MONEY! It's the grease for everything from art to business to space exploration.
The only thing of value I owned was my father's camera.
Disconsolate and discouraged, I set the lens for macro and aimlessly aimed my camera at my bare toe, the little one on the left foot, the one that curves to fit neatly into the row with the others, the one with only a tiny sliver of a toenail, the baby piggy that cried, "Wee, wee, wee," all the way home.
Or possibly it was "Oui, oui, oui."
One never knows the origins of those odd old stories.
Sighing, I examined the image before me with little interest and snapped the shutter.
Instantly, my toe disappeared.
Holy smokes! I thought, recalling the Haitian witch doctor's widow's warning: "Never use it to take a picture of yourself."
That lady wasn't kidding!
My financial dilemma remained unresolved for days. I continued to study the catalogs.
Who knew there were so many different kinds of stemware, vacuum cleaners, toilet seats, rubber bands, and chickens? You name it and there's somebody out there somewhere who's put together a catalog with a hundred variations on it.
One day, I was delighted to receive the latest edition of Uncle Milton's Thousand Things You Thought You'd Never Find. On page two it carried a two-line message inside a thick-bordered black box that read, "In Memoriam. Felix D. Katz, M.D."
Hmm, I thought. Could Dr. Katz have been the one who got my lucky talisman?
On page three was featured the Paisley-made joke-telling fish key chain that I'd gotten so long ago at Wal-Mart (for the price of a roll of film, I now realized!).
Uncle Milton's price was nine ninety-five.
That's a lot of money for a key chain, I thought.
That was when it dawned on me that Uncle Milton Swartzman must have a lot of money!
From there, the next thought was easy: Write to Uncle Milton and ask him to underwrite my art project.
Dear Mr. Swartzman, I wrote.
I'm so sorry to learn about your friend. Was it sudden? I hope he didn't suffer. Was it the lucky talisman?
The purpose of my letter is this: I am embarking on a major artistic undertaking involving the use of my own (presumed) ghost camera. I have calculated my expenses at three hundred dollars. Where I come from, that's a lot of money. I was wondering if you'd be willing to assist me. You are the only rich person I know. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother you. Actually, you are one of the few people I know, period, but that's another story.
Thanks for considering my request.
Sincerely,
Spencer Adams Honesty
PS. Where are the Cayman Islands?
PIPS. I enclose three poems written by my Indian friend. It wasn't my idea. He insisted.
Instead of having to wait a fortnight, I received Uncle Milton's reply at the end of the week, delivered right to my front door by FedEx. This in itself made for considerable excitement. Strangers rarely came to Paisley.
"I would have been here yesterday," the driver explained, "but I had trouble finding your town. Then, when finally I did find it, I took a look around and said, 'Criminy, what's the rush?'"
"Would you care to stay for dinner?" my mother asked. "It's fried chicken."
"I'd love to, ma'am," he said, "but I've got to get back to Kansas City to reload."
"I understand," my mother replied, disappointed.
Dear Kid, Milton Swartzman wrote:
I don't hand out money to anybody. It goes against all my principles, which are principally about my money. I will make you a deal, however. I will pay you five bucks apiece for as many of those bad luck amulets as you can talk your Indian pal into carving. They ll be a great addition to my catalog. That doctor had just stepped outside the hospital when a grand piano fell on him from five stories up. Splat! Just like that. Unfortunately, with my bad leg I was unable to recover the talisman. So you guys get busy and get me some more. You know, in a funny way, it's lucky you live in such a hard luck place. You could make some real dough.
Very truly yours,
Milton Swartzman
President and Publisher, Uncle Milton's Thousand Things You Thought You'd Never Find
P.S. The Cayman Islands are located in the Caribbean Sea between Cuba and Honduras.
P.P.S. Your friend carves knickknacks a lot better than he writes poetry.
P.PP.S. The nurse came into my room to tell me about the doctor's accident and said, "In a way, he was very lucky."
"How's that?" I asked.
"Well," she replied, "it was a Steinway. That's the best there is."
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into the colorful FedEx cardboard envelope.
So here was the deal: By exporting Paisley's bad luck to the Cayman Islands one notched bee burl at a time, I could soon have the three hundred dollars I needed for my ambitious Paisley memorial photo-art project.
The big question now was how to convince Chief Leopard Frog to carve sixty more talismans. That's a pretty big order for an otherwise idle whittler.