Synopsis "Flower Street Melodramas: Blades, Blonds, and Lotsa Bravado (in English)"
BLADES: Carl flashed a switchblade in the moonlight. "Come on. Gimme your wallet. Jimmy, get it." "Me? I ain't sticking my hand..." "Jimmy!" "Okay okay." Jimmy dug into the 'ol man's back pocket, "Got it," and held it up. Carl glared at the 'ol man, took his knife and slashed... (A Lousy Two Bucks) *** "All I'm asking is ten, fifteen minutes of your time. Your chopping expertise, that's what we're after. We thought maybe you could help us." "Right now?" "Shouldn't take long. All we want you to do is chop up a...carcass...for us. It's just too big to fit into our refrigerator in the basement at home. We're thinking, ten plastic bags. That's all were asking. And we'll pay. Two grand. In cash. Interested, Jimmy?" (Little is Better) BLONDS: It hit me full force as I pushed through the glass doors. A blinding light, the sun. Well, two suns actually. Searchlights, like a Hollywood Premier, instant seduction. Long, lithe, and naked, right there in the open, pulling me inside. An electric surge shot through my body. A hot wind hit me in the face. The place was on fire. (Coffee Shop Rhapsody) *** "Go ahead. Get what you want. We didn't mean anything." "I'm literally a drudge before my morning coffee. You're nice, but no. I'm in a rush, so..." She lowers her head, and asks, "Are you here in the morning?" Bud nods. "Most mornings, yeah." She smiles, a small wave with her wrist, turns away, and moves away, up in line. "Maybe next time?" (The Grass is Greener) LOTSA BRAVADO: "So, you coming?" he is saying, as I tweezer the phone out of the chicken gravy, and hold it near my ear, hoping the oily drips don't stain my just ironed shirt. "It's at two. Wait, here's Dad. No, wait." I hear 'Baseball' being shouted in the background, by Ian, (7), Evans younger brother. "Yeah, and we're going to a baseball game too!" Then my son John's hesitant voice takes over, "Hi Dad." (Big League Luck in the Minors) *** All eyes are up on the TV above the counter. "Fielding! You'll miss the race." Waving his hand, Stockbroker Bob points to the empty stool at the end. "Number 3, that's Slugger Joe!" '...They're at the gate...' I glance around but I don't see Bunny anywhere. "Where's Bunny?" I ask. (Bunny Gets a Free Ride) *** Charley inches closer. "Charley, no!" I push him away. "Get back! Get back!" (An Inspired Saturday)
