Riding High
by Charles Clayton
It had been a hard road. Hostile
takeovers. Congressional hearings. A bit of pay to play down in
Jefferson County, and the constant threat of investigation by the
Securities and Exchange Commission. Things looked bleak for awhile,
but he pulled through, just like always. Even Madoff and Kennyboy Lay
had dropped the ball when things got too hot. Not him. Not ever. He
was tough. He was a maverick. He was a goddamn cowboy banker, and
nobody could ride out the storms the way he did.
But he’d had
enough. He claimed his bonus, cashed in his impressive stock options,
and headed west. If I can make it in New York, he laughed to himself,
then I can make it anywhere, even in the rugged Colorado mountains.
He picked up the ranch for a song—35 million, with water rights and
a 10,000 square foot ranch cabin—and settled into his new life of
fly-fishing and horseback riding.
The property itself was perfect, and
not too far from the Koch place—now there’s a fellow who knew how
to wheel and deal a good land swap with the Feds. His love life was
good, now that his lawyers had finally settled things with his
ex-wife. No serious health problems now that he’d cut back on the
cocaine. Back in touch with his daughter too, something he thought
might never happen. All seemed well, yet something wasn’t quite
right. Something was missing. One final piece of the puzzle.
It was the trip to Aspen that did it. A
bit of window shopping with the new missus—a hot piece of ass he’d
met through the realtor who handled the ranch sale—and there it
was: the mother of all belt buckles. Rugged yet classy. Rich yet down
to earth. A perfect combination of high finance and high mountain
living that symbolized his success…Outlaw Chic. He had arrived.
Buckle Under
by Johanna DeBiase
He decided to retire to Ecuador
because he had spent the last thirty years of his life working in a
cubicle, because his pension was measly and he had no savings,
because it sounded exotic and his life had never sounded exotic.
He did not realize until he arrived in
Ecuador (after selling all of his belongings) that everyone spoke
Spanish. He felt stupid for not thinking of this. He did not speak a
lick of Spanish. He could have taken a class but he was cheap and
instead he moved into a neighborhood referred to as Gringolandia and
frequented ex-pat bars and cafes like Inca Bar, Cafe Austria and
Eucalyptus. He went to the mall and ate at KFC and Burger King.
One day, he went to the market where a
man was selling leather belts. He saw a buckle with a silver bull
encrusted in diamonds. At closer look, he saw that it said Ralph
Lauren. He knew the name of the designer because his ex-wife coveted
his clothes in fashion magazines though they could never afford them. Fortunately, the buckle was labeled with a price since he did not
know how to ask. Forty-five dollars seemed extraordinarily
inexpensive for a fancy brand name. It was a lot for him, but he
bought it anyway and felt like a king. If only his ex-wife could see
him.
That night at the Inca Bar, he talked
with fellow chain-smoking Americans about life in Ecuador. One
over-weight woman commented about the unfortunate high-expense of
imports.
“What do you mean?” he asked,
“Everything seems so cheap here.”
“Well, yeah, groceries or services
like taxi rides or Spanish tutors, but anything you want to buy that
was imported like electronics or clothing has been taxed the hell out
of.”
He began to sweat nervously. When he
returned to his room, he immediately took out his new belt buckle and
smiled at the sparkle and shine that entranced him into buying it in
the first place. But as he fitted it onto his favorite belt, his
smile turned around. He noticed something peculiar that he did not
see before, the spelling: Ralf Lauren.
Noon Fishing Report
by Robin Powlesland
Tommy H on tennis socks
and lobster flattened between
kraut and miracle whip
road sign become water way signs
and we drive up and down
back and forth - two lost fronds
slipping between the palms
Noon Fishing Report
by Robin Powlesland
Tommy H on tennis socks
and lobster flattened between
kraut and miracle whip
road sign become water way signs
and we drive up and down
back and forth - two lost fronds
slipping between the palms
