The Not-So-Glamourous Life of Clyde Payne

Little piece I did to try and work on being more descriptive. Kind of old, kind of s****y but whatever. Feedback is appreciated.

The sickly-sweet scent of the Marlboro's cigarette smoke trickled through the dark, shabby apartment of Clyde Payne. The apartment looked especially shabby at the current time of 3 in the morning. Clyde took another puff and sat down on his bed and sighed. Tv remotes always had to get lost. After sifting through the mess of dark black bedding, he found the remote to his cheap Japanese tube tv. It flickered to life with around the same energy as him. Clyde flicked through channels until he found a documentary on aliens. He watched intently for a few minutes before flopping onto his back and promptly falling asleep.

The next morning, Clyde looked in the mirror of the worn out bathroom. The mirror was slightly cracked in one corner, but otherwise perfectly functional. Thankfully, as he needed the mirror to shave off the persistent stubble that adorned his angular face. The shave wasn't a complete one, as the 5 o' clock shadow still remained. The grown out flat top sat on top of the long, slim head. Just looking in the mirror, he could see the cost of his insomnia the night before. Bags formed under his eyes, and his eyes had a disheveled look to them.  Walking out of the bathroom and immediately to the left, he arrived in the kitchen, where he sat at the old wooden, cracked white table and started a pot of coffee. With a quick yawn, he got up to make the toast. Burnt, but jam fixed it. Checking the clock, he realized it was already 10. As usual, he had no plans. He trudged to his bedroom to get dressed, dragging his feet like chains. He dressed in a casual black Heineken t shirt he had won a year before from a raffle at the gun store, where he worked. Not as if he could have afforded a gun. Matched with a light leather jacket that promised heat later on because of its black color, and a pair of jeans, he grabbed his cigarettes, lighter, keys and left apartment number 5, and began walking toward the garage. He whipped out the lighter, which was old and rusted. The Zippo caught,and a trail of smoke followed Clyde out the door.

The smoke and scent of the lit cigarette kept with Clyde until he opened the garage door after a few minutes of walking. Inside the degraded one-car garage sat his 98 Crown Victoria. He was reminded of its past as a police car by a single bullet hole in the windshield. Other than the glaring throwback to the car's history, it was a liveable car. Not perfect, but decent. He pushed the door while pulling the lock to open it, as a reminder of the vehicles age. The engine was quiet and the Crown Vic smoothly pulled out of the garage. After getting out to put the door down, he was away.

The looming clouds sat over his head like city-wide depressants. Gray as the walls of the overflowing city jail he was driving by a few minutes later. Escaped convicts had a knack for going to the bar located a few feet from his second story apartment. Clyde was restless. Going downtown on a Saturday is never a good idea in this town, but it was the closest bank. Because of the poverty of the area, a bank being built nearby seemed pointless to the people that decide where the banks go. As he pulled into the parking lot, a man approached his car. He stepped put and ignored the guy, though made sure to lock it. After going into the bank, taking five hundred dollars to polish off his rent payment, he approached his car. The man from before leaned on the car, scanning Clyde for weaknesses. Clyde sized him up as well. Short, and a bit underfed, the runt didn't give him any reason for fear. Until he pulled the gun out from his coat.

If you've never had a gun trained on you, you don't understand the fear that pulsed through Clyde's veins. His heart was beating so rapidly he was afraid it might explode. The mugger was no amateur. He kept the gun trained and cocked. Staring at the barrel, Clyde felt a shiver down his spine. To think, he could die right here, right now, was absolutely nerve-wracking. He stammered, but eventually got the words out. "I haven't got any money.". He tried to stay calm, but the tension in the air could be cut with a plastic spoon. The mugger grinned a gap tooth smile, and with a voice as greasy as his hair, he told Clyde "Bullshit. I watched you take the money out. Fork it over, or you'll die.". Straight to the point. Clyde tried to reason with him. "Can't I give you half or so? I need this for rent.". The mugger laughed an oily laugh. "I don't give a s**t what you need it for. Hand it over. Now.". Clyde obeyed. He pulled out the wallet and threw it at his feet. The mugger took the money, and for good measure, shot him in the foot.