I Have What You’re Looking For
Wellington Leg: From the files of Arthur Murray, Private Eye:
I keep an eye on Rudolfo for two reasons: he’s my landlord with all the genetic mutation that implies, and he’s old, a former Commandante of rebel forces in a South American country too big to mention. His wife Trudy is also getting on in years and, when they fight, which is most of the time, she likes to throw things at her husband. Not that she has a great arm, but Rudolfo is no longer the spry mountain goat of his youth. Objects thrown at in his direction have the luxury of time; he takes a long while to duck.
So I check in most mornings. I live up, they live down in a duplex on Beacon Hill, one of Seattle’s run down close in slums. I live alone except for the amazing spider collection emerging from the basement in kind of a long march toward control of the building. Sure they suffer casualties, but they’re going to win. Everyone acknowledges that.
This morning I woke to a loud crash from below. My girlfriend moved out five years ago and I tip toe around the apartment so as not to wake her. It works, I never wake her up.
After a shower of indeterminate length—when you live alone who keeps track—I dressed for the day. My office is off Pioneer Square above a publishing company that specializes in maps and calendars. I cannot imagine two items rendered more obsolete by the Internet than maps and calendars. Even I know how to use Google Earth. For that matter so does Trudy.
I have an Al Gore souvenir coffee mug. It has a picture of Al holding a salmon. Not holding a salmon, more like he’s presenting the Sockeye as a prize. I take it to mean “I have what you’re looking for.” It’s true if you’re looking for salmon.
I grab my keys and head for the office. I hear doors slamming downstairs and what sounds like a gun shot. I take the stairs two at a time hoping Rudolfo and Trudy are okay.