Washington's Travels: The Buck Starts Here



  Washington’s Travels

  by Bobbi G

  Volume I

  The Buck Starts Here

  Copyright 2013

  Thank you for downloading this eBook. Please tell all your friends.

  This book may be not be reproduced, copied and/or distributed.

  to discover other works by Bobbi G.

  Thank you for your support.

  Bobbi G, a weekly columnist, has other anecdotes available for your reading pleasure:

  https://www.focusnewspaper.com/bobbig.php

  Other books and information on Bobbi G can be obtained through the author’s official website: www.BobbiGspeaks.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 - Circulation

  Chapter 2 - The Heist

  Chapter 3 - The Circus

  Chapter 4 - Southern Drawl

  Chapter 5 - County Fair

  Chapter 6 - Flea Market

  CHAPTER 1

  Circulation

  I was born, printed if you will, in early 2007. Agreeably, I’m looking a bit worn and tattered. And if you’ll indulge me, I’ll explain. You see, I have quite a story to tell.

  It all started when I arrived at a bank in the quaint, little town of Freeport, Maine. I knew my destination because I overheard the uniformed custodians on the armored truck discussing the day’s deliveries. Excited to be bundled with other brand new bills such as myself; crisp, clean, and ready for circulation I’d only heard rumors of life outside the mint. Not quite sure what to expect, however, I couldn’t wait to be of service in any way possible. And the endless possibilities intrigued me as to the monetary assistance I would be able to provide.

  Arriving at the bank, my sack was removed from the armored truck and placed in the vault where I stayed until the next morning when currency was removed from the vault and placed in teller drawers. Voices were saying it was a beautiful Wednesday morning and I couldn’t wait to know what a beautiful Maine morning felt like…and looked like, if I would be so lucky on my first day in circulation to catch a glimpse. As fate would have it, I was handed to the most endearing elderly woman when she cashed her Social Security check. Brimming with smiles and laughter, she placed me in her purse, which smelled of old leather and lavender. And thus my journey began…

  ****

  Sadly, it was a momentarily blissful relationship, as Martha (I’d heard the bank teller call her) left the bank and walked directly across the street to the market where she intended to purchase her weekly staples. Gathering necessities she hummed softly as she made her way through the store greeting everyone she passed in the aisle with “hello, dear” or, “good morning.” How delightfully cheerful Martha’s demeanor was as I hoped I would spend time getting to know her. At that moment a gentlemen’s voice spoke.

  “Martha darling, is that you?”

  Martha drew in a breath as she turned toward the voice and exclaimed, “Why, Henry you ol’ coot, you startled me,” she said laughing. “What has you at the market this morning? Where’s Eleanor?”

  “She’s down in her back again. Just thought I’d help out and pick up a few things for the pantry,” Henry said in a cheerful tone. “Not sure I shop as well as she does, but I’m giving it a try.”

  “Oh my goodness, did she go to Dr. Newberry?” Martha asked; concern for her friend accented in every syllable. “He’ll fix her right as rain, lickety-split.”

  “No, no, she hasn’t seen your son yet.” Henry said with an air of orneriness. “How is the good doctor doing anyway?” he then inquired.

  “Oh, you know Henry, with three kids and starting his own practice I just don’t know where he finds the time.” She chuckled, slightly embarrassed about suggesting her son. “Is Eleanor taking calls? I’ll ring as soon as I get home and see if she needs anything.”

  “Please do,” Henry urged. “She’d love to hear from you Martha. I’ll tell her to expect your call.”

  “Well, I suppose I’d better get this ice cream home or she’ll tan my hide.” Henry laughed. Martha and Henry continued chatting about Eleanor as they walked together toward the cashier.

  ****

  “That will be thirty-seven-forty-six, Mrs. Newberry.”

