Bruce's longing to succeed as a freelance journalist hovered about him like a stink. His work at the PR agency paid the bills, usually, and his occasional celebrity grip-and-grin shot looked good on the wall, but . . .
"But what?" he thought. "You get up, you take your medicine, you get on with it. 'Take care of business' as Elvis used to say (and paint on his plane). What else is there?"
Bruce was like every other wannabe creative in the little artists' colony corner of this city, and like the city itself: blighted and in recession. And that thought disgusted him.
Maybe everyone thought they had a secret, but Bruce had a doozy of one. Bruce had known that there was something odd about him, from that moment when he had been able to reclaim the entirety of the spilled contents of his portfolio from the North Station trolley stop. It had been three or four winters ago. Although the sleet was blowing around in the second-floor station, he had had a sense of where every single scrap had blown to. Dozens of pages, and 37 receipts. In the space of three trolleys passing through he had recovered them all.
But Terry, his girl, would have none of it. "Stop it. It's just another plot premise, for another story you'll never finish. I'm sorry, hon'."
Chris, his partner at the "orphanage" as they called the agency's offices, simply refused to wrap his mind around it. "Archer and Spade," he said, as if that explained anything. "That doesn't augur a great prospect for you," Bruce answered. He liked Chris, but he knew his partner wouldn't be taking prizes at the State Fair any time soon.
That was the morning some fool left a basket of puppies on their front door, and ran off before they could catch him.
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