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  

Duke

My good friend and handcuff companion, Duke, beat me to the punch.

Please, sally forth and read.

I must deal with a few problems before I return to write something of substance. With your gracious blessings and patience I shall return soon.

Stephen

Oh, Baby

Come to Papa....

Sweet hot fresh straight from the grease goodness.

I want.

Recipe, here.

Stephen

Such A Little Flower

Salute.

Stephen

It's Personal

To my friends - Chicken, Lt Jacobson, Montana Mike, Bear, and Jitterbug.

You are not forgotten.


Stephen

Bits and Pieces

Of late I live with the perfume of gardenias. The scent is thick and sweet and seems to cling to my senses for hours. There is a large clear glass vase placed on the white tile island of our kitchen. She has it filled with the small pure white flowers.  The contrast of the flowers perched high within the transparent water filled vase and the white tile remind me of innocence personified.

Anyway, I can't escape their scent. Just outside our front door are two very large gardenias each covered in blooms. I spent all of yesterday in the yard hard at work with the mower, shears, trimmer and blower, and the scent of gardenias. Kind of pleasant but after hours of constant exposure I sometimes felt the need of a huge shot of insulin. 

As soon as the flowers fade and drop I'll take a pruner and give them a good haircut. I'm sick of sweet.

*****

My yard has gotten ahead of me. Overgrown in places with shrubs badly in need of attention. I've spent most of my free time, this last week, in a vain attempt at 'catch-up.' Perhaps you've noticed since I haven't flipped the lid on this laptop in several days.

There comes a time in every mans life when his limitations reach around and slap him squarely in the face, and mine stings. As much as I hate to admit it I must seek help. We had a long talk yesterday and have agreed to hire a yard service. It shames me. I'm still a fairly young man but life and old injuries have finally reached over and taken quite a good grip on my stamina. Sweet Wife said I should take a break. I guess my aches and pains were readily apparent last night.

I work six days a week, and if I'm lucky if I get half a day off on Sunday. As I type I think about the work that awaits. My leaves have gathered on my roof and the gutters need to be cleaned. The herb garden is kaput. I should replant. I've projects left unfinished. Yet, here I sit.

Sometime today I expect a young couple to call for an appointment. I'll walk them around our fairly large yard and ask their price and hopefully agree on a once a week service. It's an embarrassment I shall endure. I'll make no excuses, but the shame of failure, my physical limitations, will ride in my throat like a hard ball of ice.  

*****


My friend, Senior, just sent a text. A picture of a pan filled with bacon. He asked if I wanted a bite. I haven't as yet answered.

What a stupid question.





 *****

Later,

Stephen    

Standby

As soon as my muse surfaces this blog will return to normal. As it stands madam muse only weeps sad words and I've restricted her to the closet until further notice. Then again, she is a forceful and worthy foe and it's possible she'll kick my butt and the resulting dismal tale will be posted.

Perhaps I should rephrase the structure of my first sentence. Muse is here, she's just hardheaded and determined I dictate her words. Muse hates reluctance. 

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Stephen