The Pell Heist by Norb Vonnegut

Author:Norb Vonnegut [Vonnegut, Norb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Epping Press
Published: 2018-08-20T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The smell.

For the last three months, the Morettis and I had scrubbed and scraped the tackle shop. When we weren’t scrubbing and scraping, we were sanding and polishing, painting and staining, transforming my sleepy box of fishing supplies into a world-class destination for discerning anglers.

We had worked through many nights. We agonized over the right color to stain the tongue-and-groove walls, the perfect mix of inventory, the finest rods, the most sought-after reels, whatever it would take to lure crowds to Dewey’s Marina. We were the Apple store of saltwater fishing, a place where sportsmen could test top-of-the-line products and make informed decisions with the help of in-store geniuses. The Morettis knew everything about our products. And one day, I would too.

Our renovations were the first step. I harbored grand designs to turn my shop into an online destination for fishermen around the world. And ever since I closed the deal on Dewey’s, arguably the most rewarding accomplishment of my professional career, I listened to Shiny, Gordie, and all my Wall Street buddies ridicule my slice of the American dream:

“Can you make any money?”

“What do you know about running a business?”

“You’re too young to have a midlife crisis.”

The list of reasons why I was completely out of my mind was long and ever growing. It came from people who were presumably authorities on my mental health, who speculated whether some kind of intervention would help me see the error of my ways and get me back to Wall Street.

Shiny: “The prodigal son got through it. You can too.”

Sometimes, I really don’t miss her.

I turned down the volume and forged ahead, reminding myself that I was my own boss. That I would never, ever have to take another order from anybody in my life. Not at work. Not at home. That I was free at last.

Naysayers, no problem. Long hours, no problem. Mistakes during our careful and painstaking renovation, no problem. But the one thing I never expected was a noxious biohazard defiling my dream.

There was shit everywhere. Soupy feces. Urine. Toilet paper. Things that shouldn’t be flushed. The middle aisle was ground zero for gallons of black septic sludge: 5 percent solid, 95 percent liquid, and 100 percent toxic. Putrid, disgusting, there were no words for what I saw or for what I smelled, the way my senses were locked in a kind of trench warfare with all that crap.

The black glop spread across my unsealed, plank floors and clung to them like glue. It filled imperfections in the wood, seeped into the grain, and flooded gaps between boards. The middle aisle had once been the entrance to the promised land of saltwater fishing. Fuji rods stood high in vertical racks on one side. Across the aisle were combos with shiny brass reels attached to poles of all makes and colors. Chip once said, “The aisle reminds me of a garden arbor during high summer.” But now, it looked like a septic-slide to hell.

Feces soaked the cork handles of every rod and sometimes reached the hook keepers and butt guides near the bottom of the poles.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.