(Story for Writer’s Digest Contest #15 (750 words max)
Prompt: You find an envelope full of money in parking lot and decided to
spend it on an adventure.
Buster
A sparkly-new Escalade plowed through the snowy slush and splattered it all over
Buster, filling his coin box.
“Hey, you son-of-a-bitch!” Buster scooped at the icy grit that covered his coins,
as he scurried along West 34th Street, near Macy’s. He peered through fogy
windows seeking donors to his Florida relocation fund, but the light turned green.
He limped back to the intersection and pushed the crosswalk button in rapid
succession.
“Where are you sleeping tonight?” Some woman asked.
Startled, as no one ever spoke nicely to him, Buster’s right foot slipped off the
curb, submerging deep into the icy sludge. A car honked at him. Frigid water
gushed into his shoe. “Godd—”
A young woman dressed in a Salvation Army Missionary uniform stood staring at
him, apparently, expecting an answer not a curse.
Buster stepped back onto the curb. “Youngling, if Providence has his usual way
with me, then I’ll be inside Charlie Chang’s dumpster, waiting for a home
delivered meal.”
It was too late; Buster couldn’t avoid the flying projectile. It hit him in the gut.
“Ugh,” Buster groaned, falling backwards, dropping his box of coins. He looked
up for the perpetrator of this calloused assault.
A jovial appearing person—in that same Escalade—had his window down and
taunted, “Merry Christmas, Buster.”
Accustomed to dirty tricks, Buster rolled, fumbled for the package, to throw it
back, but it was too heavy, so he flipped the rascal “the bird,” as he yelled, “You
godd—”
A loud bell rang in his left ear.
“Holy Jes—”
The missionary rang her bell louder. Then she extended a gloved hand, but
Buster refused it.
“In light of my regretful behavior, I cannot accept your abundant generosity;
however, I could use your assistance in the retrieval of my assets. Your Lord has
cursed me with farsightedness, and the First President Bush issued me a
damaged leg from the first Gulf War.”
“I’d be happy to assist you, Mister….”
“Buster.”
“MaryAnn Potter.” She offered her hand.
Buster refused it.
“Is Buster your first or last name?”
Buster stood proudly, straitened his wool cap, pulled the flaps tight over his ears,
and then tied the drawstrings under his chin. “People just call me Buster. You
know as in, ‘Get off the bench, Buster.’ or ‘Go stand somewhere else, Buster.’”
He reached for his soggy coin box at the same time Miss Potter did. She smelled
like a new bar of soap.
“Buster, it is,” she said, as she gathered his scattered coins.
Buster kicked the tightly wrapped envelope that had knocked him over. It slid
past Miss Potter and landed in the gutter in the slush. With his box in hand, he
stepped on to the edge of the curb, and waited for the traffic to stop, palming the
crosswalk button.
“We have clean beds at the Mission.”
“Child, after a restful night at Charlie Chang’s, I’ll be off for Fort Lauderdale, but I
figure I’ll need a full box of coins for that.”
“Your lips are blue, so I must insist.”
“No, no, I fear a new calamity might befall me, as you are clearly an agent of the
Almighty Himself, Who has taken a personal interest in cursing me.” Buster kept
a safe distance from Miss Potter. He raised his ice-water-filled shoe and shook it.
“I, in a display of vast generosity, will forgive your transgressions; however,
please take your leave of me.”
“All right, but aren’t you curious about the package?”
“Not in the least.”
She retrieved the rectangular bundle, which was the size of a loaf of bread. She
ripped at the corner. “Why, it’s money.”
Buster squinted but could only see green.
“They’re one-hundred dollar bills!” Miss Potter said.
“Hey, I wouldn’t touch that if I were you. Fingerprints.”
Miss Potter inspected the package. “Look.” She pointed to some black lines on
the white wrapper and then she read, “Sorry about sloshing you, Buster. Take
this, we won the Lottery. Merry Christmas!!!”
She offered Buster the package. “This is yours.”
He handed her his coin box and took the package. “I think I’m dreaming;
because, if I were dead, I’d be tormented with the fires of hell. Here, you take it.”
“Oh no, it has your name on it, Buster.”
Buster raised his arms, offering in to Miss Potter, but she shook her head.
“You take it. Buster isn’t really my name.”
The End
Buster
(2008) (Unpublished)
A Short Story by Russell Traughber
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