I’m still on probation. My parole officer reminded me the other day that I still have three weeks before I can live normally again. It’s been pretty hard, but I’m trying to be good. I didn’t know what to do—I mean, I was living the nightmare I’d only heard other guys talk about. You know—the nightmare that happens to you after bankruptcy sets in. I had nowhere to live for about two months during the hot summer. Then a friend came back to town and took me in, but I couldn’t find any kind of job to save my life. Soon, he wasn’t doing too well either and he had to kick me out, because it was all he could do to pay his own rent in that dingy little studio he was living in. I helped out Joe at his newsstand for a bit and saved enough cash to get a room at the Alton Hotel, complete with bugs in the bed and everything. It was miserable, but I’m used to getting treated this way. Joe’s newsstand closed down, he wasn’t making enough there, and real estate moved right in and put a coffee house and a pizza joint there. Once more I was down on my luck. At the diner on Sixth I met this guy who said he had a scheme. I asked him for some more information, he told me to meet him at the Hideaway Bar, and there you have it - Instant jail. This time I’m going to invest some money in real estate myself. I know I’ve got the savvy and the skills. I’m not the smartest guy in the universe, you know? But I’ve got spunk. Move over, Trump, here comes the old killer.
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