Death on the Bridge in Omaha

Greetings, friends. It’s good to see you. Having been in Nebraska for almost 30 years, I  appreciate your company. It’s hard to find kindred spirits here. And Colorado right next door. WTF!

The nutshell recap: in the past three years I’ve written three 420 screenplays: a drama (Ganja Tales); a comedic farce (Southern Bud); and a comedy/satire (The Osipenko File).

What do you think? If I lived in Colorado, would I get all the reading and writing done there that I get done in Omaha? Hmm.

Consider that yesterday I walked to the downtown Omaha library at 6 p.m. It’s about a mile away, takes about 20 minutes. The wind was blowing so hard I had to hold my ball cap on my head; light rain, 60 degrees. Sometimes you don’t know who you’re going to meet on the bridge spanning the railroad tracks below: meth heads, crazy folk, homeless, dinged out; people wearing clown hats riding bicycles, someone dragging a suitcase. You name it.

What would you get done if you lived in a place like Colorado, a place where you could buy legal weed without fear of getting busted? I would like to know. I’ve been smoking crappy illegal weed all my life; the notion of buying killer buds just down the street kind of boggles my mind.

Do you see bizarre things too, like I do? It’s rough where I live. I often think I’ll die on that bridge when some crazy person stabs me. It’s a long bridge, and you can see them in the distance coming for you, coming straight at you. And you’re suspended in the sky on a bridge, as if in a dream … the wind and the sky. And you have to cross paths with that person who may kill you.

But anyway, at the library I went straight to the writing section, got a screenwriting book and read it for two hours until 8 p.m. close, then walked home as darkness fell. In bed by 9 p.m. reading another screenwriting book by my bed. Lights out at 10, up at 4:30, writing by 5 a.m. A dog’s life I tell you! Would I do all this if I could, instead of walking to the library, go to a weed shop like in Denver and buy any number of killer dank buds? Doubtful! Ha ha ha!

Discipline. That’s what I need: Red Svetlana (The Osipenko File) lashing me with her whip. Oh she hurts so good!

My whole Ganja Tales screenplay is about a 420 freedom journey. I suppose that’s the journey I dream of making one day – a mad dash for a cannabis-free zone.

I have no idea why you are here, but if you saw through my eyes you would have seen  the woman last night on the bridge coming toward me from a long ways off just after 8 o’clock on my  way home. And she was talking loudly but no one was with her. Talking loudly to nobody and nothing, walking toward me. Gesticulating with her arms. Agitated. Yelling.

She comes abreast and stops. Black hair, dark eyes, broad, almost flat brown face. Peruvian or native American. 

“Hey!” she yells at me. “Got a cigarette?”  

No, I do not. I hold up my hands. Sorry.

She looks at me uncomprehendingly for a moment.

The wind blows and she spins away with it, yelling, striding down the sidewalk held in by the chain link fence on the right and the concrete barrier on the left.

And I have no knife in my belly. So it was a good night, right?

Funny. Just talked to my son and told him the title to this piece. He was a bit incredulous. “Well, that should cheer your readers up!” he exclaimed.

Good. Did my story work? Are you feeling right cheery now?

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