A Matter of Trust
Bev Vines-Haines
The old couple gazed at me with watery blue eyes.  They held hands, both trembling.  “Sweetie,” the tiny woman said.  “Of course we’ll help you.”

It was that easy.  Every time.  An hour later I had their nest egg and they had hands filled with phony war bonds.  I got the idea from a drawer in my Grannie’s kitchen.  About thirty war bonds just strewn in among the warranties, string balls and screwdrivers.  How could she be so careless?  I took them one at a time and cashed them in.  I’m not sure she knows to this day.

See, I work in downtown New York.  Wall Street area.  We have these amazing new machines that copy anything.  So I buy the yellowish card stock, draw and type the legalese and voilà!   I’m in the bond business.

Would have worked forever, I think. If not for that old woman. She was a fighter.  Sent her son to court me.  The handsome Duane.  Took almost a year.  Flowers, candy, even fancy nylon stockings.   Worked his way into my heart and then my bank account.  Got every cent.  Thought I was turning into a grifter when I was just a chump like all those others. 

But trust me.  I’m still thinking.  Planning.  Getting ideas.  And those machines? They get more sophisticated every day.  I’m looking for that paper they use for printing money.  No need to be a bond girl if you own the bank.





First published: August, 2013
© All rights reserved by the writer
comments to the writer:
doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com