Blood Money

We were driving back from
the gun store I'd discovered
out in Hopewell. I conned him
into joining me after work
by offering to drive. Some men
are even cheap with forty
dollars-an-hour in their paychecks
plus benefits, but if that made me like him
any less I wouldn't have invited him.

"I used to do a lotta 'coon huntin'
when I was your age," he said
with a drawl not uncommon
in his neck of the county.
"My dog would chase it up
a tree, then I'd shoot it
in the head so I didn't ruin
the fur and make it worthless.
One time this big ol' bastard
wouldn't stay still for long enough
to get a good shot so I blew the
branches out from under his feet
until he finally climbed down the tree.
My dog wrestled the 'coon for awhile.
When the 'coon bit him I kicked it
and the thing reached out and grabbed
my leg. My dog grabbed him from behind
and snapped his neck without puncturing
its skin. He was a hell of a huntin' dog.
Made me a lot of money, too."

"So why'd you give it up, Ed?"

"My dog died."

"Why not get another one? Too much training?"

"I didn't want to waste my time with the impossible.
They say you only get 'coon dog in your life."

"And three good women."

"Nope. Only one."

We sat in silence for half a minute
pondering which one of us was right.

Thankfully a toll booth broke the silence.
Ed reached into his pocket and whipped out
the crisp dollar bill that'd bring us back to
where we belonged, whether or not
either of us were fully convinced anymore.


Currently reading:
"Poor White" by Sherwood Anderson.