“You have to help me!” she demands, waving panic like a winning lottery ticket. Her vindictive boyfriend let the dog run away. It’ll get hit by a car, eat a poisonous toad, die, if I don’t find it.
Behind her, the needy clamor at my door: manic girlfriend, absent father, broke, anxious, depressed, fed up, listen to me, be my personal Jesus, absorb my pain, replace this chronic rage with peace, trade places forever, pick me up a dozen eggs?
There is no helping those who prey on a mark.
Conquering guilty trepidation, I shut the door.
“Meanie!” they shout.
“I write because a blank page is the perfect, most profound listener.” – the writer