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    Catchpenny
    Catchpenny
    Catchpenny
    Ebook42 pages41 minutes

    Catchpenny

    By Brian Madigan

    ()

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    About this ebook

    "Catchpenny" climbs the steps of public transportation with Wilbur, at once wealthy and powerful, at the next underfunded, on the lam, past middle-age, having no marketable skills.

    This story reveals hidden knowledge—hidden from some anyway—that a person is innately imbued with—about life: that they have to be resourceful and skilled and compassionate to survive in a world where, although they work hard everyday, they still struggle to make ends meet--but it's the struggle that makes them real.

    One minute we can be moving through life on cruise control, filling the car, keeping up with the bills, feeding the family. The next we can be outsourced, downsized, stricken by disease, injured, besieged by natural disaster. If it happened to us would we be able to bootstrap ourselves back into the black? Know which way to go to swim for the surface when submerged beyond the point of buoyancy? Would we have the strength and durability?

    Catchpenny follows Wilbur on just such a journey, read on to discover where and how he finds something to be grateful for in amongst the bottom dwellers, held together by hairspray and gum residue, hanging by a thread, and how his life comes full-circle, in a manner of speaking.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBrian Madigan
    Release dateMay 4, 2014
    ISBN9781310284403
    Catchpenny
    Author

    Brian Madigan

    I came about in the era of plaid suits, bell-bottoms, long shirt collars and dandy moustaches, also, love was free. Times have changed. People and their personalities and behaviors may not, but instead revolve, perhaps tumble, on through space and time from their point of manifestation to their end and back again, cosmically recycled, sometimes improved, "value-added" having evolved from the traits grab-bag into something stronger, more elaborate, smarter; other times a flawed amalgam, rusty, weak, angry, greedy. I'm fascinated by all who dip their bits in the human gene pool for their lap or splash-about, whether by choice or by chance. I write about them, my interpretation, striving to hit the sweet-spot of perspicacity. Many have found my stories to be entertaining and insightful. Dad came from a newspaper man, and himself was a writer; I stand on their shoulders. Also, the ones still alive who afford me their encouragement, loyalty and love; I stand on their shoulders and I'm grateful for their support. I reside in Midwest America, where I grow grapes and make wine on a small scale when I am not writing or working. Thanks for reading! Brian brianrmadigan.com

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      Book preview

      Catchpenny - Brian Madigan

      CATCHPENNY

      By Brian Madigan

      Copyright © 2014 Brian Madigan

      Cover Artist: Karen Swanson

      Formatting: Polgarus Studio

      Catchpenny

      My name is Wilbur. I find it to be one of those memorable first names like Ulysses or Ishmael. If ever there was a time, someone, anyone, wanted to link a name to a newsworthy event or a scandal perhaps, Wilbur, after you hear it a few times, relation to the famous pig, you say it, maybe only once, Wilbur, you got it, you got the power of spontaneous recall. Say, someone might say, what was the name of that guy in the news who burnt down the tents the hurricane victims were staying in? Wilbur Somebody-or-other, would be the reply.

      So I found myself in want of a cape of sorts. A red cape, the type bandoleers use; thin steel blade intended to eradicate pulse hidden within its folds. In this case intended not for the bull but for the tether of thin spider filament anchoring me to my past. I would use it with a flourish, a dance move pirouette, a brandishing of the cape across my body and face, and then a spin out, having successfully severed the link, followed by a deft toss of the cape across the still carcass and a brisk, clicking stride wayward, what lay behind me, dead, Wilbur.

      My troubles started that night at the club, before then, right up until then, all had been as good as a guy could want. Actually, let me rephrase. To be truthful, my troubles started long before. Some might say at birth, some might say at the moment of genetic fabrication when the egg and sperm combined and began to divide. Some might say the very moment the first big pay day came rolling in. I don’t know. Money corrupts, the same would say. If you are born into money you will never know the struggle of the people, the real value of the dollar. If you are poor and fight your way up, they say, you’ll be a ruthless son of a bitch and do anything to stay on top of the pile. Either way you’re screwed, they would say.

      Whatever the case, I was born into it. Father made his money first in business, then politics, then in consultation. One might note a hint, a blush, of conspiratorial endearment in that particular construct of succession. I don’t know.

      That night at the club though, it became clear, as it were, that the understanding the birthright of the privileged, the advantage the well to do inherit, inherent in my day-to-day interactions, was no longer to be bestowed. I had been cast aside by the very people who at one time deified me.

      For many years I abided the rubbing of the elbows with the men in the club as something to reaffirm my very existence: they thought I was one of the good guys. The language we all spoke when we were together was familiar, not derisive, heated, pissed off, like so much of the bleeding heart representatives of the poor entitled said when they spoke against my stripe.

      And, Oh! What a fine time we had at the club. The talk was Margins and Bonuses and Private and Charters and Mercedes and Exclusive and Bermuda and Titanium and Single Malt

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