Johnny retired long before the cafeteria closed. The years of frugality paid off in the form of a bulging portfolio and swollen bank accounts as the markets looked upon him with much favor. Because the sun never set on Johnny’s empire, he would trade Tokyo and London before sunup and by daybreak, he was online with New York and Chicago but by afternoon he would find himself stranded in a gulf of loneliness. And it was his loneliness that accepted the invitation from a friend of an acquaintances banker to a mid afternoon business lunch at a restaurant adjacent to a gentlemen’s club. And after a fulfilling meal that ended with a signed contract, the likes of which would cause Midas envy, Johnny, out of curiosity, took a table at the gentlemen’s club where he was befriended by a seasoned dancer who, after kindling him with ease, gently blew on the glowing embers of his loneliness until the flames passion spread like wildfire through his world.
After a few encounters that grew in frequency, her situation became an unbearable uh-happiness that only Johnny could repair. Persuading her to move in was a clever game that she would let him win, and, afterward, persuading him to marry her was a clever game that he would let her win. The little house was sold for next to nothing and replaced with a grand staircase that led to palatial rooms that sat, fashionably, in an area nestled between the eclectic and the wealth districts. Johnny found himself in the company of other misers and never felt the need to inquire on her comings and goings. Her frequent gifts of copulatory obligation, left him in a perpetual state of convalescence, and, his frequent gifts of monetary obligation, trickled down into her world and left her in a continuous state of restlessness, where, she soon found herself in the arms of a well endowed, failed artist (which explains where the money Johnny gave her went) who had a young, proportionally correct, girl on the side (which explains where the money she gave him went) who had a particular habit that kept her interesting but hard to find (which explains where the money the artists gave her went). But, soon, the money, that had worked its way to the bottom, festered there and changed form, then, became a powder that blew in the wind causing, after he had developed a conscience, the artist to be replaced with a freer spirit that ended with crashed cars and empty remorse.
Johnny money funneled in and soothed over all the legalities as it ran quietly over all of the sharp edges, dulling, then softening them down until there was only a sense of calm and tranquility leaving only a small amount unaccounted for that sat unnoticed. Like errant rain drops suspended on a slippery surface, the unnoticed began to move and join with others until they became one. And after gaining momentum, it slipped over the edge and, once again, worked its way to the bottom where it festered and changed form, then, became a thick smoke that permeated and distorted all that it touched until it again changed form and became sirens and lights and burnt out apartments.
Again, Johnny’s money appeared. It crept along in dark glassed anonymity, turning heads, changing stories, and sealing lips: an unseen presence that rolled on little Jaguar’s feet. But this time, it had gotten careless. The cask, from where it had flown, was spilled onto the ground where it slipped away under the soil and seeped its way to the bottom where it festered a third time and changed form. And its form was now viscus, and amber; and it percolated its way back to the surface and sat undisturbed and out of sight. Then, when self forgiveness had forgave, it drew itself into a point and pushed itself inside of her where it coursed its way through her veins. Then there were drawn curtains, and darkness, and disappearances, and withering away until finally, there was nothingness. And the regretful phone call that came in the night, took its final form as a cashiers check by way of certified mail.
A horrific cry wailed out into the night, as she, too, had turned to gold.
Across From the Bayou: Copyright 2010 by Harold Robert Hunsaker
