Pocketing A Few

The Writer Vs. The Filthy Rich Story by Jesse Gleim

For my non-American readers as well as those just unfamiliar, this story makes extensive reference to Midland and Odessa, Texas (not Ukraine). Both cities, which sit right next to each other on Interstate 20, have served jointly as the hub for commerce activity during the numerous oil booms that have hit West Texas over the last 100-odd years. Midland, then and now, has been or is the host of headquarters for various oil companies. Also, a “roughneck” is someone who works on an oil derrick, and is the preferred casual term in Texas, while in North Dakota and more northern oil boom states, the preferred term is “wildcatter.” Hope you have enjoyed this education from your inimitable host, Jesse Gleim.

ORIGINALLY POSTED APRIL 7TH, 2026.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

POCKETING A FEW

By

Jesse Gleim

Frank, the spitting image of William Shakespeare in his face, ran up the dusty escarpment of the arroyo into the faint reach of the diner’s shining light. The night was deep and dark in the Chihuahuan beyond, the barren highway lost in the black fold. With slight limp, Frank dragged himself closer to the diner, to its lights glowing within, and as he lumbered closer, his tired and tattered figure was illuminated. Homeless, drifting Quixote, unshaven and starved. He patted his coat pocket, making melancholic certain his notebook was still there. His last saving grace.

The diner’s interior lights were blinding, and the buzzing of the fizzling neon sign uncomfortably tingled his ears. The parking lot, he noticed, was empty save for a vintage Cadillac. Texas longhorns were mounted on the hood, dollar sign hubcaps sat idle between white-walled tires, and the Lone Star license plate read “KSSMYA.”

Frank snorted in derision, then hobbled to the glass entrance door and let himself in.

Inside, he—

“OH STOP MR. BIG PLEASE, I’M GONNA WET MYSELF!”

“Hah, hah, so then he says, ‘Hey, HEY, I’MMA GUT YOU LIKE A FISH!’”

A frizzy-haired blonde headbanged in unequivocal hilarity to the story told by the old oil tycoon. She a scantily-clad floozie of the hillbilly roadside dive variety, he dressed in his 1975 Odessa best: brown suit, tan shirt, oil derrick bolo tie, rawhide cowboy hat, and possibly painted eyebrows and mustache black as the tar extracted from the Basin. Both were heavily intoxicated. He glanced briefly at the newcomer before returning focus to his bimbo and the humorous yarn he was telling her. Coming in late, Frank didn’t care and ignored the rigmarole.

Frank took in the diner. This desert joint was in a sad and sorry state of affairs. Cracked linoleum, spotted stains splattered the drywall, the nauseating nectar of cigarette smoke and fried grease clashing in the air, torn leather seating, forest of dead events on the corkboard. The man behind the faded counter stood stiff, look of bitter defeat in his wizened visage.

“HEEHEEHEEHEE,” the blonde giggled loudly. “MR. BIG, YOU’RE SOOOOO FUNNY!”

“Hey, waiter,” the oilman called to the counterman. “Looks like ye got another customer on deck. Might be yer kin, judgin’ from how ugly he looks.”

The bimbo laughed uproariously again.

“Heh, ye like ‘at one?” He tickled her hairless leg playfully.

“Oh oh stop STOP yer sooo naughty stop—”

Ignoring the fake cowboy, Frank stumbled to the counter. The chiseled face of the waiter scrutinized him; they were kin alright, if not by blood. His icily morose eyes glared below bushy caterpillar brows. “What do you want tonight?”

“I want—”

“GOD STOP I’M GONNA WET MYSELF!”

“Ye’ll be wet fer a whole utter reason soon enough, heh, soons we get back t’ my mansion in Midland.”

“Oooo a mansion I cannawt wait!”

Frank sighed in irritation. Either no one taught those spoiled fools the concept of the inside voice, or in their regretless drunkenness the lesson had vanished in particles on the West Texas wind. As is, they could probably be heard clear to Tokyo.

Frank attempted to order again. “I want whatever’s cheapest on the menu.”

“How ‘bout the chicken sandwich?” the waiter offered.

“Fine.”

“An’ to drink?”

“Water, if it’s free.”

The waiter reached for a glass. “Prob’ly won’t be one day, but t’day, it’s free.”

Using the last of his change, Frank paid and took a seat in a booth far from the maddening duo.

