It had been a long day… and "Junkyard Jones, private eye," was almost able to return home. "Junkyard Jones, private eye," was his typical line of introduction to any client of his – of course followed by a firm handshake. The nickname was uttered so often that his mind could not help but think of himself by this name at all times. "Junkyard Jones … Junkyard Jones, is almost finished with another mission," he said in his head with a slightly off-rhythm jingle - something he thought might be suitable to television one day.
A private eye is not a profession suited to being advertised on TV. Anonymity was the best disguise one could dream of. Compromising Jones'' inconspicuousness was something that he could not afford, even if he received a respectable boost to business. Nonetheless, dreams of airing a T.V. commercial abated his pending collapse from boredom. Jones thought himself to be the one destined for the director''s chair even in spite of how unrealistic that might be. He did not care since the whole premise of creating a musical campaign for his private eye business was silly. Beyond the spot being commissioned by a man with poor musical talent, Jones could not afford to even meet with a T.V. executive. The only saving grace from declaring the whole commercial contemplation a waste of time was Jones imagining himself doing something new and exciting.
Jones had little left to do today in terms of business requirements. The only matter left was concluding his services with a client. Jones was certain of when his surveillance would be finished. It was an appointment he had set long before in the hope that his work would be concluded today at the very latest. Despite having completed all of his obligations successfully, the meeting was not arriving quickly enough. Jones was not eager to receive any praise for fulfilling the requirements. All he desired was the money and, more importantly, a conclusion to his work.
Despite sensible scheduling, Jones sincerely regretted his lack of clairvoyance. He had little appetite for work these days, but his experience always told him that it was best to give a comfy window of error. He prioritized a job done right, no matter how hard that was to do sometimes. The thought crossed his mind of quitting a fair few times during this case. Jones only found the will to continue on through it being the easier option than giving up prematurely. To somehow locate a phone booth, find his client''s number, and then to offer his apologies for giving up on the job he had agreed to seemed like such a chore.
This appointment was to mark the end of a long stretch of cases. A grueling succession was something Jones rarely would take upon, but having been in the red brought about sufficient motivation to keep going. What seemed like an endless stream of divorce cases over the past two months had made Jones'' bank account appear healthy once more. Bills were no longer such a dreadful sight in the mail. Although in the past week, whenever Jones had received the post, he was exhausted. They were becoming slight bothers that needed to be resolved through the attention of a checkbook. A long time ago, towards the beginning of his career, Jones hoped he would reach a level of success that would allow him to no longer need to pay his own bills. Even with nearly a decade of work, it seemed like still a distant prospect for his company to comprise anyone besides himself. Cycles of prosperity and poverty would come and go. Despite the fluctuations, Jones always managed to find a way to just be alright – he prided himself on his capability to ride out any wave to happiness.
Jones'' only reprieve in his current run of cases was that they had all been matters of divorce. Divorce cases were practically always the same, allowing for a strong routine to develop. Routine was a benefit in that Jones had developed a sound protocol that often yielded success. Protocol was, however, mundane, and therefore exhausting to perform for a man who considered himself to be a free spirit. In fact, Jones thought of himself as that freedom being his only defining characteristic.
The divorce case protocol began with hearing the dispute of his clients. No person hiring a private eye was ever completely happy. This constant interaction with emotional toil, all too often outwardly exuded, contributed solidly to Jones'' increasing need for a vacation. He no longer wished to hear the problems of the world. The contempt one spouse felt for another was so unbearable to witness in rapid concatenation that it almost made the money Jones received feel tainted. Further, angry spouses claim information that they are not certain of. If they were wrong, it would be up to the P.I. to figure out. Claims of cheating are more than 90 percent of the time followed by where the cheating is occurring. Around 50 percent of those alleged cheating locations provided by the spouse turned out to be busts. Regardless, Jones always felt a duty to act on the information of his client.
This final case, however, went off without a hitch. The wife told Jones that she knew exactly where the husband was going to be with his mistress and at what time. Surprisingly, it turned out she was right about everything. His distrust of divorce clients proved to be misguided here. Jones was not so stuck in his perception as to not be thankful for his luck. However, given he could not trust the location or the time provided, Jones had arrived 6 hours before the affair was supposed to occur. If he was clairvoyant, he could have avoided the painful and boring stakeout. Thankfully, the cheap motel had a convenient parking lot for Jones to acquire the pictures demanded by the wife, eager to prove that her husband was a "no good dirty rotten scoundrel. A man who had wasted the best years of her life chasing floozies up and down the state."
