:: Guilt is for the feeble ::

Saturday, September 27, 2003

When I was 17, my pa moved us to what would affectionately become known as "the farm". It was a barren stretch of land off Interstate 80 in the middle of Nebraska, a few hours west of Lincoln. Pa was convinced he could revolutionize the glue industry by using hydroponic farming techniques to increase the yield of several key components of the most potent industrial-strength adhesives. What pa didn't realize was that the chief benefit of ultra-efficient hydroponics is that no soil is needed, and certainly land of the scale he'd envisioned was frivolous. There was absolutely no need to move, but then again, pa wasn't the smartest.

What I remember most about the farm is the summers, notably the late waning broil of August and early September. I recall relaxing outside by the glue-mixers, leaning up against the turgid tanks, a bottle of home-brew in one hand and a smoldering branding iron in the other. It's hard work branding glue, and I made sure to make the most out of my time off. It was on one of those lazy afternoons that I met Ms. Sally.

Ms. Sally ran the local tire-repair shop which she'd inherited from her father, Mr. Sally. Sally & Daughters had a bullet-proof reputation around those parts, and it was well-deserved: they could patch a flat before you could say "trite, treacly literary device". She'd come over to survey some of the new glue Pa had rounded up that very day. She had her father's entrepreneurial spirit, and smelled the potential for new patching material. I hadn't the heart to tell her she was really smelling cyanoacrylate.

Although it often put my life in jeopardy due to the constant exposure to corrosive chemicals, I rarely wore shirts on the farm. That's just how life was there: laid back and negligent. But my temerity was rewarded by the look on Ms. Sally's face when she saw my sinewy form propped against the throbbing steel cauldron, a sheen of sweat coating my entire body, even my jeans. She approached timidly at first, as if unwilling or incapable of giving herself over to the urges obviously welling up inside of her. She had quite a libido for a septuagenarian.

She asked me where my pa was, and I slowly replied I had no idea, but perhaps I could be of some assistance. She smiled.

Long story short: I rewarded her trust in me by bilking her out of upwards of 200 grand. She died not long after I met her, but not soon enough that I didn't get her to change the deed to her house and shop to include both our names. I skimped on the funeral services (flowers are pricey) and let her bratty grandkids fight over the spare junk from the basement before I sold all her (my) property to some commercial real-estate developer. I think there's now a Gap where Sally & Daughters used to be. The weather in Fiji sure is nice this time of year, especially when enjoyed from my gilded veranda.

Posted by morland @ 05:34 PM

:: Comments ::

What *is* the attraction old ladies find in Orland with sweaty pants?

Posted by: Anna on September 29, 2003 07:46 AM

"You Crazy Man. I like you, but You Crazy"

Posted by: Will F on September 30, 2003 09:37 AM

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