  “Dear, please call me Martha,” she requested of the cashier. “Goodness, prices aren’t what they used to be forty years ago when I started shopping here,” Martha sighed heavily, not of sadness…more melancholy. As if a lifetime of memories escaped in one breath. “Yet, I do need my weekly groceries. Here you are, dear.”

  As I was placed in the young girl’s hand with some of my peers I looked into Martha’s face framed in silver curls, tucked neatly under the floral hat she wore on sunny days. However fleeting my time with Martha, I’m honored to have assisted in purchasing her weekly essentials. As she handed me over to the clerk, she smiled as if giving a gift to a grandchild. I still miss the smell of lavender. Sigh.

  As expected, the market was busy that day; evidenced by the continuous ringing of cash registers tallying shoppers’ totals. Almost immediately I became the possession of a young woman with two small children, a boy and a girl. Hurriedly, she tossed me into her oversized pocket book with the rest of her change, where it smelled of stale perfume and chewing gum.

  Gathering her purchases, and her children, she ushered us out of the store. As soon as we walked through the glass front doors, the young boy rather noisily started complaining about wanting ice cream. In an effort to placate the child his mother offered to purchase a drink from the vending machine.

  “Tommy, we don’t have time for ice cream,” she explained. “Besides, it’s too hot. It’ll just melt in the car. How about a soda you and Chelsea can share?” his mother spoke evenly, disguising her frustration.

  “Okay…but can we have ice cream tomorrow?!” the young boy pleaded eagerly.

  “We’ll see,” his mom answered sounding distracted.

  Temporality frantic, I dreaded the thought of spending time in a vending machine with cold metal roughing up my still crisp edges. I could only imagine going through the blinding lighted currency indicator as panic started to ease the edges of my mind. Only to let out a huge sigh of relief when I was spared by her retrieving the correct change from the bottom of this oversized satchel I was being transported in.

  The ride home proved rather enlightening. Apparently, this young woman had been left to fend for herself and her children while her husband was away in the military. He was overseas and even though her words sounded positive for the sake of her children I sensed worry in her tone.

  “Mommy, when will daddy come home?” whined the younger child, Chelsea.

  “He has a job to do honey and we must be brave soldiers and wait until he gets his work done,” replied their mother.

  “But I want him home now!” her daughter wailed.

  One could almost feel her mother sigh. As I was beginning to feel sympathy for her, she suddenly realized the car needed gas and pulled abruptly into the corner gas station. Hastily dumping the contents of her purse onto the passenger seat, I was exposed and collected with other bills to pay the attendant.

  Regretfully, that’s when things became rather unpleasant. The attendant, a somewhat abrupt and unfriendly fellow, was filthy from head to toe and proceeded to smear me with a huge greasy thumb print as he took me from the outstretched hand of the young woman. Admittedly, I looked and smelled dreadful in an instant. Briefly I glimpsed the word “Spud” on his uniform before he crammed me into the cash register, which reeked of motor oil. Egads, I nearly passed out from the stench!

  Blessing of all blessings when Spud made change for the next customer and he pulled me
from the register with the opposite hand…no greasy thumb. Hurriedly gulping fresh air as a young man gingerly wadded me up and shoved me in his front pocket of his jeans, I was relieved. Yes, crumpled, yet blissfully quiet, I was hoping to take refuge for awhile. It had only been a few hours, yet circulation proved to be exhausting thus far. I suppose I was having an off day of it and hoped my comrades were faring better than I.

  Fortunately, this young man had just gotten off work and was on his way home. Turning up the radio as he sped out of the gas station I heard a crazy country tune about ‘let me check you for ticks.’ A rather interesting concept, I thought as he drove.

  Finally arriving at our destination, his apartment, the pants I was contained in were thrown on a heaping pile of dirty clothes as soon as he entered his bedroom. After what appeared to be days, I tried in vain to capture the young man’s attention.

  “Hello. Hello, are you out there?” I repeated to no avail.

  Sigh. I was forgotten.

