February 7, 2011

Except for the first few paragraphs of each chapter, I took Dead Ginny off the net in 2005 but if you want to read and/or listen to the sucker for free, click this. Thanks. G.


Gerard Jones

Chapter Nine
Farmer's Market

Okay. So. After our disastrous date, I kept on working at Kinney's until my gorgeous white Lincoln finally fell completely apart on the freeway and I had to get a job I could walk to. The job I got was at Kay-Bee's Toys in the Hillsdale Shopping Center. That was where I was working when Kennedy got shot. Anyone with the faculty of his or her memory intact at the time remembers what he or she was doing the day Kennedy got shot. Myself, what I was doing was I was having lunch with Ralph Wood in Farmer's Market. Farmer's Market is what they called the food court in the Hillsdale Mall. We were over by La Fiesta, the Mexican food concession. Ralph was drinking a cup of strong black coffee. I was scraping the last of a side order of shell macaroni in tomato sauce into a warm, buttered tortilla when we heard the news.

Ralph was tall and skinny and ten years older than everyone. What he did for a living was he was a thief. He looked like a bird. The bones around his temples stuck out. He cocked his head to one side when he listened. Sometimes he cocked his head to one side even when there wasn't anything to listen to, like on the off chance there might be something to listen to, like he was listening for things to listen to. He was nervous and fidgety and had bad teeth and no chin and a long, thin nose that had been broken so many times there wasn't anything left inside to break anymore. It was like Playdough—like, if you squashed his nose over to one side it would pretty much just stay there. He wore thick glasses with thick black rims which, when they got broken, as they often did, he taped back together again with black electrical tape, or, in a pinch, with flesh colored Band-Aids. And the way he slicked back his hair was the last straw. His hair was black and spiky and, no matter how hard he tried to keep it slicked back, always seemed to be trying to stick up in a ridge across the top of his scalp. He was a bird; an angry, intense, paranoid schizophrenic scavenger bird of some sort—a raven, say, or a buzzard, with watery, magnified, red-rimmed eyes that always seemed about to pop out of their sockets.

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Gerard Jones
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