The oilman forked a breakfast sausage on his fork. “Here honey, stick this in yer mug, put it all in ‘fore ye take a bite.”

“Oh, but it’s soooo BIG,” she gasped.

“C’mon, fer me, honey. Girl can earn a lot this way.”

“Honey” predictably obeyed. Close-eyed and mouth wide, he slid the sausage into her mouth, gradually deeper, deeper. She began to whorishly moan. He gently pulled the fork loose of the meat and, free, she puckered her lips on the wiener. All but the farthest tip was in her mouth.

“Got a good mouth on ye,” the oilman purred pruriently.

The floozie cracked her mouth wide and pulled the sausage out, coughing. She peered at it disgustingly. “Agh, aaagggh, Gawd. That was sooo gross, in my mouth.”

“Mine’ll taste betta, honey.”

Using her own fork, she pegged the sausage and returned it to his plate. “Here, you eat it.”

“No complainin’, honey.”

The waiter came over with Frank’s sandwich and glass of water, laying them on the stained table. He grabbed the sandwich in both hands and—

“WAITER! MORE COFFEE!”

The oilman impatiently snapping his fingers, the waiter obsequiously seized the coffee pot and pored both fresh cups.

“Heehee, yer so old,” the bimbo giggled childishly, “yet you still work this cruddy job. Loser.”

The waiter said nothing, didn’t respond physically.

“Hey, don’ attack a cruddy job,” the oilman spoke up. “Oh sure, I started at the bottom of the food chain, like this old fart here, in a dead-end job. Worked as an attendant, a stock boy, most importantly as a roughneck. But I took every extra penny to buy stock in oil, put my foot in the door at the company—heh, an’ look at me now!” He sipped his coffee as a peaceful moment to gloat. He glared at the waiter superciliously. “But yer too old t’ amount t’ anythin’ now. You old fart! I got rich in the easy days of the ‘70s in Midland while you, old fart, have wasted yer life chasin’ nothin’ worth chasin’, an’ now look at ye. All ye are is the dried cowshit in the corner of the barn!”

The drunken duo yukked it up at the waiter’s expense. The waiter stayed firm.

“Sir, I have to insist you pay now. We don’t do tabs here.”

“Oh, alright,” the oilman groaned. “All this tawk of money got the ol’ timer all flustered. Well,” he dug in his pants, “feast yer eyes on this.”

From his pocket the fake cowboy produced a chunky money clip. Secured with a bull’s head, the thick wad showed a $100 bill on top. “Right, what’s the damage?”

The waiter told him, and, prying the clip open, the oilman paid him, including a generous tip.

“Here, one time from me,” he grinned. “Now invest in a set a dentures ‘r maybe some cologne, ye old fart!”

The man and his bimbo laughed loudly. Frank was surreptitiously spying on the money clip, left on the tabletop.

The oilman caught Frank snooping, though interpreted it differently. “Hey, looks like that good ol’ boy ower there is innerested in what we’re doin’. C’mon ower here, good ol’ boy.”

Frank hesitated, taking a large dose of his water. He got up and slinked over, like a shy student called before an edgy class.

The oilman scrutinized the bumbling hobo. “God, son, what happened to ye? Drag yerself on foot all the way from Tucson t’ here?”

Fake cowboy and his bleach moll shared another obnoxiously loud laugh.

Frank held his composure, as the waiter moved aside but not far. “No, but I’ve been around a long time. I’m homeless.”

“Homeless? Ah, what a shame.” The oilman wore a half-serious grimace. “Not even a cardboard box t’ call yer own I’d wager.”

“Aww poor boy,” the blonde sputtered belligerently. “Why can’t che get a job? Ye can’t get anythin’?”

“Oh quiet honey,” the oilman shut her down with fluttering hands, “this is one-on-one conversation here. Why are ye homeless, ol’ boy?”

Frank hesitated. “Well,” he replied weakly, “bad luck, I guess, primarily.”

“What?”

“Bad luck,” he spoke more forcefully.

“Bad luck?” The oilman contorted his face quizzically. “Now, ol’ boy, bad luck’s bad luck, but she can’t last that long. How old are ye?”

“Thirty years old.”

“Thirty? Good Lord, my point stands. When did ye get yer first job?”

