Last night I was
talking to my friend CJ and it looks like he will probably be coming
over this weekend. We also talked about my writing, and the subject
came up about how many non-sci-fi fantasy stories I've written. I
realized it was little to none and I could only remember two on this
blog and when we discussed them he pointed out that they were still
fanciful and still only technically rooted in reality. And I thought
back to my creative writing courses and even then I didn't write much
that wasn't sci-fi fantasy. Inventing worlds and settings has grown
to be talent and its been what I've stuck with.
He said he'd
thought it would help me grow as a writer if I wrote something that
wasn't fantasy or sci-fi to go out of my comfort zone and develop
outside of fantasy and sci-fi workings for a moment. So that's what I
decided to do for today. Today's flash fiction will be grounded in
reality. No dragons, magic, aliens, sentient-emotion having robots,
teleporting stuff or other dimensions. I hope this doesn't turn off
any of my usual sci-fi and fantasy readers too much but don't worry I
tried to make this a good story just like I do all my other stories.
So enjoy this
reality based flash fiction!
Different
Kinds of Money
“Honey, I
bought you a pearl necklace today.” Mr. Johnson said with a smile.
His police uniform was still dirty from the day's patrols. He lived in
the year 1925 in the heart of a developing American city. At that
time the Eighteenth Amendment was in effect, banning the manufacture,
sale or transportation of alcohol. He was one of the officers hired
to enforce prohibition. His patrol route brought him through the
slums of the town covering him in dirt and went to the developed
upper-class parts of town where he bought the pearls.
His wife first
responded with a glare. She was wearing the oldest dress she had. The
one she had before they had gotten when they were first married. It was ragged and worn. She
owned much fancier, more comfortable clothing, all purchased by the
officer.
The house they
lived in had clean, fancy, red carpeting and strong, expensive wood
walls. The officer paid to have the most modern appliances and
lighting installed in the home. All the furniture decorating the home
was either the latest in professional crafting or a fine antique. And
the beds in the home were of the finest material that guaranteed every night was
a perfect night's sleep filled with lovely dreams.
The officer
continued to smile. “What's wrong honey?”
“Which money
did you buy it with?” she asked him.
The officer's
face turned from a smile to a scowl. “You're back to this again!”
“Yes.” she
responded with a tone like a flat note. “Which money is it? Is it
the money from your job, or the money the others pay you?”
The officer
then slowly placed the pearls on the cabinet in the front hall to try to
pretend he was calmer than he actually was. “Y'know I'm tried of
your garbage.” he his voice began to escalate. Not reaching a yell,
but just beneath one. “You wear that old dress as a sort of 'silent
protest' to all this money I'm getting for us. Trying to feel all
high and mighty and morally higher than me. But really you love the
money and everything I'm getting for you!” he stared her down. “You
wear that old dress because it's easy. You use all the appliances.
You wear all the fancy clothes around company to impress them. And
you sleep in the fancy bed I bought.” the husband then walked up
close to her and looked her eye to eye. “If you really want to
protest all the 'dirty money' I'm making then do it the hard way.
Stop wearing the fancy clothes. Do things without the fancy
appliances. Sleep on the floor. Don't just wear that old dress when
it's convenient.”
Mrs. Johnson's
gut twisted. Her husband was right. That's all she was doing.
Lecturing him about using dirty money to get them all those wonderful
things just by wearing some old dress they had before he had gotten
them rich. And the dirty money didn't come murder or theft. Mr.
Johnson's trick was simple. In the era of Prohibition people still
drank plenty of alcohol even though it was illegal to make and sell
it. Mr. Johnson was supposed to be one of the officers catching the
people making and selling it. But instead he was accepting bribes to
tip the makers and sellers off as to when the police were raiding
establishments and searching for alcohol so they could more easily
hide all their drinks and “transform” back into the regular
restaurants they were pretending to be or abandon their stills if
they were makers.
Not murder, but
still illegal nonetheless.
The officer's
wife then yelled, “Fine, then I will sleep on the floor tonight!
And I won't use the appliances!” Dinner that night was awkward and
plain. The only thing she could make without the appliances was
sandwiches. No sources of heat in the house but those appliances.
And that night she did sleep on the floor. Mr. Johnson checked and he
couldn't believe that she actually did.
And when she
awoke the next morning he told her, “Do you really think that one
night will convince me? And don't you remember the days of that old
little rat town that I policed before Prohibition? And when you had
to chop wood to make fire for that chimney and that rotten stove I
saved up for months? And those old beds that were probably worse than
the carpeted floor you slept on last night. I'm giving us a wonderful
life just by telling some people when to tuck away their booze. It's
not that big of a deal. Why do you have such a problem with that?”
The wife
frowned. “I don't like all the lying.” She then shed a tear. “And
what happens if you get caught?”
“Honey.”
Mr. Johnson said his face turning to an expression of both fear and
sadness. “I didn't want to say it to you, but I'm in deep. I help
some dangerous people. This is some expensive things we have. I don't
just tip off the little guys. I help the big ones too. And if I
suddenly stop, even if I don't turn the criminals in, they will think
I'm going to and they'll probably silence me one way or the other.
And they'll get suspicious if I stop taking payments.”
“So.” Mrs.
Johnson frowned. “We're trapped?”
“Yes.” Mr.
Johnson responded. The room filled with silence. Mostly since they
both knew that in ten minutes he had to leave to tell the current
“clients” about the upcoming raids.
She shed
another tear. “There has to be another way.”
Mr. Johnson
thought for a minute then responded. “I can't get us out of this
hole but I think at least maybe we can turn the dirty money clean.”
“What do you
mean?” she asked.
“I know it's
a cheap way to clear our conscience, but we could give the dirty
money to charity.” Mr. Johnson explained.
“Alright
we'll do that.” the wife smiled.
And so that's
what Mr. Johnson did. He spent the rest of Prohibition “cleaning”
dirty money. Plus they sold all the luxuries they had besides what
added up to his honest wages.
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