  ****

  After what seemed like an eternity I was abruptly woken from my nap realizing he had decided to do his laundry. My mind reeled with the anticipation of finally being freed from my confinement.

  “Gads, boy don’t you check your pockets!” I shrieked as he tossed me into the washing machine with the other clothes.

  “Would it hurt? Would I wrinkle? Would the grease come out?”

  I, however, survived the unexpected trauma of the washing machine. By the way, I wouldn’t recommend the ‘spin’ cycle. My head is still reeling from the experience.

  And after been thoroughly toasted into complete dryness I gratefully welcomed the sound of the dryer buzzing, signaling the end of my ordeal. The pants, in which I was concealed, were folded and placed in yet another pile. To my dismay, he really had forgotten about me…again.

  Two weeks later, while practicing my meditation, I was jolted back into reality as the young chap’s over excitement became apparent when he hurriedly dressed for a date by grabbing the jeans in which I resided. As he drove to pick her up, he didn’t have the radio turned up and I in what sounded like a late model ’69 Mustang. I wish I could have gotten a better look at it, but I was still crumpled and cramped in the bottom of the front pocket. Calling her Julie when we arrived, I thought she smelled attractive. Although I am only relating to you what I was sensing from my confined space. She called him Frankie at one point, so I committed his name to my memory. Frankie and Julie were on a date. This could prove to be very interesting…and exciting.

  Arriving at what sounded like the local burger hang-out; even I must admit my mouth started watering. The most delicious aromas filled the air. Julie sounded very pleasant and expressly interested in this fellow Frankie. Their conversation was light and airy; and I must admit, a tad bit flirty.

  “You look beautiful tonight Julie and you smell wonderful.” Frankie gushed.

  “How sweet, thank you,” she said coyly. “You look very handsome yourself. Are you wearing cologne?” she asked.

  “Ah…no, I forgot to put some on. But I can buy some if you want me to!” he offered too eagerly.

  Egads boy, relax and enjoy the moment, or risk scaring the object of your attention away. Personal hygiene isn’t dinner conversation!

  “Don’t be silly. You needn’t to do that. Must just be the soap you used. It’s…um…very nice,” she said sounding embarrassed that she even brought it up.

  “This must be a first date,” I pondered, and with that I blushed at my eavesdropping.

  After dinner, as they were ready to leave, I sensed a bit of a panic as he searched for tip money. Anxiously putting his hands in all his pockets his embarrassment abated by relief as he retrieved me and placed me on the table. Yes, there I was…washed, crumpled and looking as if I had aged five years. However, I was proud of the job I had just been assigned…gratuity, for a meal well served.

  The waitress, a young girl in her early twenties, nonchalantly slid me in her apron where I managed to stay until closing finding it especially pleasing to find myself in new surroundings after almost three weeks in the young lover’s pocket. Left to my own thoughts, I could hear scattered bits of conversation as the waitress made her rounds with me in tow.

  An older couple was discussing a trip to Florida as soon as their daughter had her baby. Two gentlemen were tossing around the idea of going into business together. And a woman with an accent I could not ascertain was apparently talking to herself. At least it appeared that way. Upon further reflection, I’ve decided she must have been using a blue tooth or some other electronic device causing folks to appear to be speaking to no one actually present. Technology amuses me, all the gadgets humans have and they still rely on paper money.

  After her shift, she counted me out with the rest of her tips, sighed, and took me home only to place me in a coffee can over the fridge with many other bills patiently waiting to amount to a down payment on her first car. Truly an honor to be in such a position, as I stand firm in my vocation and will not fail to produce the desired results every time because, as the nature of my service, I know someday soon, I will be on the move again.

  “Wow, it sure is dark in here,” I noted.

  “Hmpf!”