To Jones, this affair did not appear to be just a submission to carnal desire, but rather a romantic entanglement. The greeting at the door between the two lovers, as visible through the window, had no indication of deceit. The husband looked deeply in love when he went to embrace his extramarital partner. She returned his love, albeit she appeared to be 20 years younger. Kissing appeared to be not mere foreplay, but the purpose of the meeting altogether. Perhaps, once Jones delivered the final nail in the coffin of the divorce, the husband would now be free to express his true love and would no longer find the need to hide in a motel. Jones had been around the business too long to assume there could be any happy outcome here. More often than not, the allure was the cheating itself. He often theorized that the main cause of all the deceit was that, in order to reach such elation, one had to build a life to demolish beforehand for the affair to mean anything. Jones had yet to take himself so seriously as to try it for himself.
No adjustments were needed; a few snaps of the camera and the private eye drove off. Once the pictures had been acquired, Jones only needed to print the film. He frequented a ten-minute printing store for that very purpose. Jones had struck up a friendship with the often-present clerk, a Mr. Copland. During his frequent dealings with the establishment, the worker had learned much about the private eye. Jones was not so inquisitive but had learned the exact cost to develop a set of film. The two talked about the weather sometimes. Other times, the conversation would digress to smart bets on upcoming games. Today, Mr. Copland told Jones of the pending dreariness inland. The seasoned film developer bemoaned the possibility of gray clouds with no rain. Jones did not understand the complaint completely. The inland was much too far from here, at least an hour''s drive away. A lingering thought insisted that he should be empathetic to those stuck in dreary weather, but ultimately he thought the suffering to be too distant for his genuine care.
Most of the more professional P.I.s developed their own film, but Junkyard Jones felt the investment to be an overall detriment to one''s social life. Talking with others not directly related to his case over the course of a day was overall worth the premium one had to pay. Too, maybe one day, this conversation could generate a helpful alibi. Being around angry people, criminals, and general miscreants did pose occupational dangers in that private eyes had more than minimal contact with the police.
When driving to the designated place to meet finally, Jones gave quick thought to his strategy. A P.I.''s work was as much investigation as it was collection. A written contract would scare off more than half of his clients. Receiving the money Jones had earned always required a bit of nimbleness. Often, it was suggested to his clients that the pictures were being exchanged for money. Although, strictly speaking, the cash was tied to time, not results, it was sometimes best to play pretend. Interactions with money were something Jones had to be very loose with. Whenever agreeing to work for some clients, the private eye immediately rushed to determine the kind of person he was working for. Over time, Jones was able to tell immediately who was going to have a difficult time paying, who needed to be tricked, and who he was not going to have a problem with. Coercion was no great problem, but it was certainly an annoyance.
Money in exchange for time was not always a concept that sold. People expected results for their money, and sometimes it was best to blur the lines of the truth. The solution only worked when there were results to give. Still, no one could argue against material transactions. This was one of those cases where pretending that the photos were what gave him the right to take the money he had earned worked. This wife was finicky enough – as if that wasn''t evident with her demand for someone else to solve the issue of her own separation. Their first, and only, meeting prior told Jones that she was a very proper person who thought herself to be committing some social faux pas by interacting with the private eye.
The P.I. and the soon-to-be-divorced wife were to meet at a diner. The time Jones had needed to wait had already expired, so he made his way inside. The food here was too expensive for the occasion. This was no fancy date, but rather just the offering of a restaurant off the freeway. Jones was adamant that a vintage American diner should not charge 17 dollars for a burger. Despite his internal rebuke at the sight of the menu, he did take joy in that the coffee was being sold for cheaper than the quality of the beans being used. This was luxury coffee, and the diner advertised accordingly. Jones sat down first and waited for his client to arrive. She came right on the dot and adopted a very commanding walk. Her trot gave such force to her feet that the floor would certainly be stomped out of existence if such a thing were possible.
