by Tumbleweed_Tex » Thu Jul 15, 2010 8:35 am
FUTURES
Having a huge craving for eggs over medium this morning, and having basically been turned down cold by a nice young lady when I invited her to fix them for me, I stopped by the Mexico Diner and Oyster Bar and told Mabel to tell Bubba Earl to go easy on the lard when he refried the beans.
Well, just as I broke the yellow on my last egg, who should walk through the door but Ray Raymond Porter. He saw me immediately, snorted, ambled over to my table, helped himself to an empty chair, and began seriously eyeing the big cathead biscuit on the side of my plate. Contemplating damage control, I offered him the extra slice of bacon instead.
Describing Porter-Ray (don't ask me why everyone calls him that) isn't easy. Let's just say no one has ever seen him wear anything other than a pair of overalls, he can eat like a grizzly in the springtime, and he's blessed with the gift of gab. Word is, when he was two years old, he could crap in his diaper and then convince his mother HE didn't do it.
When I nudged the biscuit towards him with the back of my knuckle, it vanished like a stone dropped into the deepest part of Honeydew Lake. When his eyes drifted to my now-oozing egg, I figured I best get him talking. Most folks have a hard time eating when they’re talking.
"Whatcha been up to, Porter-Ray?"
"Funny you should ask, Tex, `cause I just come from the courthouse and got me one of those doin'-business-as licenses. As of ten minutes ago, I'm officially a bone-fried commodities futures trader."
My mind flashed across the various markets...cotton, sugar, coffee...
"Oil and gas?" I asked the question, then ate the egg in one bite...purely an act of self-defense.
He glanced around, then leaned over the table, lowering his voice like a back-alley conspirator. "Something brand new, Tex...something no one else has thought of yet…something that has the potential to be really big, Tex…coon dogs..." He kept a perfectly straight face, and his disappointment over my almost empty plate was all too evident. I chewed, trying not to look directly into his eyes.
"You see, Tex...what with all this economical downturn, combined with the energized crunch, the price of corn is inching it's way up...ethanol fuel, and all. Alcohol, boy..."
I used a chunk of potato to wipe the plate, wishing for that long-lost biscuit. "And what has THAT got to do with coon dogs, Porter-Ray?"
"Don't you see...it's like homeland security for the little man. As the value of a corn field increases, the potential loss by damage from coons goes up expotencentsially. I'm tellin' you boy, in a year, the price of a coon dog pup is gonna be out the top. There's a ground floor opportunity here, Tex...'cause once everyone climbs on the banded wagon, it'll be like shootin' chickens in a fishbowl."
I shook my head, trying to clear the dustiness off what he had said. Being sociable, I told Mabel to bring us two pieces of apple pie, but Porter-Ray clarified the order by telling her to just cut a pie in half, bring us both pieces, and bring us a full pot of coffee on the side. A half-hour later, I was two hundred dollars poorer, and the proud owner of three blue-tick hound puppy futures, whatever the heck THAT means.
On the way outside, I ran into Jimmy Jack Jackson, and asked if he was interested in some coon dogs to help protect his corn crop next summer. He told me reckon not...said the government was paying everyone in the county NOT to plant corn for three years. Seems the Agriculture Department wants all the farmers to plant sugar cane...to make ethanol fuel. I turned back inside, but Porter Ray was nowhere to be found.
I wonder why Mexican food always gives me heartburn...
Tex