Fool's Gold

Fool’s Gold


Bill's been working for days in his shop. Emerging with a smile, he threw a shirt at me.

“Done!”

The smelly rag landed in my face.

“Ewww. Leftover pizza!” I threw it back at him. “Keep your dirty laundry to yourself.”

“You don’t understand, Julie. This is the magic number for the lottery! We’re going to get rich!” Bill held the shirt up. Pizza stains, a graphic of a pizza, a phone number. All were emblazoned on the front of the shirt.

“You’ve been in your shop for weeks and all you have to show for it is a dirty shirt?”

“Not just a dirty shirt, oh no! A million dollar idea! The way out for us! Just think if you had a shirt that you could scratch and sniff. A shirt that would give your nose a hint of the kind of pizza you want for supper tonight. A shirt that would call pizza delivery. A shirt that could order pizza for you. Then that shirt would pay for the pizza.”

The filthy shirt was now flying about Bill’s head. Bits of food flew off it, landed in my hair, on the floor, on the dog.

“Bill! Stop! We already have something that will do that. Remember? It’s called the Assistant. You tell it what you want, and Bingo! It’s done.”

The shirt stopped flying. Bill frowned.

“And you don’t have to wear it. No dirty shirt. You can wipe that Assistant clean with a rag. In fact, give me that filthy thing. It’s going in the washer.”

He clutched the shirt tightly. “Now that’s no fun. You can’t wear the Assistant. The Assistant can’t give you smells. I tell you, this idea is like gold.”

“Yeah right. Fool’s gold.”


W/C 291