i've been writing these little fictional stories. the picture is one i put on the blog long ago, just seemed appropriate.

       Stopping in his tracks and reaching deep into his right pocket Gus pulled out a tattered “to-do” list. He had written the list two months ago and had only achieved checking two things off of it. One being “pay rent to the son of a bitch landlord” and two was “buy beer”. These things always got done but Gus figured it would get the ball rolling on his list, but it hadn’t. It was common for him to be distracted at the end of summer, cool clear mornings and warm toxic sunsets were becoming a trend for late summer in North California and these two things were a fatal combination for Gus and his wrinkled little list. The list was scribbled on the inside of a matchbook cover in faded pencil, there was shit on there like, -rebuild the top end of his shovel-, fix the leak on his bathroom sink, organize parts, alphabetize his records, and last was, have a threesome with two babes. He always put one like that at the end just in case he lost his matchbook “to-do” list, hoping someone would get a good laugh out of it if found, and knowing his chances of having a threesome were slim, on top of that his old lady would cut his pecker off if he did. Gus was a hard worker, but also spent a lot of times helping other people with their problems, whether it was a buddy with a broke down  bike, or a friend that needed an ear during a hard time, Gus was there. Luckily for him he didn’t have a ton of friends due to his own personal highs and lows and his natural ability to call people out on their bullshit, which at times left Gus in what his mexican friend called “the Solo Cholo” way of life. But if someone needed help, the past was usually put to rest. Gus is what could be described as an idealist, he believed things should be a certain way,….. his way. He got easily bored with people, and didn’t relate to most conversation. I guess that’s why most days he could be found talking out loud to his motorcycle or his old dog.         Finally having some down time, he stared at his list. A few lines down he had scribbled “box of shit”, it took him a second but he remembered a while back he had bought some knuckle cases and wishbone frame from an old guy that threw in two old  Black Velvet whisky boxes filled with random parts and junk. 

   The box was on top of about twenty other boxes of random junk, Gus pulled out his trusty old three legged wooden stool, and perched on top of it stretching for the box that was just out of reach, there was ladder in the garage but that meant Gus had to go outside and wiggle the ladder out of all the garage clutter, so he opted to put a nearby brick on top of the stool and balance on that, but still the box was too high, so he grabbed a 2x6 and put it sideways under the brick and on top of the stool. Gus could have gotten the ladder at least two times by now in the amount of time he’d spent stacking crap on his stool, but he took these acts like some sort of challenge and would not fail. So balanced on top of a stool, a 2x6, and a brick, he stood on his right toe reaching for the whisky box, he kind of hopped for it and groaned, then let out a strange grunt, teetering tip toe, the stool started to shake, and he grabbed the box with one hand sliding off the others, but the stool simultaneously broke loose and Gus came crashing down pulling the box to his chest like a football player catches a ball. His ass landed hard on the corner of an old television, boxes rained down on him and lastly a steel christmas tree stand hit him square in his skull delivering a flash off white to his eyes and a burning sensation to his head, “mother fucker” Gus shouted! Then the room became still and quiet and his dog ran straight at him as if the dogs name was “mother fucker”. Pouncing into the air the dog leaped onto Gus and more boxes came piling down. The dog eagerly licked Gus’s face, and Gus began too squirm out from the volcano of fallen boxes. “Stop it you crazy fucker” Gus said to his pooch, as he rubbed his throbbing head.“This is how they’ll find my dead body”  he mumbled to his dog half pissed off, half amused by the scene that had just occurred. 

    Now standing,box in hand, Gus raised his free hand and pushed his disheveled  hair back, then pulled at the waist of his jeans and aimed his ass for a plastic milk crate, sitting down with a moan, he placed the box between his legs and pulled at the two flaps to flip open the top of the box.