Chapter 38

I had the big binoculars focused on the disturbance at the boathouse; no, not the German Uboat binoculars; the battleship pedestal mounted ones. I could lift them and slide the locking stem onto the mount, just. I'd never be able to hold them up to my eyes; the freaking things weigh 87 kilos. The pedestal and mounting plate were extra.

When I had to have the repairs to the bow done, I also had the tearing out the overhead of the master stateroom done so I could have the mounting plate reinforced to take the weight of the binoculars and that meant taking out the compartment side paneling and adding a second frame to distribute the forces. The binoculars ARE heavy.

That's what we'd been doing for the two weeks after the powwow ... fixing the damn boat. Grace broke it but I had to pay. Evidently, bull Grace in the harbor china shop rules don't apply. You know how that goes:

Lovely to look at,

Lovely to hold.

Once it's broken

Consider it sold

The other sign:

Children are my best customers.

Their parents buy all my broken treasures.

Ah, but since they had never actually been ON a battleship the binoculars are beautiful, all chrome and brass and shining clear glass. They're impervious to saltwater so they should be good here. They were under the carpet in the other crate at Gustafson's and still marked with their pre-war price tag.

They would be damned expensive in 1911; the 600gb price tag specified Nur 99,9 Feingold-Barren' (99.9 fine gold bullion only); about $2520.00 US gold certificates or bullion in 1911. Why they were even near the Great Lakes is a mystery; someone must have thought they'd be great on the bridge of an ore freighter. The mile and a half from the bayou to the boathouse was almost too close for focus.

I had managed to confuse Kenny badly enough that I paid twenty dollars for the other crated Zeiss binoculars, with the carpet thrown in and he paid the sales tax.

But I had to pay full price for the lawnmower I bought after the powwow.

A gas powered reel mower with one speed forward cost me thirty-six bucks plus a dollar for a five gallon gas-can. I groused about getting screwed. The gas to put in the can was twenty cents a gallon. A buck for a fill-up. Talk about high prices! Gas was 17 cents back home.

I know ... David ... you're rich. Why are you suddenly worried about fifteen cents? To be honest, I don't know; but I am.

Shit! I just became 'responsible.' I'm too young to be responsible. I want to go to school. Friday night go to the field and watch the Juniors and Seniors play football, drink hard cider, sneak a beer, sip a bit of wine, kiss a girl, watch a bonfire, snake dance to the bonfire, carve pumpkins and have fun. Christ! If I get 'responsible, ' I'll have to get good grades, study, maybe join the Boy Scouts, be thrifty, dress nice, be polite, go to church, find a job, pay back a bank loan so I can establish credit so I can buy a car, a house, a boat.

"David? You look like your best friend just died," Grace said, looking concerned.

"I had to pay 15 cents more for gas for the lawnmower here in Pentwater than I would have paid at the Shell station across the street at home."

"Fifteen Cents?" she asked, "David! You have a Three thousand, four hundred fifty-eight dollars and 17 cents a week allowance. You get more money a week than a line worker at Oldsmobile takes home in a year and you're worried about 15 cents? C'mon, David!"