No pleasantries were exchanged as she took a seat in the booth. Jones was tired and had no inclination to feign cordiality. Only the money and the pictures needed to be switched here. The soon-to-be-divorced wife made a superficial attempt at conversation. She wanted to know whether things went smoothly. Jones mustered a quick "yes," in as polite a tone as he could manage. With the brevity of the answer, he had hoped to communicate that all he was really interested in was getting the money he had earned. Jones held the pictures in his hand. That is all that should matter. Who cares how rough it was to get them? He always guessed that was the difference between him and most of his clients. Only a few times in the year did he have to access his special skills to solve a case. The rest of the time, he was just doing simple tasks that others were not willing to do.
500 dollars was never easier to earn. The griminess of spying on one''s spouse prevented many people from spending a day of their life to take the few pictures necessary to prove their version of the truth – at least this was how Jones explained the demand for his services. Any qualm about a lack of self-determination was not something Jones could complain too loudly about. Divorce cases were the foundation of his entire business. He loved his work in that if it was boring, the work was easy and paid well. If the work was hard, at least life was then interesting for a little while.
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Remaining after the conclusion of his business was a courtesy to the establishment. Immediately after his client the establishment with her pictures in tow, Jones scanned the menu for his options. The thirty-year-old man thought to himself that he should not order a burger with extra fries, no matter how appealing it sounded. Jones was tempted, but he didn’t. He abstained, but only because of the price. The aforementioned 17-dollar burger still was a proposition that did not sit right. Jones made a mental note to, from now on, be slightly more assertive about the place he met his clients. For too long had he acquiesced to his clients. Well, previously, he only demanded a public place, but now food was becoming a priority too. Jones coincidentally should be on a diet. His lack of fitness demanded that he correct what he ate, but he would be lying if this was the reason why he did not indulge in a greater course at the restaurant. Later, he was planning on devouring some cold pizza with a pack of beer. Meatlover’s pizza with an import made for the ultimate meal to begin a holiday with. To Jones, even the most dreadful of days could be planned for if counterbalanced with a worthy meal. Sitting in one’s car all day was one such dreadful occasion. Sedentariness was certainly not the worst of circumstances to face in the life of a private eye; however, it was occurring all too often to Jones lately. The amount of good food needed to make it all worthwhile was making Jones gain weight at a pace faster than he would like.
Jones had a mind to order a coffee. Coffee was his favorite beverage in the whole world. Without any degree of hyperbole, coffee superseded food in its ability to turn a bad day around. It was truly a misfortune to Jones that it was quite disadvantageous to drink coffee late at night. He enjoyed the beverage more for the taste and not simply for the caffeine. Jones waved down the waitress after his client left. The client had done nothing overt to offend the private eye, but still, he was averse to ordering a meal for her. It was healthier for his bank account this way.
The waitress at the diner was pretty. Her beauty made it easier to remain at the diner rather than booking it for home. She had sort of an artsy look. Her work costume barely sufficed in disguising her true passions. If Jones were to guess, she was to have an art class the next day, or maybe even that very night. The style of her brunette hair complemented her face perfectly. She was a picture worth painting if there ever was one. It was the sort of natural beauty one could only spot when witnessing someone who took pleasure in living their life.
“Hello, ma’am, I will just take a coffee,” stated Jones, hoping not to offend her with such a miniature order.
“Black, or with cream and sugar?”
“Black. Please.”
“Anything else for you?”
“That is all, unless you happen to have some chocolate cake?”
“No, sir, sorry. Cheesecake?”
Jones responded no with a shake of the head. He detested the taste of a cheesecake too creamy and was not willing to risk the displeasure this evening.
The waitress scurried off after receiving the meager order. She had carried the whole conversation with a smile regardless of his clear intent to only order a coffee. The smile was a pure expression of joy. Jones felt slightly bad about not ordering something more. He was occupying a table with a small tip. Maybe next time he will compensate by ordering a true feast. The seventeen-dollar burger may lie in his future yet. Still, despite the enjoyable company of the waitress, it was quite out of his way. Jones was now eating 35 minutes north of his home. This was an area, however, that he frequented for business. It was one of the richer districts in the whole of the state. Divorce cases were becoming quite rampant around here. Further, people who had much money to lose from a bad settlement were particularly motivated to acquire Jones’ services.
