Spokane remained one of the few cities left to live out the original American dream, complete with chivalrous cowboys and fast-food fed women who wanted to stay home and raise white children. That was boring.
If I stayed in Spokane, the slickest job I could get would be selling last year’s shoes in the basement of Nordstrom’s, with the promise of moving up to the main floor after five years if I kissed the right asses. I had done enough of that. I was convinced that the proverb about money not buying happiness was written by a rich guy who didn’t want you to feel bad because you didn’t have any. This way you’d stay working for him in the same silly job forever.
Don’t get me wrong, Spokane had plenty of fun up its sleeve and more than its share of crazies to startle you from time to time. Like two summers ago, when a crazy vet chopped up one of the town’s seven hookers from East Sprague and buried her inside his wife’s pink Samsonite in his backyard. He might have even gotten away with it if his German shepherd hadn’t dug up the suitcase while his wife was having the neighbor ladies over for happy hour.
Speaking of happy hour, if I could just get the hell out of here, I could make it down to my Cousin Barb’s house in Medford before sundown for a free place to crash. That was the halfway point to my new life. California was the place to be because, as near as I could tell, New York was filled with a bunch of Roseanne Roseanna Dannas.
But I had just one last errand this morning before I got on my way. Mrs. Pohlkiss still owed me 250 bucks. I wish I could just let the old bitch keep it and never have to see her again, but that was almost half my cash, and I heard one drink in a bar down there costs as much as a twelve-pack of Rain Dogs.