Satisfaction Guaranteed

A short story

by Shirley Gibson

When Andrew Deacon Tritus moved into the vacant house with the 5 acre lot, he didn't ask the owner for permission, nor did he put money down for rent or lease. No one knew who the owner was anyway, and it didn't much matter. After all, the place was a falling down wreck out by the dump, an eye sore, and a menace to the roving bands of unwary children who scavenged the outskirts of town in the summer, looking for treasure, or trouble of one sort or another.

At first there had been some hope that he'd fix the place up. But, as old man Taylor used to say, (and he'd say this several times a day, managing to work it into darn near every conversation, particularly when the missus was present), "You cain't make a silk shirt out of a pig's ass." Which of course, always sent Missus Taylor into a regular hissy fit, and was probably why old man Taylor said it so often in the first place. After all, when you live in a place called Willard, a spit-in-the-road town in eastern Colorado, you don't see much excitement, and pretty much have to make it where you can.

So, Andy Tritus moved into the small house and spent his mornings fixing lawnmowers, radios, and whatever else came his way. He spent his afternoons making inventions that never quite worked because he was always having to use jury rigged parts scrounged from the dump instead of regular store boughts. And he spent his nights dreaming impossible dreams, reading science fiction, fantasies, and weird tales from the odd little magazines he sometimes found in the landfill.

On Saturday afternoons, Andy rode his wobbly 3-speed bike the five dusty miles into town. One day he hoped to have a car, but so far all he'd managed to scrounge up was the chassis of a burned out '65 Ford, four bald but well patched tires, and an engine block from a '76 Olds that was in pretty decent condition. How he was going to put it all together, he hadn't quite figured out yet.

Once in town, he'd pick up a few groceries and then stop in at Floyd's. The tavern was a dark little place, and Andy usually sat at the bar, hunched over the beer he'd bought with his hard earned cash; his one clean shirt, dusty from the long ride, hanging loosely on his narrow frame, and tucked into a pair of tan baggy pants that were cinched tightly with an old leather belt on which was burned the name Mike Barnstedd.

The bar girls never had much to say to him. Not even Lila, and she'd hit the sack with darn near every man who set foot in Floyd's. It wasn't because he didn't have money (which he didn't), or because he wasn't much to look at (which he wasn't - not with his long skinny neck and dishwater blond rough cut hair), no, it was because he just didn't seem interested.

And he wasn't. He wasn't interested in brassy middle-aged redheads (Lila), or hard edged girls with sharp eyes, and even sharper mouths, (Lix and Carrie). No, when Andy sat in that cool, dark, nearly empty bar on those late Saturday afternoons, he didn't think about the all too available girls lounging at the far table, smoking and sipping their diet soft drinks, making their evening plans. He thought about his dream girl, about what it would be like to one day walk in on a Saturday night, when the evening was in full swing, and the bar crowded, with a delicious looking blond draped over his arm - a delicious looking blond with a mouth like warm honey, and a body that really know how to please a man.

Of course, he knew that it was just a dream, and an impossible one at that, but it helped to pass the time, and like his old man used to say: "What good was a man if he didn't have dreams?"

And that's how things were until the day he found the advertisement. (read more)