somehow reluctant to let the piece of paper bearing his signature leave the shop.
“Oh,” said Nerfball mysteriously, “I’ve got a plan.”
And so saying, he left.
Honeyman did not sleep well that night. Dreams wherein brutal strangers accosted him, shouting, “Payable on demand!” troubled his slumbers.
The next day the same exchange was made. Honeyman inscribed this second spondulix on a napkin, secretly hoping that the perishable medium would quickly fall apart. The day after that the same thing happened. And the day after that, and the day after that.…
Soon there were a rough dozen spondulix—representing 120 sandwiches—out in the world, God knew where. Nerfball refused to say. Honeyman hoped they were stashed somewhere in the Old Vault Brewery, where rats would chew them to pieces, lining their nests with Nerfball’s nestegg.
But then, like sins or pigeons, the spondulix began to flock homeward.
Honeyman was alone in the shop around suppertime one day when Tiran Porter, the owner of a nearby hardware store, came in. Clutched in hand was a napkin. Honeyman’s heart seized up, as if arrest was imminent.
“Hey, Rory, my man—is this thing any good? That Nerdo dude convinced me to take it in place of thirty dollars’ worth of electrical equipment. I wasn’t gonna, till I seen your name on it. I knew you’d play me straight.”
Honeyman experienced a slight sense of relief, a momentary passing of his foreboding. At the same time, he suspected his relief was to be short-lived.
“Sure, Tiran, just like it says: good for ten sandwiches, ’bout forty bucks. You made a good deal.”
Porter seemed mollified. “Okay, then, I’m gonna spend some of it.”
“Some of it?”
“Sure, I can’t eat no ten sandwiches at once. Give me an Atlantic City on white, hold the lettuce.”
As Honeyman made the sandwich, his mind worked frantically. How was he to redeem part of a spondulix?
When the sandwich was made, Honeyman did the only thing he could. Feeling like God on the second day, he created a new denomination. On a fresh napkin, he scrawled: ONE SPONDULIX REDEEMABLE FOR NINE SANDWICHES. Then signed it. Taking the ten-sandwich note, he handed Porter the sandwich and his change.
“I don’t get no cash back?”
“Sorry, Tiran, but you paid in spondulix. It’s sorta like food stamps.”
Nodding with new understanding, Porter departed, apparently satisfied.
One sandwich down, 119 to go.
But of course Nerfball would be getting paid again tomorrow, thereby causing the minting of a new ten-spot spondulix, which would no doubt enter circulation soon, more than negating the single sandwich he had redeemed just now.
Honeyman tried to figure out if he was going to come out ahead or behind on all this. A pain began to mount behind his eyeballs, and he suspected that his brainstorm was going to lead to his complete undoing.
One day soon he would think back to this moment and realize his pessimistic forecast had been all right. And all wrong.
The next day Honeyman verged several times on confronting Nerfball about his wanton and promiscuous exchange of spondulix for goods and services other than the specified sandwiches. But each time he stopped himself. The bills were really not Honeyman’s any longer, once he passed them over to Nerf. The pudgy Beer Nut had every right to use them as best he could. Honeyman was lucky he could get the man to employ his talents at all. The various members of the Beer Nuts were notoriously lazy, avoiding work whenever possible. And Honeyman needed Nerfball more than Nerf needed him. Lacking this one crucial employee, the shop would go under. God, what a precarious existence this world afforded! And what a mess Honeyman had made of his own personal life, ever since that day under the Mexican sun, before the eyes of the world.
Watching the sweaty Nerfball transform heaps of cold cuts into works of art, Honeyman resigned himself once again, both to his past and to
“Oh,” said Nerfball mysteriously, “I’ve got a plan.”
And so saying, he left.
Honeyman did not sleep well that night. Dreams wherein brutal strangers accosted him, shouting, “Payable on demand!” troubled his slumbers.
The next day the same exchange was made. Honeyman inscribed this second spondulix on a napkin, secretly hoping that the perishable medium would quickly fall apart. The day after that the same thing happened. And the day after that, and the day after that.…
Soon there were a rough dozen spondulix—representing 120 sandwiches—out in the world, God knew where. Nerfball refused to say. Honeyman hoped they were stashed somewhere in the Old Vault Brewery, where rats would chew them to pieces, lining their nests with Nerfball’s nestegg.
But then, like sins or pigeons, the spondulix began to flock homeward.
Honeyman was alone in the shop around suppertime one day when Tiran Porter, the owner of a nearby hardware store, came in. Clutched in hand was a napkin. Honeyman’s heart seized up, as if arrest was imminent.
“Hey, Rory, my man—is this thing any good? That Nerdo dude convinced me to take it in place of thirty dollars’ worth of electrical equipment. I wasn’t gonna, till I seen your name on it. I knew you’d play me straight.”
Honeyman experienced a slight sense of relief, a momentary passing of his foreboding. At the same time, he suspected his relief was to be short-lived.
“Sure, Tiran, just like it says: good for ten sandwiches, ’bout forty bucks. You made a good deal.”
Porter seemed mollified. “Okay, then, I’m gonna spend some of it.”
“Some of it?”
“Sure, I can’t eat no ten sandwiches at once. Give me an Atlantic City on white, hold the lettuce.”
As Honeyman made the sandwich, his mind worked frantically. How was he to redeem part of a spondulix?
When the sandwich was made, Honeyman did the only thing he could. Feeling like God on the second day, he created a new denomination. On a fresh napkin, he scrawled: ONE SPONDULIX REDEEMABLE FOR NINE SANDWICHES. Then signed it. Taking the ten-sandwich note, he handed Porter the sandwich and his change.
“I don’t get no cash back?”
“Sorry, Tiran, but you paid in spondulix. It’s sorta like food stamps.”
Nodding with new understanding, Porter departed, apparently satisfied.
One sandwich down, 119 to go.
But of course Nerfball would be getting paid again tomorrow, thereby causing the minting of a new ten-spot spondulix, which would no doubt enter circulation soon, more than negating the single sandwich he had redeemed just now.
Honeyman tried to figure out if he was going to come out ahead or behind on all this. A pain began to mount behind his eyeballs, and he suspected that his brainstorm was going to lead to his complete undoing.
One day soon he would think back to this moment and realize his pessimistic forecast had been all right. And all wrong.
The next day Honeyman verged several times on confronting Nerfball about his wanton and promiscuous exchange of spondulix for goods and services other than the specified sandwiches. But each time he stopped himself. The bills were really not Honeyman’s any longer, once he passed them over to Nerf. The pudgy Beer Nut had every right to use them as best he could. Honeyman was lucky he could get the man to employ his talents at all. The various members of the Beer Nuts were notoriously lazy, avoiding work whenever possible. And Honeyman needed Nerfball more than Nerf needed him. Lacking this one crucial employee, the shop would go under. God, what a precarious existence this world afforded! And what a mess Honeyman had made of his own personal life, ever since that day under the Mexican sun, before the eyes of the world.
Watching the sweaty Nerfball transform heaps of cold cuts into works of art, Honeyman resigned himself once again, both to his past and to
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