Neon lights reflected off wet pavement. There’s something about it that puts me in mind of a noir detective novel. All I need is a trench coat, fedora and an office in a sketchy walk-up with my name painted on frosted glass.
I can imagine it now. Working late into the night, banging away on a clattery old typewriter, when a potential client knocks on the door. They come in, and tell me their problem. It’s the usual situation. They’ve got farmland, but they can’t farm it themselves. Can I help them find a farmer? I don’t really know, but they won’t take no for an answer. So they furtively hand over a piece of paper with an ad, and I take it, smooth out the wrinkles, and put it in a stack for the classifieds. They leave, satisfied that they might find what they are looking for.
I return to my typewriter, and pick up where I left off. Someone wants to come to the farmers’ market and has questions. I finish my reply to their letter and put it in my outbox. Next up, the graphics. I love fonts, so even though making signs is not a typical noir detective task, I do it. Seeing my handiwork in neon tubing is reward enough. I run some reports, looking for cases to follow up on, and find a couple good leads. But soon my mind wanders and I take off my fedora. I walk to the window and stare out at the horizon, beyond the neon sky, and know I can’t stay here.
Off the trench coat goes. Running shoes laced up, hair back, I open the door and disappear into the dark night, the only sounds surrounding me the steady rain and the rhythmic pounding of my feet on wet pavement.