When I woke up this morning, I vaulted out of bed so wholeheartedly that I was almost decapitated by our ceiling fan. I inherited money from my beloved grandmother. My grandfather died ten years before her, and he had made a small fortune in a variety of businesses including printing and home building. I m one of fifteen grandchildren, and in addition to the money left to my mother and her two sisters, my grandparents bequeathed money to each of us. Almost the same week my grandmother shuffled off the mortal coil, I was languidly visiting a prospect for Skywalker, a large retailer.
Customers call to ask about sale items, or check their credit, or complain, whatever.
When he said done it was with raw bitterness, and a bunch of spittle came out of his mouth, which I pretended not to see. I asked, opportunistically. None that I can find, he said, with less heat. Not that I know of. My pulse quickened and I spent the next few weeks at work furtively calling around to see if, indeed, there existed a gaping hole in the computer dike, one that I could ingeniously patch while at the same time kicking the celestial money geyser into paroxysms of personal joy.