Laundered Cash

He came in and asked about the Remington shotgun, an 870 and she was a beauty. The moment he fondled her stock and racked the slide I knew he was hooked.

"You can't come off the price just a little, can you?"

I glanced away to take in the beautiful weather. We've had good strong winds and I wanted so badly to be outside. I gave him a smile, "No, my friend. I'm sorry, but I've cut the price to the bone as is and you know she's worth at least three hundred more than my asked price."

As he stroked the Remington I daydreamed of fishing poles and a kid with a battered tin can of wigglers and a long lost creek of cool tannin stained water and the heavy pleasant pull of redbreast and bluegills. Again, he interrupted with, "Stephen, hey Stephen."

"Sorry. What?"

"I'll take it. Listen, is it okay with you if I run to the ATM? I haven't got enough cash."

I said, "Sure."

Nice fella. Half way to the door he turns with, "Hey, Stephen. Listen, would you be willing to take two hundred in one dollar bills? Thing is, I save money by never spending my ones. I just throw them into a box at home. Kinda of my way of saving for a rainy day. I'll pay the rest in twenties. Is that okay with you?"

I thought it over for all of two seconds. "Sure, cash is cash." Like I said, he's a nice man. His son is currently humping the ground of Afghanistan, a Marine. The 870 is a gift to his son upon his return.

He leaves. I returned to my daydreams. About an hour later he walks in with a cardboard box and dumps a pile of cash on me...and I do mean dumps. Thing is the moment he removed the lid from the box this smell, this arid acid tinged odor of aged cigarette damn near slapped me to the ground. I gagged, literally.

I'd overlooked the fact the buyer smoked. So, there I stood with a pile of loose cash. My friend and I shake hands and he leaves with his shotgun and I turn to this pile of, well, stink. Fast forward a few hours and I walk into the house and set my satchel on the kitchen counter. I remove the bundle of money and instantly our kitchen is overwhelmed with the stink. Sweet Wife isn't happy.

We discuss my bad judgement and before I can blink I'm pushed into the laundry room. She has a firm grip on her nose. She hands me an old pillow case, points towards the dryer and gives me a few sheets of fabric softener. I bundle the bills inside, tie a knot and throw the mess into the dryer. Didn't work.

I hope, I mean I really hope, the cash makes it through the washing cycle without damage....

Stephen