A Money Maker
by Michael A.
Kechula
Entering a
tavern, I heard the bawdy punch line from a
farmer’s daughter joke.
Three mangy-looking
guys at the bar howled.
Swaying on a
barstool, the bald one asked, “Hey, Pal. Got
a good joke for us?
“Nope,”
I said. “But I know an interesting story.”
“Let’s
hear it,” said the bartender.
“Two
years ago, I found a red coconut.”
“What’s
so interesting about that?” asked a
toothless patron.
“This one
could talk.”
“Oh sure.
What did it say?” asked the customer wearing
suspenders.
“That
it’s name was Ralph. Then it started to
quote Shakespeare: ‘To be or not to be.
Beware the Ides of March.’ So I put a sign
on my house. Hear Ralph The Talking Coconut Quote
Shakespeare. Only 25 Cents.”
“Did you
make lotsa money?” asked Toothless.
“Only
three dollars. So, I asked Ralph if he could sing.
I couldn’t believe my ears when he sang
opera. He sounded better than Pavarotti.”
“Any
coconut that can sing that good gotta be worth
plenty,” said Bartender.
“That’s
what I figured. I contacted a theatrical agent.
He said, “What a fabulous voice! But, I
can’t book opera-singing coconuts. I got
some openings for ventriloquists in Las Vegas.
Maybe you could act like you’re a
ventriloquist. Paint a funny face on the coconut,
put it on your lap, and have it tell raunchy
jokes.’”
“Did you
do that?” asked Suspenders.
“Yeah.
But not without a struggle. Ralph refused to be
the dummy.”
“I
don’t blame him,” said Toothless.
“You musta hurt his feelings.”
“He was
furious. He said the only way he’d join the
act was if HE was the ventriloquist, and I was
the dummy.”
“Did you
agree?” Baldy asked.
“Yeah. We
were a big hit in Vegas. Made $10,000 a week.
Then suddenly, Ralph got laryngitis. X-Rays
showed he’d developed coconut-itis, a rare
incurable disease. Buried him a month ago. Not
far from here. Things ain’t been the same
since.”
Suspenders
dabbed his eyes with a grimy handkerchief.
“Give the man a drink on me,” he said.
“That’s the saddest story I ever heard.”
“I’ll
have cognac,” I said. “Best you have.”
“I guess
it’s rough not having your coconut around,”
said the bartender.
“Yeah. We
were real close.”
“So,
whadda ya gonna do now?” Suspenders asked.
“I
ain’t sure. Maybe I’ll look for another
singing coconut.”
The boozers
pushed money toward me. Looking downcast,
Toothless said, “Buy flowers for the
coconut’s grave. Just say it’s from the
boys at Harry’s Tavern.”
“Thanks.
Ralph would’ve appreciated this. He
would’ve sung something nice for you.”
“Have
another drink on us,” Baldy said.
“It’ll help ease the pain.”
When I left
twenty dollars richer, the drunks were brawling
over whether or not coconuts had souls.
It was so easy
to con booze and money from drunken half-wits.
Next week
I’ll visit taverns and tell the story about
the orphaned elephant I adopted. The one that
read palms. Until he lost his sight because of
global warming.
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