Frank:
A grimace or two later, my mug of coffee was gone. I shifted my body in the very uncomfortable chair and tried to ignore the shrill squeak from my movement. Sometimes I wondered if the chairs in our office were ready for the dump pile. But the board had never offered the sheriff’s department a budget for furniture. Perhaps, I should ask Babbs, the woodworker/furniture maker, if he’d make something more comfortable for me, but then I’d feel guilty if I was the only one getting a new chair. What would he charge me to replace all four chairs?
A fresh sigh erupted from inside my gut. I shook my head, irritated by such thinking. I needed to save money, not spend it. I’d soon have a family to take care of. That’s where my pot of funds should go. The future.
“Get yourself together,” I whispered to myself.“ Besides, it was time for me to get to work.
The mail was always set in the rectangular, wooden box on the corner of my desk. I flipped through the contents. A copy of the town’s weekly Tinkle Town News, I set aside for later. Two flyers were next, one of them advertising a sale at Beanie’s Farm Store. That was worthwhile. I’d mosey over there and buy some things for Shama later in the day. A horse always needs hay and oats.
Another urge to spend money? Whoops. But that was for a good cause. Anything that brought Shama’s smile into play was worth forking over some coins.
I dug down further in the wooden box and found a letter from an old friend who’d long ago moved some miles away. Peter Crow and I had attended school together. Ever since, we’d been corresponding every month or so. He was still single like me. I wondered if he had a lady friend he was seeing.
I was eager to write to him about Shama and beg him to be my best man at the wedding. Of course, it was way too early for that. I needed to wait until things were straightened out between Shama and me. So far, she hadn’t committed to a lifetime together. Shucks, sometimes, she was barely speaking to me.
I’d read Peter’s letter later. I lay it aside, setting it on top of the newspaper.
I dug deeper to reach the day’s complaints. Mrs. Bently wrote that her apple trees had been raided. She wanted someone to be on constant guard to catch the thief. Samuel Stoneman claimed that the neighbor’s dog kept leaving unpleasant deposits. He requested that we talk to the neighbor and fine him for the dog’s trespass.
Last in the pile of notepad papers was a bill from the town’s saloon for our resident drunkard. It concerned Donalds’ rampage with the chairs. I whistled as I read the price. If that was the cost for a new chair, I’d have to continue to live with my uncomfortable and creakily unstable desk chair. Maybe I could fix it with a good dose of oil and a pillow?
At the bottom of the wooden box was the news I’d been waiting for. The traveling judge had finally written to me.