FALL COINAGE

Now that it’s fall and Bryon, my “Honey”, is raking leaves again, I thought you might enjoy this story.  And if you’re a publisher who likes amusing short stories, please contact me.  I have a whole book of them about “Honey” that needs publishing.

KEEP WRITING

            I thought I had quit writing stories about Honey, but he recently smashed through my writer’s block and my Muse told me I should record the incident.  For some reason I need a written reminder of what Honey thinks I need to forget.

            Since Honey and I are now both retired seniors, we eagerly anticipate our monthly cash stipend in the form of pensions.  Most of them arrive at the bank the third business day before the end of the month.  We are both pretty good at budgeting but sometimes there are too many days between one month and the next.  When that happens, I don’t buy apple pie or ice cream for Honey at the grocery store.  But Honey’s plan is probably more practical, him being an engineer.  He saves his coins all month and then the last week before pensions arrive, he rolls his change and takes it to the bank to trade for bills so he has beer money when he goes to sing Karaoke, and that can be five or six nights a week.  Sometimes he just sings and sometimes he actually runs the Karaoke.  Either way, Karaoke is thirsty work, you know.  It requires quenching with pints of beer.

            One morning in November he came downstairs early, wearing jeans, a cowboy shirt with a vest over it, cowboy boots and his cowboy hat.  As I heard him grab his keys from the rack in the kitchen, I asked where he was going because I knew it wasn’t to mount a horse or round-up any cattle.

            “I’m going to the bank to trade my coins for bills,” he said.  He went out the door and I kept reading my newspaper and drinking my coffee.  As it was only 8:30, I thought he might have to wait for the doors to open at the bank.

            An hour later he stomped into the house with wet boots, cursing at something.  Afraid he was going to blame me for withdrawing money from our joint account to buy him a Christmas present, I still asked what was bothering him because I knew that’s what he expected me to do.

            “I lost all my coins!” he said.

            “How could you lose your coins between here and the bank?” I asked.

            “I haven’t been to the bank,” he screamed, as he paced back and forth from the front hallway to the kitchen.

            “Well, what were you doing then?” I asked.

            “I was raking leaves for garbage pick-up tomorrow,” he said.  “And when I got in my truck, I didn’t have any coins!” he railed, as he stomped some more from hallway to kitchen and back again.

            “Oh,” I said.  “Did you check the garbage cans with the leaves?”

            “Of course I did!  I emptied out all the leaves and went through all that wet crap looking for the coins.  No such luck,” he fumed.

            “Have you retraced all your steps outside?” I asked next.

            “Yes,” he sneered.  “I’m not stupid, you know.”

            “Unfortunately, Honey, the paper you rolled the coins in is the same colour as all the dead leaves from the trees.  What you need is a metal detector,” I advised him.

            “You know we don’t have one of those,” he told me.

            “Well, how about my sewing magnet?” I offered, smiling at the thought of him bent over looking for coins with an eighteen inch long magnet I use to pick up sewing pins.

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” he told me.  “I even went around all the lawn with the rake again, moving more leaves to see if I could find the coins.  That was a whole sixty bucks I lost!  The pockets in this vest aren’t very deep, you know.”

            At that point I refrained from discussing his quandary any longer.  And I wasn’t about to go outside looking for his needle in his haystack.  Instead I went out on the back porch and swept up the leaves there and put them into a garbage bag and then I emptied some planters with long dead peppermint and parsley and chives and basil and oregano.  While I was doing that, Honey spent some time out the back looking in more downed leaves.

            I saw him head out the back gate toward the ravine and the creek that passes through our property.  I thought he was going to check that the culvert under the footbridge wasn’t blocked and likely to cause the neighbour’s fear of flooding.  Studiously tending to my own chores, I didn’t say anything.  I finished cleaning up the back porch and then went inside for another coffee.

            A short time later, Honey banged in the front door, stomping his wet feet on the scatter mat, scaring the cat.  “Guess what I found?” he asked triumphantly.

            “You’re coins, I assume.  Where were they?” I asked.

            “I went down to the creek and stood in the middle of it and I saw something glinting, and I found all my coins!  They must have fallen out when I bent over to look at the culvert earlier,” he said, using my clean dish towel to dry his precious coins.

            After he dried all his coins, he had to roll them again with the required number in the required paper for bank acceptance.  He was short two quarters, so he went back to the creek looking for them. Engineers do practice due diligence, you know.  He did find them and then after he changed into dry clothes, he was ready to leave for the bank.

            “So,” I said, “You have enough money now to buy me supper tonight, right?” I asked hopefully.   At the very least, I thought I deserved compensation for listening to him sing the blues at home as well as all his old, sad Karaoke songs down at the restaurant.

            “Forget it,” he said.  So that’s why I decided to write this down, so I can remember what it was he told me to forget.

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By Lisa A. Hatton