No Starch Or I'll Shoot

I spotted him right quick, the infamous ex-movie star, ambling across the parking lot of my local strip mall. “Could that be who I think it is?” I asked myself. “Naahhhh. Can’t be!" I took another look. I couldn’t help myself. But don’t you worry your pretty little heads. I was plenty discreet. A lifetime in Hollywood. I’ve perfected the sideways glance. My peripheral vision hasn’t failed me yet when I’m out hunting celebs. Especially the notorious ones. Not to be harsh, but the sunlight was incriminating. He looked old and so did his tattered black cowboy hat. I reckon it was made out of the fakest straw in town. Why else would rays be ricocheting off that cheesy chapeau every which way?


’Course, it might’ve been his shiny silver belt buckle blinding me, instead. I couldn’t help but notice it. There it was, all manly and such, mounted like a giant bull on his belt. I stumbled like a fool, awestruck and briefly sightless, thinking, hell, for a short little dude, he sure looks a heap taller than I expected.


Then I caught a glimpse of his fancy boots and their three-inch heels. Well, that solves that, I said, sauntering toward my environmentally-safe dry cleaners. I had something to collect in there. A few things, in fact. Pair or two of hubby's best slacks. Couple shirts, laundered nice and fresh. No starch. Not a trace.  As I stood there, searching for my ticket, that blasted cowboy moseyed through them doors. I stole another peek and nearly tossed my cookies. Looky who’d followed me in.

He might’ve been fetching something clean. Or dropping off something dirty. Either way, my blood ran cold just knowing we were sharing airspace together. What chilled me were the stories embedded in my soul. The man had done time, doncha know. He’d been acquitted in the criminal trial. The civil one? Oh, they found him guilty, made him cough up some coin. $30 million, to be exact. 

The lady owner, she wasn’t scared a lick. She looked him right in the eye. She didn’t flinch. The man accused of murder? He’d been in once or twice. She’d dealt with his type before. “Thursday okay?” she asked with a smile. “Or do you need it sooner?”  “Better make it Wednesday. You never know when someone’s gonna take a shot at me,” he answered with a wink.

Maybe he didn’t say that. Maybe what he said was, “See ya,” and left the place.  I looked at the gal across the counter: “You know who that was, right?” Dumb question. Dumbest ever. But I had to ask, even though I knew she knew who he was. She had to know. She had no choice. His name was in the computer. “Robert Blake,” she said. “He’s really friendly when he comes in. He cracks jokes.” Crack away, cowboy.  At this point, you got nuthin' to lose but your weird sense of humor.

'Course, the custy behind me had a different take. “He’s so smug! I see him all the time up on Beverly Glen, walking around like he got away with murder! Because he did! What an a - - hole!”  Ah, Beverly Glen, where I once spotted O.J. many moons ago, talkin' up Swiss Army Knives in a store called Yellow Dog. I had my chance to say something then. I had my chance with Blake, too. Two chances, come and gone.  When push comes to shove, I keep my mouth shut. Some things are better left unsaid. And you can quote me on that.