have tiny legs in his world.
It was bitter outside and he had been sleeping across from the parking lot for the last two days. Nobody had moved the car and the owners neglect warranted the intrusiveness Mortimer deemed necessary for his very survival.
Mortimer also deemed activities such as stealing Armani brief cases from clueless baguette buttering cafe goers necessary for his survival. He never felt the need to justify the frivolous theft, even upon discovery of the lack of value in a stranger's personal business portfolio. Though he did gain a certain amount of joy in thinking of the time it cost his financially bloated victim, and he always caught himself muttering the phrase 'time is money' as he used the papers as fodder for the fire that keeps the cold at bay. That cold always caught up with Mortimer when he finally drifted into the oblivion every night.
Mortimer truly was sleeping in the rusted station wagon as a method of survival, not a mere indulgence for his over inflated contempt of everything better off than him. Besides, he had no intention of stealing the abandoned machinery, he doubted there was even gas in the thing. If Mortimer had wanted to steal the car he wouldn't really have a clue where to start. He had no idea how to hot wire a car, he did however know how to smash a window, and he had the presence of mind to smash the front one so as not to get any glass on his bed of a back seat.
By the time the message he had breathed upon the window was fading Mortimer was doing the same.
He dreamt but the landscapes were barren and not worth mentioning. One thing that surprised both Mortimer and his narrator was the unexpected visitation of the blushing visage of his daughter who's name he is not privy to by order of the domineering parental unit he half-heartedly calls his baby's Momma and whole-heartedly calls a fascist bitch. He met his offspring once while on her way to daycare. He had gone to the house of his former lover with flowery language on his mind and the promise of a job in retail on the horizon. The language was paved over with what could only be described as a parking lot of incredulity as he saw a shy apple blossom cowering behind her mothers stern presence. Her cheeks glowed in harmony with her strawberry blonde hair, sunlight illuminating uncombed wisps forming an undeniable halo. Mortimer hadn't said one word that day, and before he could really comprehend the experience he was back on a bus heading east. He remembered squinting into the sun and wishing he had been traveling west.
The job fell through as things tend to and the restraining order actually held some bearing in Mortimer's mind as they tend not to in the domes of the less civil.
Mortimer believed deep in his heart that he still had manners though the contradiction didn't occur to him as he swept the broken glass from the center console of the station wagon upon waking.
He wondered how he had let her steal into his consciousness after so much training to keep the thought of her at bay. Mortimer was not fool enough to turn to drink or drugs and he knew full well depression was a homeless man's death sentence, instead he survived with an unchecked confidence in his upbringing that he held above any man's position in life. He thought of himself as a nomad and he embraced nothing but the waterlogged concept of self-respect.
When he was finished his superficial cleaning job of his mobile bunk he peered into the rear view mirror and gave himself a wink and climbed wearily from the car.
The morning was getting warmer but Mortimer still shoved his hands into his pocket as he spit. He thought of a knight spitting on a shield then rubbing it in for polish before saddling up for nowhere. Mortimer squinted as he walked into the warmth of the rising sun not even considering the comfortable view behind him. There were men that walked East and men that walked West; Mortimer had accepted who he was a long time ago so he left that station wagon that held the inviting concept that startled him gently in moments of weakness. He closed his eyes to the sun and the orange glow that washed through his lids embodied the coal's heat he was trying to outrun. He told himself that he could outrun her, no matter how much she had grown she would still have tiny legs in his world.