The waitress returned with the coffee. She brought a chocolate muffin as well. “On the house,” she said with a youthful giggle. A man more inquisitively inclined at that moment would have asked why she was laughing. That same man would have strived to learn a little more about her interests, but Jones was not in the mood. Jones said nothing about her beauty – not yet, at least. He was saving it for the return trip sometime in the near future. His mind was too tired for anything beyond the normal motions. The next time he came, maybe he would attempt to lay some charm, but tonight his heart was not up for conversation. Today, he had no predisposition for any discovery that he would need to remember.
This was a day that Jones only had interest in winning. His case was destined to be the first of three victories. The first victory had only occurred a few moments ago. A client paying was never a guaranteed thing. Jones potentially considered the coffee to be a victory, but it had not been something already established within his schedule. The second victory had only been determined as a gambling win to occur later tonight, and the third would be a peaceful slumber thoroughly earned through his work.
Soon a football game was being played and would be shown on the TV. Jones had quite the vested interest in this particular match. Spring football was back, and he had an inside track to the winner of tonight’s game. The only pleasure he derived from sports these days was when he could win a respectable sum of money. He used to win more, but as Jones grew older, his knowledge of sports began to diminish. It annoyed him to see the players in excellent shape as it would remind him that he used to exercise quite a bit more. As was now necessary to be confident of a gambling win, a bookie owed him big. Jones was able to divert a cop’s attention from a poorly placed gambling operation. One free tip is what he earned, and now he was ready to cash in. Although he was not reassured by the fact that a bookie knew the results of games, Jones found no qualms in taking advantage this one time. He had half a mind to make this the last time he ever placed a bet. Jones could only imagine what he would spend his newfound wealth on. Purchasing time away from work was one use of his money that was very desirable at the current moment.
After leaving the diner, Jones was making a beeline for home – only to be pleasantly interrupted by the scenery surrounding him. The path was familiar, but the magic never faded. To his left were magisterial hills decorated with a few homes, and to his right lay the ocean. At least for this one stretch, civilization was only concerned with the appreciation of nature. Entire lives were dedicated to the acquisition of a property capable of worshipping the sea’s glory. Jones felt slightly bad for the residents up on the hill. Such a view was right now being ruined with traffic. The highway between Crystal City and where Jones resided was mildly crowded – albeit much less than your typical afternoon. The roads not being completely at capacity allowed Jones to drive at a more reasonable speed than 55. Jones’ heart could not stand 55. He pushed the pedal promptly down by the time he noticed that no cops were near him to ruin his fun.
Few cars on the road were as stylish as Jones’ pride and joy – a 1970 GTO, dark green. Jones had made a few modifications to his ride. A tune-up of the engine and the new paint job made him very proud when driving about. Travelling in the fast lane gave him an ample view of the boring sedans surrounding him. The newest designs did not appeal to Jones as much. Further adding to his displeasure was that all of the cars on the freeway then appeared to be factory standard; nothing was unique.
Jones did hold out hope that someone amongst the crowd paid enough care to their car to modify it, for his own changes were not apparent to the untrained eye. The only change visible was the paint job. Not many people knew that it was a change from how Jones received the car new. A Pontiac GTO was not nearly as popular as Chevy Chevelles. Jones was not the type to boast about his car. That being said, however, sometimes the pride he took in the uniqueness of his automobile managed to find a way to be outwardly expressed.
Jones checked the clock after the traffic began to settle more into the normal dense levels that rush hour demanded. He still had ample time to get ready, with the game starting at 7:15. No longer able to fully concentrate on driving, the exhausted private eye’s thoughts turned to his home. Jones’ sofa sat there in his living room, eager to be used and enjoyed. Jones had faith the relationship between him and the seat was reciprocal. Jones was of the opinion that objects have a desire to be consumed. A pack of beer in the fridge lay similarly in wait, demanding to be drunk. The reason why food spoiled was because one did not fulfill their obligation to consume quickly enough. People got tired of waiting, and so therefore the food must too. Jones was determined not to make his beer anticipate his arrival for too long. He could almost feel its dry taste in his mouth while speeding along.
