Episode 4: Black Market

It’s a little known fact that there’s a huge black market in the United States for senior citizens. Well, not that the black market sells senior citizens (they’re not worth that much, no matter how much they try to deny it), and I didn’t mean the USSC (United States of Senior Citizens, though that would probably be a much happier place). I mean that senior citizens like to spend their hard earned Wal-mart Greeter cash on a black market targeted specifically at them.

“Wanna buy a Rascal?”

You’ve never truly experienced senior citizen life until you’ve had an old man in a trench coat come up to you at Bingo, pull you into a secluded corner, and whisper that into your ear. Men in the throes of midlife crises buy Harleys; forty years later, they shell out money for a Rascal 625, with a top speed of 8 (count ‘em: 8) miles per hour and a range of 30 miles.

I wanted one with a passion.

I looked around the Bingo room to see if anyone was within hearing distance, then I turned back to the man. “You got a 625?”

His eyes shifted to either side, then he nodded. “I even got the deluxe lighting package.”

My mouth had lost all moisture, and I sucked on my dentures while I tried to appear reluctant. Karl had gotten his hands on a Segway last month, and I’d love to four-wheel right over his old carcass. “How much?” I asked.

“Ten grand.”

“Ten grand? What does it do--grow in water?”

“It’s back ordered for five years from the company. You want it or not?”

That called for some more denture sucking. What I really wanted to do was take the guy out back and relieve him of a few pints of blood, then ride off to glory on the Rascal. “Do you do layaway?” I finally asked.

“What do you think I am? Sears and Roebuck? I take cash, though I’ve started a new service where you can sign away your Social Security to cover the remaining balance.”

“Let me see it,” I said. “I’m not just going to shell out money for a promise.”

He led me behind the church building where the Bingo crowd me and up to a large red van. Scanning the area one more time for witnesses, he opened up the back doors, and I saw it.

It was even in black.

I put my hand on the man’s shoulder. “Look into my eyes,” I said.

He frowned at me. “What is this?”

“Look into my eyes.” This had to work.

“Are you--” His eyes locked onto mine, and he stopped and stared at me.

“Deeper,” I said.

He was silent, but still staring.

“Deeper. You are under my command. You will give me the Rascal. You will not remember this. The Rascal is mine. Give it to me. Give me--”

The man laughed. “Are you taking all your medication, buddy? I can cut you a deal on that, too, you know.” He laughed again. “Who do you think you are? Obi-wan Kenobi?”

I sighed. That approach had always worked when I was feeding regularly. “I can’t get the money right now,” I said. “But could you hold it for me for a week?”

The old man stared at me, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he tried to maintain a cool tough-guy appearance despite is pencil neck, bald head and age spots. “You got one week,” he said. “After that, no promises.”

He slammed the door, walked up to the driver’s side, and got in. I watched the red taillights until they disappeared around the corner.

That Rascal would be mine.

Oh yes.

It would.

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