Tourists of the Apocalypse Read Online Free PDF Page B

of the Porsche.
    “The plot thickens,” I whisper as a stunning woman exits the door.
    Tall heels click on the concrete as she moves. An impossibly tight dress, that’s far too short for this neighborhood, leaves little to the imagination. I’m caught staring at her when she looks up and smiles. Unable to muster words, I lift a hand and wave weakly. Where did she come from? She tosses her purse in the car casually. The screen door opens again and the guy leans in the doorway. He’s wearing a tee shirt and faded jeans, his hair looking like he just rolled out of bed.
    “We on for next week?” he calls out.
    “I don’t know. You’re kinda out of my regular service area.”
    To this he shakes his head and chuckles. “Anything I can do about that?”
    She puts a hand on the roof of the car and tilts her head in thought. Even at this distance I can hear her long nails tap on the top of the car. “Throw in a car wash next time and I will waive the delivery fee,” she shoots back in a playful way.
    “Done,” he replies, nodding at her. “Drive safe.”
    “No promises.”
    With this, she bends her long legs at the knees and slowly removes both shoes, tossing them onto the passenger seat. Using a hand to hold her dress against the back of her thigh, she slips gracefully into the yellow piece of rolling art and slams the door. The engine roars to life, breaking the silence of the morning. She backs out of the drive and then whips her car around in the circular dead-end and roars past me. Down the street I see her swerve around Jerry and disappear from sight. I’m so focused on the car that I don’t notice the dude walking to the end of his driveway to gather his morning paper.
    “Hey kid.”
    I turn, startled.
    “Wanna make twenty bucks?”
    I nod, but remain silent.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Dylan,” I sputter, standing up.
    Seemingly unaware of his scruffy appearance, he walks barefoot across the lawn of the un-occupied house between us. His feet rustle in the grass as he comes all the way to the edge of my driveway then pauses, tapping the paper on his thigh.
    “Nice to meet you Dylan. It looks like we’re neighbors now.”
    More nodding from me, unsure what to say.
    “I’m Graham. Are you by chance going be here next Saturday morning?”
    Again I nod, standing frozen on the front steps.
    “I need someone to wash that lady’s car next Saturday morning. You’d have to get out here by seven and have it done by eight. Think you can manage that?”
    “Sure,” I affirm, finally finding my voice.
    “Here,” he grunts, digging in his pocket and coming back with a wadded up handful of bills. “Get some soap, sponges or whatever you need.”
    I walk cautiously down the drive and into the grassy area between houses. He holds out a twenty-dollar bill and wiggles it for me to take. To me it’s a fortune and I hesitate. Who is this guy?
    “Here, take it and get whatever you need. Just do a decent job and I’ll keep you on retainer,” he jokes, but I don’t laugh. “Take it kid, and get yourself a sense of humor while you’re at it.”
    I nod and accept the money. The bill is wadded up, but still like a gold bar to me.
    “Be done before eight and I’ll pay you after the lady goes,” he instructs. “We good?”
    I nod aggressively to show my enthusiasm. My exciting morning is suddenly interrupted by reality. There are no happy endings on Oakmont Street.
    “Get your ass in here,” Jarrod bellows from the porch.
    I was unaware he was listening in the doorway. He stands on the porch in a sweaty wife beater, one arm on the post exposing a hairy armpit. I shuffle back to the front door, glancing over my shoulder once to smile at my new friend. Graham is gazing past me, wearing an unhappy look.
    “You can wash my truck right now you little turd,” he growls, a beer bottle in one hand.
    When I reach the porch, Jarrod is staring at Graham. His bloodshot eyes dilate and his dull expression suggests