Jones got out his red typewriter from his case. Sitting on the floor, his letter started,
Dear Dad,
You'd be glad to know I dropped out of college today, you told me yourself, all a writer needs is his eyes and ears and sense enough to use them. Besides, you know I don't play well with the other kids.
After much tapping from typing he typed, Your son, Jones.
He put the letter in his empty case.
Suddenly someone shouting outside his door made him look through his peephole. One of the girls from another apartment had been shouting, maybe through a phone, and she walked out and slammed the door behind her, whispering, 'Asshole!'

Jones looked at where he was. A shop, called Ma Mableys Used Furniture. Old couches lined the walls and chairs and tables took up the floor space. Faint music could be heard in the background.
He approached the counter. The place was desterted. He saw a small bell to ring for service, he did so loudly.
A lady dressed in a pink jogging outfit walked towards him,
'Come in, come in, come in!' She said happily. 'I don't know what it is your after, but you sure have come to the right place!' She was almost scary. Her bleached hair flying everywhere.
'You can call me Ma.' She continued. 'And I am the woman of this place. You I call...?'
'Jones.' Said Jones, shaking her hand awkwardly.

Jones felt the bed. Springy was the first word that came to mind. Ma was standing behind him, talking.
'A happy bed makes for a happy home, Mr.Jones.' She leant down next to him and put her hand on his back.
'You listen to Ma, she speaks the truth.' Her hand slowly made its way down to Jones' ass. He stood up quickly and she pushed him down, face up, onto the bed.

Ma wrote Jones' information down on a slip of paper, saying 'Jones' all the while.
'I once knew a man named Jones. Handsome devil, bit like you. Maybe he was your daddy?' She said half to Jones.
'Phone?' She asked him.
'Oh, I don't have one yet. I'm going to get one.' Jones realised he needed more than just a bed and a sofa.
'Well, as soon as you get one, you let me know.' She stroked his face with the purple feather on the end of her pen.

At that moment, two beefy mean-looking guys walked in.
'Hi, Ma.' They said dreily.
'Oh, boys. This is Mr. Jones. Could you tell him when you can drop his furniture off?' She walked around Jones.
'Be a week at least.' Said the taller of the two.
'At least a week, maybe two.' Said the fatter one.
'Could be two.' The first one said.
'Thats ok.' Jones said, a bit indimidated by thier gruff voices and rippling pectorals.
'No one was asking you.' Jones thought this was a bit rude for them to say to a costumer of their store, and so did Ma.
'Now, off with you. I don't want you talking to my costumers like that!' She pushed them a bit out the door.
'From my second husband.' She explained.


Jones scanned the isles of the small shop. Where was it? he thought. It wasn't that bigger shop, it couldn't be hiding.
Finally he found it.


Budweiser, Stella Artois, Carling and many more beers filled the isle in front of Jones. Big packs or single ones, cans or bottles. Jones picked up a 24 pack of Stella Artois, he brought it to the counter wherea rather large man with no hair was eating what looked like a bacon sandwich. He took one look at Jones, then at the beer.
'Kid, you ain't twenty-one.' Although he was right, Jones proved him wrong.
'22, 23 in December.' He handed the man a fake ID card. He continued, 'My mother, she, er... drowned herself in booze, pills, anything she could get her hands on. I was born ten weeks premature. By the time the doctors discovered the bone disease, it was too late. I've been suffering since before I was born.' He looked down, although laughing inside, people would do anything for a sad story.
'Damn.' Was all the man said.
Another customer walked in the shop, a woman. It was the woman from Jones' building. Jones recognised her red coat. She walked up to the counter.
'Gimme a pack of ciggarettes.' She said to the man.
'I'm just dealing with someone.' He turned to Jones. 'Anything else?'
Jones looked at the woman, why the hell not? 'Pack of ciggarettes.'

The End

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