verbal gunfights

[henry foster]

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Henry Foster: Offspring of Ida Foster and Lance Murphy. Henry never met Lance, he left Ida after he found out she was two months pregnant. Henry was born on the first day of January, 1977. He was a mistake, which was no secrete but his mother later began to appreciate him once she finally got her head on straight. That wouldn't be until another three years after adding another child to the Foster household. She wasted no time. But the latest arrival caused Ida to change her ways. It was a girl, she named her Claire. It was the only "pretty" name she knew how to spell.

They stayed in Michigan until Henry was eleven, then the four left for New Jersey. No reason at all, just for some broad who stole her heart. Her new found sexuality lasted for all of a five years and she was back in the bed with most of the male race, from truck drivers to lawyers.

But enough about Ida, despite her actions Henry's life was nothing out the ordinary. There was the high school graduation and three months in college before dropping out. There was the age of self discovery, even a poor attempt at marriage. It was followed by the divorce, age 24. The rest were exciting years of being one of New York's finest bachelors. What made him so good? He had three books to his name which makes for quite the pick up line at cafes. He'd try the bars but the women were too drunk to even know what he was talking about. So what's our man doing now? He waits for the right thing for the masses to read. Tale's about his childhood, the great sex with his ex wife. She'd be furious. Or those long states of depression, and those suicide attempts he now laughs at (then tries them again). Two more years and he'd be the big 3-0. Write a few more books and settle down for good. All the greats die before 30. It'd make a good story.

[henry foster]

The night before was uneasy. He woke up drenched in his own sweat from tossing and turning in a room with no AC. There was no need to make a note of calling a maintenance man. Before yawning or stretching, picking up the phone was the first thing he had done for the morning.

"We'll be there around eleven."

It was twelve. He was out the shower, fully clothed and focused on the television. No AC. But not for any longer, he answered the door after a call from outside.

"Hey your door bell don't--"


"You're late. Don't you know I've got a fuckin' life? 'Least I'd like to think that."

"Yo-whoa. Cool it there. I came as fast as I could, you can talk it up with my boss, I'm the wrong person. Business is slow this time of year."

He decided he was nice so he wouldn't get the old guy any more crap. Two was crowd in that inferno, so he'd leave the house.

"Let me trust you, 'ight?"

The man smiled and he shut the wooden door behind him. It was a relief to get away from the sweltering heat, though the weather wasn't much of an improvement. Still, a break was a break. A break was a break and he lit a cigarette right there on his stoop, squinting his eyes at the sun trying to break its way through the clouds and smog. An grim, busy atmosphere yet relaxing at the same time.

His mind took him back to the bookstore--the Starbucks. The brunette at the far left. Had it been any other woman he wouldn't be thinking about her at the moment. She was not any other woman, she was Lia Ramirez.

Bells came jingling up the sidewalk. Some kid came, huffing and puffing on his bike. This was Elliot, no stranger to 5433.

"Henry--a letter. You got somethin'."

The tires on his BMX skid right at the first step. Henry reached down snagging it from his teenage hands.

"When you gonna take that stupid bell off. You look like a moron--" He filled the folded note over, looking for a name.

Henry Foster

"--you look like a moron anyway, but the bell doesn't do you any justice."

He opened it up and skimming across the paper. Words of childhood adventers and other explainations was all there.

--Lia.

"Issac, where'd you get this?"


"Uh, that's Elliot and my partner gave it to me. He got if off some lady at a hotel. Why, what's it say, let me read it."

"No."

"It's from a chick? What's it say, 'lets fuck' ?"

"Yeah..." He scanned over it again for any missing parts.

"Man, is she intellectual or something to send you a letter? I mean, you know. She must be ugly only ugly girls have that much time on their--"

"Your pencil, give it to me."

He laid it flat on the concrete scribbling down his phone number, address and 'I remember, Henry.'

The print was wavy and bumpy but she make it out.

"Send this to the Courtyard Marriott. Seventh, seventeenth, whatever. Just take it there, will'ya?"

"But that's all the way--"

"Just do it. You've got nothing better to do."

"Gas money, give me some."

"You're on a bike."

"Okay."

He threw him a five.

"Here. Take it now, don't read it."

Elliot rode off into the swarm of people. The letter called for another cigarette.

[henry foster]

The smell of outdoors said it all, he'd been golfing. The day hadn't promised sunshine so he'd take advantage of what good mother nature had to offer and spend a few hours at the driving range. Ten dollars bought him twenty buckets of balls and he launched out each and every one into the grass fields.

Eleven o'clock rolled by and an overcast sky was beginning to form. By then he was making his way up the steps, carrying two woods and an iron.

The answering machine had three new messages; one from the bill collector and two from the ex wife.

2. "Henry, we've gotta talk."

The third was more in depth.

"Henry, we've gotta talk. Call me as soon as you can."

He'd give it a day or two before even thinking to respond. His attention was all on the note from yesterday, signed Lia. What was the girl doing with herself? She want comapany? He did.

No call to the cellphone, never liked to plan things out. Just a few lines stating 'your place or mine? -Henry'

Those bells came ringing from outside. He'd tell Elliot to drop it off. The kid had nothing better to do.

[henry foster]

He was going to make it short and snappy. He was going to save explainations until he met her in person. It was all a mess and far too difficult to understand over the phone or by email, or by letter.

Then again, keeping it a secret would be best for the both of them. Run away from the problems, it's how he operated.

In most cases, he'd never, ever take a trip out to Utah. However, he just so happened to be on the leftside of America (because of the emergency) and paying her a small visit was the least he could do.

"Hello?"

"Lia." Through all the chaos he managed to pull up her number and give her a call.

"No, Debra."

There was a pause, he found himself breathing heavily at the fear that he had possibly dialed the wrong number. No other options rested in his memory.

"Can I speak to Lia Ramirez?"

"No, she's sleep. You should be too, it's late."

It wasn't working out, the person on the other end had the maturity level of a ten year old.

"Fine. Can you tell her I called, Henry Foster. Better yet, can you tell me where she's staying?"

"Oh. You're Henry?" she asked in a dry tone.

"Don't sound so excited."

He listened to her give him the directions, realizing it was a bad idea because women weren't good a giving directions. Once she finished giving telling all about the useless landmarks and whatnot, she finished it with some kind of insult that would sit on his stomach the rest of the night.

"I know about you, Foster. I'm not a reader but I know about you and I've read your books. I don't like them. There's a lot I can say but I won't because it's late. In a nutshell, I don't think you're a very good man and you should leave Lia alone. Don't waste her time.

It was not the first time he had heard that.

"Thank you."