Fred
Fred frowned as he hung up the phone. Damn pesky woman. What was she so afraid of anyway? If any body was small enough to get in that doggie door, they were sure as hell too little to hurt any body and the dogs could eat them in two bites. He held the Hershey can in his left hand as he placed the phone back on the wall with his right. He was not ready to let this one go. For some reason this one was special.
Usually the money went into a hole in the yard as soon as he had the time to dig the hole, but he wanted to keep this one for a while. People would think he was nuts if they knew. Well, what was nuts about keeping money in cans at home? Made a lot more sense than handing it over to one of the twits at the bank who would put it in a drawer and give it out to other people. It was his and they should not have his money. They had explained to him that every month he would get a total of how much he had, much like the account his dad had set up for him. Only that was once a year. He had to go in and set across the big mahogany desk from some white haired old fart who droned on about the investments and the check he got every month and how wonderful his father had been to do this. Like he was a simpleton!
How much was in that account his dad still controlled from the grave? He did not remember. More than when it started. He snorted. Some day the state of Colorado was going to get a shit pot full of money, courtesy of Fred Himes, Jr. via Fred Himes, Sr. He really should leave a note about the cans in the yard, but why? They were his. Earned by the sweat of his brow. If he wanted to bury them he could. He could burn that money if he so chose, but no, he had made a memorial to his god, who ever that was. Apparently, it was the almighty dollar. No, because money had never brought him any happiness either. It was the memory of where the money came from. Like the $16,450 that was the money for the big barn he had built for that gimp legged guy over the draw east of him.
Then there was $19,000 from that scar faced guy just North of Meg’s farm. Now that was crazy. Dug a tunnel from his root cellar straight west to the edge of the forest. Well, dug a trench, covered it with planks and then dirt. Nobody knew it was there. Well, he knew. And the scar faced guy knew. Seemed like a damn waste of money to him. No equipment! No one must know. Ok, fella, what ever you say. Wonder where he got that big scar? It was a gruesome looking thing for sure. Ran from above his left eye, well where his left eye used to be, across his cheek and mouth to his right jawbone. What ever it was sure had to have hurt. Didn’t bother Fred, though. He looked past stuff like that yet he couldn’t help but wonder. Guy was a definite loner. Or seemed to be. But he did go into Denver several times a week. Sometimes he stayed there. Fred knew cause they shared the road in and out. Funny that he did not seem to have a name. No mail box either.
Fred sat deep in thought at the kitchen table as he stroked the Hershey can. His eyes stared into the darkness of the forest. But he did not see the trees or the tiny forest creatures. He saw his mother. His mother in her pretty red dress and her white patent leather shoes. He saw the slash of bright red lipstick on her mouth and heard her laugh. He heard the radio playing a lively tune. “Come here, Freddie, come dance with Momma! Make Momma happy!” And he rose and followed her to the middle of the wooden kitchen floor. As much as he tried not to, he would always love his Momma. A tear slid slowly down his cheek and was lost in his beard.
Fred frowned as he hung up the phone. Damn pesky woman. What was she so afraid of anyway? If any body was small enough to get in that doggie door, they were sure as hell too little to hurt any body and the dogs could eat them in two bites. He held the Hershey can in his left hand as he placed the phone back on the wall with his right. He was not ready to let this one go. For some reason this one was special.
Usually the money went into a hole in the yard as soon as he had the time to dig the hole, but he wanted to keep this one for a while. People would think he was nuts if they knew. Well, what was nuts about keeping money in cans at home? Made a lot more sense than handing it over to one of the twits at the bank who would put it in a drawer and give it out to other people. It was his and they should not have his money. They had explained to him that every month he would get a total of how much he had, much like the account his dad had set up for him. Only that was once a year. He had to go in and set across the big mahogany desk from some white haired old fart who droned on about the investments and the check he got every month and how wonderful his father had been to do this. Like he was a simpleton!
How much was in that account his dad still controlled from the grave? He did not remember. More than when it started. He snorted. Some day the state of Colorado was going to get a shit pot full of money, courtesy of Fred Himes, Jr. via Fred Himes, Sr. He really should leave a note about the cans in the yard, but why? They were his. Earned by the sweat of his brow. If he wanted to bury them he could. He could burn that money if he so chose, but no, he had made a memorial to his god, who ever that was. Apparently, it was the almighty dollar. No, because money had never brought him any happiness either. It was the memory of where the money came from. Like the $16,450 that was the money for the big barn he had built for that gimp legged guy over the draw east of him.
Then there was $19,000 from that scar faced guy just North of Meg’s farm. Now that was crazy. Dug a tunnel from his root cellar straight west to the edge of the forest. Well, dug a trench, covered it with planks and then dirt. Nobody knew it was there. Well, he knew. And the scar faced guy knew. Seemed like a damn waste of money to him. No equipment! No one must know. Ok, fella, what ever you say. Wonder where he got that big scar? It was a gruesome looking thing for sure. Ran from above his left eye, well where his left eye used to be, across his cheek and mouth to his right jawbone. What ever it was sure had to have hurt. Didn’t bother Fred, though. He looked past stuff like that yet he couldn’t help but wonder. Guy was a definite loner. Or seemed to be. But he did go into Denver several times a week. Sometimes he stayed there. Fred knew cause they shared the road in and out. Funny that he did not seem to have a name. No mail box either.
Fred sat deep in thought at the kitchen table as he stroked the Hershey can. His eyes stared into the darkness of the forest. But he did not see the trees or the tiny forest creatures. He saw his mother. His mother in her pretty red dress and her white patent leather shoes. He saw the slash of bright red lipstick on her mouth and heard her laugh. He heard the radio playing a lively tune. “Come here, Freddie, come dance with Momma! Make Momma happy!” And he rose and followed her to the middle of the wooden kitchen floor. As much as he tried not to, he would always love his Momma. A tear slid slowly down his cheek and was lost in his beard.
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