I’M HANGING OUT IN my yard, working on the muffler to the Pontiac. On account of I haven’t seen no thousand dollars yet, to get a new set of wheels. Who should pull up but Mrs. Tight Cunt, the grieving widow, in her Datsun. With the radio playing, and that little dog of hers sitting next to her on the seat with a hair bow on, same as hers. She’s got the dog belted in, if you can believe it.
OK, I’m thinking. It’s about time I got my cash. She leans over, opens the passenger-side door, tells me to get in.
“Hello, Russell,” she says to me. “I wanted to give you something.”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “Great.”
Then she bends over and hands me this cardboard box from underneath the dash. Got a Walkman and some tapes inside. Faith No More, AC DC that she never liked, and these tapes about how to get to be a big-shot success just by looking in the mirror every day and telling yourself you’re great. “These were Larry’s,” she says. “I wanted you to have them.”
“Whoa,” I say. “Wait a second. What about the money?”
“I’m sure you can understand this is a difficult time for me,” she says. “Right now I’m still paying off bills for my husband’s headstone and funeral service and so forth. And then there’s the mortgage on the condominium. We could have purchased life insurance that would have paid it off if he died but for some reason Larry never did that. Don’t ask me why. A big mistake.”
“Well yeah,” I say. I’m not really listening to this crap. Alls I want to know is where’s my thousand bucks.
“I’m confident that once everything’s squared away, I’ll want to make you some sort of gift,” she says. “It’s just that right now I’m still overwhelmed. I don’t know where I stand yet.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well I know where I stand, all right,” I say. “Knee deep in horseshit.
“We had a deal,” I tell her.
“And I’m a person who honors her commitments,” she says. “It’s just, I’m not ready yet.”
“Fuck this,” I tell her. “I want my money.”
“You know, Russell,” she says to me. “I’ve tried as hard as I could to ignore this attitude of yours. But if you’re going to use foul and abusive language I’m going to have to ask you to get out of my vehicle. I don’t want to see anymore of you until you simmer down.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m leaving. I don’t like to hang around places where they’re shoveling shit.” I’m halfway out the door when she calls me back.
“Russell,” she calls to me. “Don’t forget your box.” And like a fool I take it.