  “Oh, excuse me. How long have you been here?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “That long, huh?”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Heist

  Perhaps car-buying day has arrived as the coffee can has been removed from its perch atop the fridge as we were nervously retrieved from our safe-keeping containment to be counted. Just to be sure there were enough of us, she counted three times. Making a neat pile each time; then her small, yet soft, hands gently placed us in an envelope which she put in her purse for safe keeping. We were off to buy a car and, I admit, I felt privileged to play a role in the purchase.

  Taking the bus, for, I’m sure, what the waitress hoped would be the last time; it deposited her a few blocks from her destination. Walking briskly at first, I noticed her paced started to slow as she approached the dealership. “She must be having doubts, I ascertained.” Yet, arriving at the glass door, she paused, only for a moment. Then letting out a deep breath, she pushed open the door and entered.

  “Wow, is that new paint?” I exclaimed! The odor was overpowering. The dealer showroom smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. They must have remodeled recently, I ascertained as she timidly walked across the carpet.

  Hearing the sound of other footfalls I realized there were numerous people in the room and someone was approaching. A man with a warm, friendly voice asked her if he could help her. She responded with the salesman’s name she had talked to on the phone. A few minutes later the intercom system crackled and the announcement was made.

  “Alex Johnson, you have a customer in the showroom. Alex Johnson, to the showroom, please,” came the broadcast.

  A few moments later, another male voice, this one younger and more eager, greeted her, “Cynthia, how are you today? I’ve had your car all cleaned up and even filled the gas tank!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” she stammered nervously as she pulled the envelope I was in out of her purse. I could feel her hand shaking as she spoke to the salesmen. “I’ve brought the down payment. It’s all there, five hundred dollars” she announced proudly.

  “I’m sure it is,” he said enthusiastically. “Just hang on to that for a moment Cynthia until we sign some papers. Then we’ll get Mr. Hastings in here,” he instructed her, motioning for her to sit down in one of the empty chairs in front of his desk. Alex, if I may use his first name, had a corner cubicle with a view of the used car lot. He asked her to look out the window to see her new, if slightly used, car. She let out a small gasp as she realized her dream of owning her own car was coming true then leaned over to sign some paperwork. I held my breath tightly, as the excitement was almost too much to bear.

  After the paperwork was completed, he led her towards the back of the showroom to Mr. Hastings in finance wh
ere she sat down and placed the envelope on her lap and held on tightly with both hands. Oh dear, her knees were shaking. She certainly was nervous. After a brief introduction, she handed her down payment to Fred Hastings, who counted us. Satisfied, excused himself to carry the envelope to the cashier. A very friendly lady who smelled of honeysuckle took us out of the envelope and counted again. Hearing the smile in her voice she thanked Fred and placed me in a leather pouch for the nightly bank deposit; proud of yet another deed of significant importance in someone’s life.

  ****

  The trip through the banking system didn’t last long as I was handed over to a soft spoken, wrinkled man in a plaid short-sleeve shirt that has seen better days. The teller called him Carl, and asked him to tell his wife hello. Carl, thank her graciously and left the bank with a friendly wave.

  When we arrived at his grocery store half an hour later, soft music was playing on an old radio he’d kept on the top shelf over the flour for better than thirty years. This, small, yet quaint, corner store smelled of cinnamon and…wait…was that lavender I smelled also? But there was also a trace of years of formed friendships, countless free candy for children, and even faint recollections of young lovers traveling through on their way to a future together. Oh, but the memories these aged walls must hold. This store had certainly given witness to many lives in its time on the corner. It was part of the history of this small town; part of everyone in the neighborhood.

  Going through the motions of what was probably decades of the same routine Carl very carefully, almost lovingly, put me in the cash register with the rest of the bills from the bank. The cash register was still the original one Carl and his wife bought when they opened the store in 1957. Carl was fond of saying, “If it ain’t broke, no need to buy a new one.” Speaking of those digital, high tech registers his wife wanted him buy. She kept saying it would be safer if they were ever robbed. But I must say, I agreed with Carl, it felt good to be placed in a drawer where so many countless peers before me had resided however fleetingly.