Red Handed by Matt Kindt

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A Weekly Column with J. Torrey McClain

I finished Red Handed: The Fine Art of Strange Crimes by Matt Kindt yesterday morning.  I immediately wanted to start at the beginning again.  If not for the rest of the day’s distractions, I probably would have.  I know I’m looking forward to it tonight.  I know that I’m looking at it over there at the foot of my bed as I type.  At some point during my writing, Kindt’s story will entice me away from the keyboard, call to me to stretch out from my toes to my head and curl up with its tale again.  You, as the reader will never know when that point comes.

Of course, before I read, I may head out on the streets of Los Angeles and turn my phone into its driver mode and start my moonlighting gig as a Lyft driver.  I’ll either crank my car’s engines and start the cool AC blowing over me and the rest of the car so that the first rider will feel their maximum level of comfort, or I’ll just turn on the electric system, roll down the windows and just wait for the first alarm to let me know I’m summoned before I start the gas coursing through the car’s internal system.  Either way, I’ll sit and listen to a podcast, a conversation recorded maybe not so far away and maybe not too long ago, but then again, it could be years and hundreds of miles.  The voices reach out to me and let my mind drift and my mouth smile, the best friends to combat sitting still in Los Angeles while in your car.

Matt Kindt Red Handed The Fine Art of Strange Crimes

Along the way, I’ll meet new people, give them a fist bump and take them to their destination at the Hollywood Bowl, a club, a neighborhood bar or a barbecue.  We’ll talk about life in Los Angeles and for a moment, we’ll connect before we disappear back into the faceless crowd of 10 million souls.

Kindt asks, what if they didn’t disappear?  What if the person in the backseat knows a person who sold me some pluots at the farmers market?  What if the driver of the car that cut in front of me motors to the same club where I’m taking my fare and they meet and fall in love?  What if all of our pattern-seeking monkey brains just haven’t figured out how to see the invisible threads piercing our skin and linking us with trees, metal, sand and the upright piles of water that say, “Hello” each morning?  Is it a natural linking, a mystic connection created by some higher power far above us or from some hidden store of power deep within the earth, or is it a scheme plotted by a nefarious or well-meaning visionary to make the world a worse or better place?

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