The beach was only a few hundred feet away from the freeway. Jones knew that this vista was paradise. A paradise he felt was often underappreciated. Even as traffic remained stop-and-start, he saw no one turn their head to the bright blue sea. Infuriating was the fact that the sea was so close, yet the minuscule energy required to move one’s eyes was deemed to be too expensive. Jones felt the perceived immensity of the expense was due to the value people placed on home. The people surrounding him valued reaching its refuge over a journey potentially transcendent. Sure, one’s home was nice. One might even say a home is homely, but paradise is a state of mind – a place only accessible through the appropriate outlook. Jones held the opinion that if there was beauty in front of you and you were not able to enjoy it, then the person did not exist. Jones took particular pleasure in his job for allowing him to appreciate the world around him. His proof of this state of mind was the wild maneuvers they would go through in order to save a few seconds. A lane change here and a cut-off there would eventually wreck their cars one day.
No matter how long of a day, Jones would always feel awake in proximity to such beauty – barring the influence of being drugged. Once, he tried to recover from a tranquilizer through the ocean’s power but failed miserably. Jones had learned to adapt in the absence of a cure from the ocean. Despite having been drugged more than the P.I. would care to admit, he had become quite adept at recovering from a mickey. He was proud of the fact that he was able to regain his faculties rapidly enough to chase down the perpetrator that very morning. The trick was a scald of hot coffee over his shoulder. The image of a man burning himself slightly to wake up was perhaps not the most pleasant sight, but Jones found the solution to be better than letting someone get away with drugging him.
To Jones, no place evoked more emotion than the ocean. He was not rich enough to afford one of those homes on the hills, but the beach was even closer to Jones’ mobile home apartment than any road could ever be. To this day, Jones was unsure how he swung the purchase of his property on his meager income, “the Junkyard.”
Accordingly, as a product of alliterative happenstance, all of his business cards read “Junkyard Jones.” It proved to be an effective method to separate himself from the competition. A catchy name was the kind of marketing one could not buy; either a name would be remembered, or it failed to serve its purpose. People enjoyed the hokeyness, even despite the frequent protestation by more refined members of society when coming across his card. Refined members of society did not hire private eyes much anyway. They just ran to the police to protect them. And if not, in that instance of requiring Jones’ services, they were not behaving as luminaries anyway. Regardless, if he were not able to provide a catchy gimmick with some readily available poetic tool, Jones would be forced to create something. Written word was never Jones’ strong suit. He thought it always better to use the land around him. A happy coincidence occurred here with the transition of his property to a memorable catchphrase.
This interestingly named lot of mobile homes was right off the Pacific Ocean. The beach was a mere minute away from the front door. Junkyard certainly was not an appealing name to the average person. One might even call this name dreadfully implicative of a worn-down establishment, or even that it would be a true junkyard. More strange than the odd name is that it was named a junkyard for no particular reason. It was just a normal lot of mobile homes right off the ocean. All that was known for certain was that “The Junkyard” was chosen for some random purpose, some reason that no one was sure of anymore. Some say the first owner of the lot was a loony tycoon. His billions were said to have allowed him to make frivolous purchases, and he had little interest in any return. Land was one of the most sensible investments a man could make. Even supreme reason could easily be made into a joke should it be named improperly.
Jones sometimes speculated on the scene that brought about the name Junkyard. Maybe the billionaire’s expensive Italian car was totaled, and it had to be sent to a junkyard. He would have then had his just revenge on the poor people who would go on to buy his property by putting an eternal check on their property values from ever rising too high. Jones never came up with a satisfactory answer. Every scenario insisted that the person responsible had a comical view of the world and was not possessing a modicum of sound judgment. All that to say, whoever named a valuable development the Junkyard either had a very advanced sense of humor or was a madman. Jones took more value in the madman. He would have enjoyed the company of a man with money who still enjoyed the world enough to blatantly disregard what one should do in order to maximize profits for the sake of a laugh.
Jones made it home safely, still thoroughly exhausted from the day’s labor. Usually, the drive home would refresh some of his energy. He just needed to stay awake a little longer to maximize his joy. 500 dollars for pictures and 3000 as the prize for a sure bet were set to make an amazing day indeed for Junkyard Jones.