far.
“And if she ever dared talk back to her momma or daddy—two minutes at least.”
Collier chewed his lip a few seconds more, then insisted, “Take it off!”
Mrs. Butler complied, clearly amused. Collier’s crimped finger was red above the joint. “Aw, but you barely done thirty seconds, Mr. Collier.”
He wagged his hand. “That hurt like hell…”
“I’ll bet’cha it did. That’s why little girls didn’t act up much in the good old days. A couple minutes with the clip was all the discipline they needed. Wasn’t uncommon for a little girl to wear it five minutes for usin’ profanity, or gettin’ sent home from the schoolhouse.”
“Five minutes?” Collier objected. “In this day and age, they’d call that child torture.”
“Um-hmm. But I dare say, if our teachers used these clips in the schools today, we wouldn’t be havin’ all these problems we see on the news.” She put the bizarre clip back in the case. “I’m sure you agree.”
Collier couldn’t dredge a reply. “But those clips were only used on girls?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the boys?”
A self-assured snicker. “When boys misbehaved, their daddy’d simply take ’em out to the woodshed for a thrashin’.”
“Ah. Of course.” Collier rubbed his finger. He was a bit pissed by the history lesson. That hurt like hell! he wished he could bark at her. But her next gesture deleted the incident.
She unfastened her top button, then vigorously fanned the V of her blouse—which only revealed more of the awesome bosom.
“I keep forgettin’ to turn the a/c up higher this time of day,” she said. The sun was beating in through the high front windows. “Are you hot, Mr. Collier?”
Only below the belt, he thought. The image of the flesh of her bosom and the deep cleavage stoked him. “A little, now that you mention it.”
“I’ll take care of that presently.” She kept puffing the blouse; Collier could see a mist of sweat frosting the skin within.
Something else caught his eye in the last case: a pale gray slip of paper that looked like an old bank check. He squinted.
RECEIVED OF : Mr. N. P. Poltrock, AGENT OF THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD COMPANY , Fifty DOLLARS .
“Wow,” Collier remarked when he noted the check’s handwritten date. Sept. 16, 1862. “What an old document, and it looks in perfect shape.”
Mrs. Butler stopped puffing air through her cleavage. Her expression soured. “A paycheck from Gast’s damned railroad. But, yes, it is quite old.”
Gast again. The very mention of anything related to him corrupted her disposition.
“It’s just terribly interesting, isn’t it?”
“What’s that, Mr. Collier?”
“A piece of paper signed by someone during the Civil War.”
“We prefer to call it the War of Northern Aggression,” she insisted.
“But wasn’t it Southern aggression that actually started the war?” Collier said and immediately thought better of it. “It was the Confederacy that bombarded Fort Sumter.”
“But it was the North, Mr. Collier, who begged for it by charging high tariffs on cotton exports,” she snapped.
“I see…” Collier looked at the check again, imagining it being signed nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, when the solidity of the nation was dangling by a thread.
“Where is that silly child with your bags?” she asked, frowning at the door.
“I better go help her. They’re pretty heavy—”
“No, no, please. Believe me, it’s a thrill for the poor thing. It’ll tickle her pink to carry a celebrity’s bags.”
Collier frowned when she wasn’t looking. I was a minor celebrity at best, and now I’m a has-been celebrity. He didn’t have the fortitude to tell her his show was being canceled. Then the myth would be shattered, and all I got is the myth…
The bell at the desk rang. Collier noticed two guests—a couple in their thirties. Tourists, he discerned. A camera slung around the man’s neck. He was nondescript
“And if she ever dared talk back to her momma or daddy—two minutes at least.”
Collier chewed his lip a few seconds more, then insisted, “Take it off!”
Mrs. Butler complied, clearly amused. Collier’s crimped finger was red above the joint. “Aw, but you barely done thirty seconds, Mr. Collier.”
He wagged his hand. “That hurt like hell…”
“I’ll bet’cha it did. That’s why little girls didn’t act up much in the good old days. A couple minutes with the clip was all the discipline they needed. Wasn’t uncommon for a little girl to wear it five minutes for usin’ profanity, or gettin’ sent home from the schoolhouse.”
“Five minutes?” Collier objected. “In this day and age, they’d call that child torture.”
“Um-hmm. But I dare say, if our teachers used these clips in the schools today, we wouldn’t be havin’ all these problems we see on the news.” She put the bizarre clip back in the case. “I’m sure you agree.”
Collier couldn’t dredge a reply. “But those clips were only used on girls?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the boys?”
A self-assured snicker. “When boys misbehaved, their daddy’d simply take ’em out to the woodshed for a thrashin’.”
“Ah. Of course.” Collier rubbed his finger. He was a bit pissed by the history lesson. That hurt like hell! he wished he could bark at her. But her next gesture deleted the incident.
She unfastened her top button, then vigorously fanned the V of her blouse—which only revealed more of the awesome bosom.
“I keep forgettin’ to turn the a/c up higher this time of day,” she said. The sun was beating in through the high front windows. “Are you hot, Mr. Collier?”
Only below the belt, he thought. The image of the flesh of her bosom and the deep cleavage stoked him. “A little, now that you mention it.”
“I’ll take care of that presently.” She kept puffing the blouse; Collier could see a mist of sweat frosting the skin within.
Something else caught his eye in the last case: a pale gray slip of paper that looked like an old bank check. He squinted.
RECEIVED OF : Mr. N. P. Poltrock, AGENT OF THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD COMPANY , Fifty DOLLARS .
“Wow,” Collier remarked when he noted the check’s handwritten date. Sept. 16, 1862. “What an old document, and it looks in perfect shape.”
Mrs. Butler stopped puffing air through her cleavage. Her expression soured. “A paycheck from Gast’s damned railroad. But, yes, it is quite old.”
Gast again. The very mention of anything related to him corrupted her disposition.
“It’s just terribly interesting, isn’t it?”
“What’s that, Mr. Collier?”
“A piece of paper signed by someone during the Civil War.”
“We prefer to call it the War of Northern Aggression,” she insisted.
“But wasn’t it Southern aggression that actually started the war?” Collier said and immediately thought better of it. “It was the Confederacy that bombarded Fort Sumter.”
“But it was the North, Mr. Collier, who begged for it by charging high tariffs on cotton exports,” she snapped.
“I see…” Collier looked at the check again, imagining it being signed nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, when the solidity of the nation was dangling by a thread.
“Where is that silly child with your bags?” she asked, frowning at the door.
“I better go help her. They’re pretty heavy—”
“No, no, please. Believe me, it’s a thrill for the poor thing. It’ll tickle her pink to carry a celebrity’s bags.”
Collier frowned when she wasn’t looking. I was a minor celebrity at best, and now I’m a has-been celebrity. He didn’t have the fortitude to tell her his show was being canceled. Then the myth would be shattered, and all I got is the myth…
The bell at the desk rang. Collier noticed two guests—a couple in their thirties. Tourists, he discerned. A camera slung around the man’s neck. He was nondescript
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