THE PROBLEM WITH A RICH MAN

 “The problem with a rich man,” said Bob, and laughed, because Bob was the rich man, and everyone in town knew it. He had gone most of the way off the rocker since April, when his wife had been seen stepping into a light blue ’68 Coronet, “preserved perfect,” said Gerald Howard, who had been the one who had seen her stepping, and with a wink made it known that he meant both the car and Jeannette. For weeks after Bob spent more time than anyone thought advisable in places everyone went, the diner, the park, the stone porch of the ice cream shop. Too many people saw him for him to maintain his dignity, which had always been the source of his appeal, even more than his wealth. The time of excessive appearance was followed quick on by the time of sharp words hurled, in which Bob activated his membership in the dinner-party circuit, made sure that he was seated as an eligible single, and proceeded to berate the host and hostess. He called Fred Perlemutter a “day-trading fop” and Andie Perlemutter “someone’s memory of a good woman,” and it only got worse from there—French Wolf was “a jail sentence that hasn’t happened yet,” Louis Snodgrass had “so many ways of trying to distract you from the fact that he’s basically dead inside,” and Jocelyn Masters “never shut up, not for one god-loving second”— until one night at the Braysons he stood up with additional flourish, rattling china and silver both. Everyone held their breath for Phyllis Brayson, who was vulnerable in many respects, but Bob turned and wheeled and pointed at Gordon Howard, who he condemned as a “syphilitic traitor wrapped in rancid bacon.” “Harsh, but fair,” said Mrs. Howard, who escaped unscathed. Three days later was when Bob was found nude in the forest, babbling about the problem with a rich man, and also when he fought off the cop who found him, kicking the man harder than anyone thought he could. The cop, young, drowning in deference, held his fire until he knew that everyone would agree he had no choice, and the hit Bob with a new high-tech sonic stun weapon that a man even richer than Bob had paid to make part of the force’s base arsenal. Bob ended up on his back, staring eye-to eye with a burl on an oak that had fallen crossways into the lespedeza. 

 

©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas