Uncle Who?

by Old Man with a Pen

Copyright© 2015 by Old Man with a Pen

Fiction Story: A bit of whimsey brought about by a bite of moldy bread.

Tags: Fiction  

I check the mail once a week ... I have instant pay on the KUB, AT&T and I was turned down for Jury Duty three years ago ... because my place of employment.

Employees of Ms. Kitty's Adult Toys and Movies Emporium didn't meet with the High Standards of a God Fearing Community ... so said the judge.

I was/am a sex worker.

Sounds obscene, doesn't it? More fun than a Ministers Convention, certainly. But ... there are many new visitors to the store during the conventions. A wonderful job ... and I meet the most interesting people.

As I said, I check the mail once a week ... unless the postman sets a basket by the box. He/she never has but discounting such a situation is foolish. Possible is possible ... it could happen.

On this occasion ... the occasion being recycle pick up day ... I was thumbing through with one hand and depositing with the other hand all the junk mail that mailers seem to think I read.

I used to slip a pound of sand into "Postage Guaranteed by Recipient" envelopes but now I recycle the paper. Those recipients don't send me junk mail now.

This particular letter was a LETTER ... not some multicolored extravaganza promising the moon if I would only...


With my FULL Name under that, the complete address and the correct ZIP.

Up in the left hand corner resided the name of a prominent Michigan Law Firm. Lo these many years ago, I lived in Michigan. Now I live where it's warm.

'I wonder who thinks I owe?'

Curiosity overcame caution and I slit the envelope.

From the desk of ... blah, blah, blah, acting for the attorney for the estate.

'Hmm? Who died?' I sighed and unfolded the letter. A blue rectangle fluttered to the ground. I stepped on it.

Enclosures get short thrift from me.

Mr. Austin:

Enclosed find a check from the solicitors acting on the orders of the Last Will and Testament of one George Arthur George, Deceased. Within 90 (ninety) days of receipt, you,... insert my name ... must present your body and bonafides to the office detailed below. BLAH BLAH BLAH. Reading of the will ... blah blah blah ... sole survivor ... blah blah blah ... significant sum ... blah blah blah ... government ... blah blah blah ... default. Flight ... blah blah blah ... booked...

The check I was grinding underfoot was immediately picked up ... stared at pop eyed ... and cashed. Significant sum ... if it was more than this ... significant is not the term I would use. Neither would abundant ... glorious might fit. Ain't no way I'm depositing this ... fucking IRS.

After several shots of my favorite emotion settler I called my boss.

"Omar ... is there someone who can fill for me for about two weeks?"

People in the next county were aware of Omar's displeasure.

"I have the time," I said. Four years without a single day off ... not sick time or vacation.

So I called Denver. The little old ladies who owned this store and 11 others were interested in my lack of vacation and my accumulated sick time. They would send their trouble shooter to fill in.

"He/she is a nice girl/guy. Put Omar on the phone."

I approached the concierge, (information) gave my name and situation. He called, discovered that, Yes, there was a First Class ticket through Hawaii fueling at Pago Pago Airport, Samoa and Fua'amotu Airport, Tonga on the way to Auckland Airport, New Zealand ... which isn't in Auckland ... it's located south in Mangere.

The man in black held a sign AUSTIN.


"You," and he looked at a pad in his hand, "David James Austin?"


"Date of Birth?"

"May 8th, 1942."

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