Digging For Gold

I WAS sitting in front of the computer screen in the nook and cranny kitchen, doom scrolling, as I often do, trying to figure out how to pay the rent, feed the cat, pay the water and elecitric bills (losing both heat,light,and water at the same time is a real bitch - showerng at the homeless shelter is inconvenient), and have a little cash left over for the casino, when, yet again,a message popped up on the Facebook screen. In our trailor park, the toilets don't always flush, and holes in the ceiling often go unpatched for weeks, but, we have internet service available, which most of us have, even though our "neighborhood" houses people most of whom can afford neither cell phone nor broad band. America's forgotten underclass. But most of us find a way. The Mexican lady in the unit next door turns tricks on weekends and cleans the houses of the wealthy elite during the week. As for myself, I can move a kilo in less than a day, providing good smoke to my fellow welfare recipients in our state where there is neither legal medicinal nor recreational marijuana. When I noticed that the message was from still another young, attractive, lady, I suddenly morphed, as if by divine providence, into a billionaire living in Holmby Hills. I quickly, almost automatically checked, and soon discerned that yes, yet again, the greeting was from an oatensibly very attractive, probably nineteen or twenty year very young lady. The usual scenario ensued, predictably. First the flattery, then the interview. "Hi handsome! I notice on your profile (I don't have a profile, never have,and don't want one) that you live near me. (There is no information available about where I live) Do you mind chatting? Here's my picture. Can you send me yours? How old are you? Married? Single? What do you do for a living." I have no picture, I reply, because I am rather well known, and prefer not to attract even more attention. I tell the truth about my age: sixty eight.That's where the honesty ends. Instead of saying "retired custodian, current drug dealer, living on Social Security and food stamps, never married", I inform her that I am approaching my retirement, from the Chairmanship of a fortune five Hundred company, separated and in court, frequently traveling, when not at the country club or corporate headquarters. Due to national security concerns, I am not at liberty to divulge the identity of the corporation I chair. I can sense, as usual, that we are inching closer to the actual purpose of her message, which is, of course, moeny. She springs it on me even faster than they normally do. Can you do me a favor,sweetie, she inquires? Maybe, I retort. Sensing an easy mark, she plunges straight ahead. "Can you send me some money, so I can buy a new phone card, so we can keep talking? And, since we know each other better now, would you maybe send enough to buy me a plane ticket to come stay with you?" Amazing, their brazen hustling, which they inevtibaly seem to think well concealed, being thinly, transparently concealed, couched in conspicuously feinged romantic interest. I never met a twenty year old lady online who didn't proclaim her enduring interest in older men, and, after all, age is but a number. Oh, and then too, our love connection is so plainly obvious. We,says she, are clearly a match made in heaven, All the tired cliches. I would love nothing more than to wire you a few thousand, I say, but, my girlfriend, with whom I might soon split, must not find out, for she would try to milk me evern more than she already do just for starters But their are complications. But if I can pry a few thousand loose from my disretionary account without notice, we're in business. Be patient. And don't call me,I'll call you.