Archive for the ‘Post 2.9’ Category

Friday, March 23, 12:07 p.m.

I forget about Jack O’Lies. Actively, with effort. Until noon the next day, that is, when the automotive PR firm arrives to collect the awesome Infinity G convertible, $83,000 MSRP.

“Hey,” says the driver, as he fixes to take the best car I’ve ever driven out of my life forever. “Forget this? Is this a driver’s license?”

He retrieves a small card from the dashboard, where I carelessly tossed it last night. He squints at it, then hands it to me.

“You know, you’re not allowed to let anyone but you drive this thing. He didn’t drive it, right?”

I take the driver’s license, glance at Jack’s face and DOB, then say, “He was drunk. I was the designated driver. Sort of.”

I stuff the license into my purse, scurry back to my office, and forget about Jack O’Lies for three hours. When I dig through my purse in search of my wallet to make sure I have the $1.75 bus fare that will get my car-less self home tonight, my fingers brush a set of alien keys.

I pull them out. I discover a Saab car key, a brass house key, and a couple random little keys that probably open bank safe deposit boxes or gym lockers. They’re held together by a silver, oval-shaped fob embossed with a name:

O’Lies

Damn.

I am a car key thief. I’ll be arrested. I’ve never been arrested before. Maybe it would make a good article?

I need to return Jack’s keys ASAP. Oh, and his driver’s license. And whose cigarettes are these?

I get called into meetings. I get drawn into conversations. I take seven phone calls. I reply to thirty-two emails. I forget about Jack O’Lies, his keys, his license, his cancer sticks, and my unintentional thievery.

I take the bus home. I make dinner. I commune with my neglected family. I continue to forget about Jack O’Lies, without effort, until after ten o’clock.

Around 10:15, I wonder…

How did he get into his house?

Did he get into his house?

Is he lying dead of alcohol poisoning in some Ballard gutter?

Did he call the cops and file a report against me for stealing his driver’s license and car/house keys? I’m just guessing here, but it’s probably some kind of felony. Some variety of identity theft.

It’s late. I can’t cart myself down to the hinterlands of Ballard at this hour. Jack, if he’s alive, is probably three sheets to the wind by now, anyway.

I decide that I’ll return his property bright and early tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow afternoon. Late afternoon.

Later, I learn that some time between Thursday night when I left him and early Friday morning, Jack O’Lies may have killed a man with his bare hands.

 

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