The Black Train

“Aw, jeez, Ma!”

“Don’t jeez Ma ME! Get up! It’s past noon!”

Jiff squinted into the face of his very displeased mother. Past noon? he thought. Then: Aw…damn!

“Your poor sister’n me have been workin’ our heinies off and here you are still in bed sleepin’ off another drunk!” The voice boomed. “I didn’t raise no drunken lout!”

Jiff lay amid tousled sheets wearing only briefs. His head pounded as his memory ground backward.

I got drunk again last night, didn’t I? Shit, I drank ALL DAY LONG at the Spike and then wound up closin’ the joint…

“This place stinks like a pool hall!” his mother bellowed. “You got any excuse at all fer yourself?”

He leaned up with difficulty. “Dang, Ma, I’se sorry. But you’re right, I have been drinkin’ too much lately. But I only git that way…you know. When the house has one’a its fits.”

Her finger wagged at his face. “I don’t wanna hear nothin’ ’bout the house or any of that ghost stuff. You best keep your yap closed about it. Damn it, boy, we got the pleasure’a havin’ Savannah Sammy at our inn, and you WILL NOT be talkin’ any of that ghost stuff to him! Ya hear!”

“Sure, Ma,” Jiff groaned.

“Savannah Sammy is an important guest, even more important than Mr. Collier—”

“Come on, Ma. You’re just all in a swivet ’cos you got the hots for him, just like ya had fer Mr. Collier—”

“Watch your mouth, boy!” his mother cracked even louder, “or you’ll be out’a here just as sure as pigs can shit!”

Jesus…

“Now you GET that grass mowed and you GET those hedges trimmed and you GET those weeds pulled! And did you even pick up the ham hocks yet?”

Jiff rubbed his temples, agonized. “Ham hocks?”

“Jesus, boy, everything I SAY to you goes in one ear’n out the other! I done told ya yesterday to go to the butcher’s and pick up twenty hocks’n start gettin’ ’em smoked ’cos I’ll be makin’ my ham hock and wild green gumbo fer the guests this weekend! But I guess yer just too drunk to remember!”

Jiff groaned.

Mrs. Butler waved a stack of something in his face, then thwacked it all into his lap.

“What the hell’s all that, Ma?”

“It’s yer mail, if ya can believe it!”

Letters were scattered all over the bed. I never get mail, he thought.

“I don’t know what you got in that pea brain’a yours, boy, but you better get it out and I mean in a jiffy!” Her finger wagged before his face one more time. “You ain’t responsible enough to have a credit card, so what’choo doin’ applyin’ for ’em?”

Credit cards? Jiff scratched his head, looking at some of the mail dropped in his lap. Multiple letters from Visa, MasterCard, American Express. “Ma, I ain’t applied fer no credit cards.”

“Well that’s good ’cos if your lazy, drunken, do-nothin’ ass ain’t out of that bed in two seconds, you ain’t gonna have a fuckin’ JOB to PAY fer a credit card!”

Jiff knew she was serious. His mother never said “fuckin’.”

“Two seconds, boy!” she yelled one last time and then slammed the door so loud, the walls shook and his George Clooney poster rattled.

Damn. That ain’t no way to start the day. He creaked out of bed. And what’s all this credit card stuff? Just junk mail, but why this?

A cold shower barely revived him. But he knew that he would indeed have to watch the drinking. He was about to get to work but noticed his message machine flashing. He hit the button, then regretted it because he could guess who it was.

“Jiff, my God,” the voice croaked. “I’m a wasteland without you. Please, please, don’t do this to me. You must come and see me—I’ll pay whatever you want. I-I-I…love you—”

Jiff deleted the message and saw that all of the others were from him, too.

Poor fat old bastard. But…shit on him…

The phone blared, spiking Jiff’s hungover brain. Damn! He knew it had to be Sute. Might as well get this over with—

He snapped up the phone. “Listen, J.G., I done told ya we’se finished. I’se sorry you’re so bent out’a shape but you’re gonna have to stop callin’ here—”

A pause. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Jiff Butler.”

Jiff frowned; it wasn’t Sute. “That’s me. Say, look I’se got a lot of work to do and if you’re one’a these telemarketer people, I ain’t inter—”

“No, sir, this is the bank. Sorry to disturb you, but about that check you deposited last night—”

Jiff strained his brain. That last one Sute gave me. “Damn, don’t tell me that hunnert-dollar check from J.G. Sute bounced. His checks never bounce.”

Another pause. “No, sir. We’re just calling to confirm your most recent deposit, which you made last night from our twenty-four-hour ATM. Typically, we don’t do this by phone but given the amount of the check, we just wanted to confirm.”

Jiff scratched his head. “Oh, you mean that hunnert bucks…”

“No, sir. I’m referring to the check you deposited last night, at 1:55 A.M.”

More wheels began to turn in Jiff’s booze-stepped-on brain. What’s this guy talkin’ about? he thought but then—slam!—it clicked.

Holy shit! What the hell did I do?

He remembered being drunk out of his gourd at the bar, and he was fiddling with those old railroad checks he’d found in Mr. Collier’s room. He’d shown them around to everyone. He also remembered that one of the checks had been signed but not filled out…

“Hey, Jiff,” Buster had joked, “why don’t you fill that check out to yourself for a million dollars?” and everybody had laughed, but the thing was…

Jiff had been so drunk that he’d actually done it.

“Oh, look, sir,” Jiff bumbled. “About that check. See, I was drunk last night and, see, I’se only did it as a joke. I never meant—”

“Mr. Butler, I’m not sure what you mean; perhaps you’ve misunderstood me. The only reason I’m calling is to confirm the deposit and let you know that the check cleared.”

Now it was Jiff’s turn to pause. “You mean—”

“Your current balance is now $1,000,141.32.”

Jiff stared into space.

“But if I may, sir, let me switch you over to our investments manager—”

There was a click, and then another man’s voice came on the line.

“Hello, Mr. Butler, I’m Mr. Corfe, and since you’re a valuable customer I want to make you aware of some investment possibilities that are at your disposal.”

Jiff felt as though he were standing atop a mountain…

“Your current balance is an awful lot of money to keep in a checking account, after all.”

“What, uh, what’s your name again?” Jiff droned.

“Corfe. William Corfe. I’m the investments manager here at Fecory Savings and Trust, and I’d just like to offer my services in the event that you’re interested. We want your money to work for you, Mr. Butler, and we can transfer as much as you want into a money-market savings account, a high-interest certificate of deposit, treasury bills, short-term CDs, whatever you want. You’d make a lot of money in interest, Mr. Butler, and it’s all F.D.I.C. insured.”

Jiff nearly hacked out the words. “Do I really got a million bucks in the bank?”

“One million, one hundred and forty-one dollars and thirty-two cents to be exact, Mr. Butler…”