My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

scent of freshly cut grass pours in, washing Heidi’s bottom from my nostrils.

“Mr. Ford?” the ancient couple asks in unison. It’s hot they’re sweating, bundled in their Sunday clothes.

xes. I feel gravity pulling my softening dick down. “We’re from the Healthy Retriever Credit Agency,” the old woman says, watching my dick move in my pants. “May we have a couple minutes of your time?”

They’re old. They look as if they’re going to die. What am going to do, slam the door in their faces? “Sure, come on in.”

They each lift their feet over the threshold as if they’re stepping over a great chasm. I direct the woman to the wingback chair. get a folding chair from the closet for the gentleman, whom I into the seat. I stand. “How can I help you?” ,

Father Time clears his throat, tries to speak. Nothing comes

He clears his throat again. “We’re here on behalf of Inter-Bank, as well as Ala-Corp,” he says, reading his papers. seems you owe a total of…” He can’t find the figure on the He struggles for it, adjusts his glasses. Gives up. “I’m as blind

Jose Feliciano, but without the musical background,” he

“Can I help you?” I offer.

Whistler’s mother thinks I’m talking to her. “Do you have water?” She looks ashen, dizzy, not long for this world.

“Yes, of course,” I say, hustling to the kitchen. I grab ice put into glasses and see the frozen credit cards in containers. God, these people are bill collectors? They make

Carbonada look like a candy striper. They’re Mesozoic at best. This is terrible. They shouldn’t be out in the Texas heat, hunting down delinquent bill payers who buy BMWs. I feel so guilty. “Here,” I say gently, offering them cold water. “I think I owe close to fifteen thousand dollars. Unless you count the balance on the car I recently bought, which is financed through my credit union. Then it’s about forty thousand total.”

“OK,” the man answers.

“Yes, probably,” the woman adds.

“Are you two married?”

“Sixty-one years,” the woman responds, lacking the enthusiasm I’d expect from such a statement.

These poor people. They’ve got to be over eighty years old, and they’re working this horrendous job where desperate, bankrupt people must scream at them, spit on them, and treat them like shit. I’ll bet it’s this lousy savings-and-loan crisis. I’ll bet they lost all their retirement savings, and this is how they survive. Don’t they know McDonald’s hires senior citizens? They could work in an air-conditioned building, and no one would scream or spit on them for offering up Big Macs and soft-serve cones. I can’t stand it. I run into the kitchen, open the freezer, grab the Tupperware, turn it over and pop out the large bowls of ice. I carry them to the creditors. “Look! I’m serious about not going into any more debt. I’ve frozen my cards. And I’ll get you the money, I promise!”

“You will?” the man asks, surprised.

“I will,” I decree, sincerely, balancing the ice hunks in my freezing hands. “Do they give you a bonus for making a quick collection?” I picture them being able to retire on the bonus from my speedy payoff, living a life of relaxation, wintering in Scottsdale, summering in Vancouver.

“They?” the man asks, ice water dribbling a little down his craggy chin.

“Whoever owns the company,” I say.

“We own the company,” the old woman says. “We got tired of cruise ships and grandchildren and vacations and watching our stocks split and our dividends be reinvested. So we started a business.” She downs her ice water.

I want to stick a vacuum hose down her throat and suck it back up. Then I want to throw it in her baggy face. “How nice for you,” I chirp, pert and perky as I possibly can be, my hands too cold to ever stroke my dick again, these two dinosaurs who deserved to die in the ice age with all the rest of them smiling in my miserable face.

To think, these old fossils cost me a yard-boy orgasm!

Three days later, Amity comes back from her work trip.

“I thought you were supposed to get home yesterday?” I ask, pouring us glasses of sun tea I brewed on the back porch.

“We got rerouted. Extra night in Memphis. I got fucked by the ghost of Elvis!”

“How was it?”

“He drugged me. I can’t remember,” she says, taking her glass of tea.

She walks to the bathroom. I follow her and sit on the tub while she sits on the toilet. As her stream of pee shoots into the bowl, i tell her about the blood-sucking dinosaurs that came calling money.

“I practically fed them and clothed them,” I say. “I wanted buy them a cottage and pay for their medications.”

Amity whips off a few squares of toilet paper, wipes once, flushes. “My bill collector was this nervous little Japanese she laughs while rinsing her cervical cap, a European form control she finds superior to any available in the States. “I let do his spiel; then I threw him down on the hardwoods and the shit out of him. Raped him, baby!” Riped him, bye-beet “I never got another notice.” She places the cervical cap in a small bowl and fills the bowl with mint mouthwash.

I motion to the mouthwash. “Does that make your Lady smell like pussy mint

“Pussymint!” Amity screams. She heads back to the couch in the sitting room.

“Wait,” I say, following her. “I haven’t told you the worst part about these bill people. They came while the yard boys were here.”

“Harry saw the yard boys,” Amity announces, plopping onto the couch.

She lies down on one end, I on the other, our legs touching as we face each other. “When the two thousand year old couple knocked on the door, I was jacking off to the yard boys. I swear to God, my pants were around my ankles, and I was fantasizing about getting laid by the gorgeous tattooed moose with the weed whacker.”

“Harry, we’re going to have to put a cervical