Frank thought a moment. “Four—Fourteen. Stock boy at a bookstore in Knoxville, Tennessee, my hometown.”

“Fourteen? God, these kids now, wait so long fer their first jobs. An’ what happened, this obviously didn’t work out, euh?”

“No. I stayed a few years in Knoxville ‘fore I came out to West Texas, looking for work.”

The oilman gave his biggest guffaw yet, the girl joining in feebly. “Ol’ boy, I don’ believe it,” he panted arrogantly. “‘Homeless’ an’ ‘West Texas’ don’t fit in the same sentence, ol’ boy. Ye so much as look at an oil derrick ye can make $10,000 dollars.”

“I have to disagree with you. I’ve travelled from Muleshoe to Alpine, from El Paso to Abilene, and seen my fair share of poverty and waste.”

“Hmph, waste is right! Them folks is too stupit ‘r too cowardly, an’ either ye are one ‘r the other ‘r ye have no drive to work, do ye?”

“No, no I don’t,” Frank admitted. “No drive to traditional work, anyway.”

“Traditional work?” The oilman was growing agitated. “Now jus’ what the hell does ‘at mean?”

“Yeah,” the bimbo spat, “Wuddaya tawkin’ about?”

Frank sighed. “Well, I’d rather be a writer. I’ve got a book of stories here,” he patted his pocket, “and many more on the way, I’m sure. I’d rather—”

“Ah God, another writer,” the oilman groaned exasperatingly. “Another goddamn artist in the world. Didn’t Mark Twain already write everythin’ that needed ever be written about this country, like Dickens did fer England ‘r France ‘r wherever?”

“Yeeees, but a lot’s happened in the last 120 or so years, I think you’d agree. Even from Clemens’ era, there are still stories to tell and create.”

“Clemens? Who’s he?”

“Samuel Clemens,” Frank clarified.

“Never heard of him,” the oilman snorted. “Look, that’s what ye’d rather do? Write dinky little books?”

“Yes, and it doesn’t matter how poor I have to be to do it.”

The oilman laughed, though now out of pure befuddlement. “That is the stupidest, most retarded thing I have ever heard in my life. You were really screwy in the head right from the womb, weren’t ye?”

“Yer a full-on dumbass!” the bimbo spat.

This wasn’t Frank’s first stinging, and it wouldn’t be his last. “We all have our own lives to live, Mr. Big.”

“I bet yer still a virgin!” the floozie cried.

“Ah, shut up,” the oilman chastised her, then froze staring into his swirling coffee. “Mr. Big’s gotta take a leak. Let me through. Ol’ boy, I jus’ can’t figure it . . .”

Frank shuffled aside to let the old man by. His whore called, “Ooo, wait for me! Mr. Big could use some comp’ny,” and followed him to the men’s washroom.

Frank immediately eyeballed the bull’s head clip. He slipped into the booth seat and seized the wad of cash. Unclipping it, he carefully flipped through the crisp clean bills, and selected two $100, one $50, and ten $20 bills, swiftly squirrelling them away.

He side-grinned at the waiter, who stood watching silently. “Pocketin’ a few for myself,” Frank muttered, “from this rich bastard.”

The waiter said nothing, only looked at the money clip. It retained its thickness; the missing papers likely wouldn’t be noticed.

Frank returned the clip to its exact place on the table, then limped back to his own and finished off his chicken sandwich.

Ten minutes later, the oilman emerged from the bathroom, relieved but sleepy. The bimbo came behind him, wet cum coruscating at her lip edges.

“Time t’ get on to the mansion, honey,” he alerted his companion, then raised his glare to Frank. “Ol’ boy, if ye want t’ make some real money an’ stop ridin’ the rails, report to Worldwide Oil Company in Midland. I could use another body on a derrick out by Andrews, if a writer like you can handle such work. But fer God’s sake, come in a clean suit.”

Frank stared back intensely. “Alright, I will at that. When?”

“Anytime, ol’ boy, anytime . . .” The oilman groaned, as though suddenly in great pain. “Ah, honey, ye’ll have to drive. I feel so damn sore of a sudden.”

“Of course, Mr. Big,” his honey replied. “Anythin’ for you.”

Now limping himself, the oilman was escorted back to his ostentatious Cadillac by his bimbo. Through the dirt-crusted window, Frank watched. She popped open the door, settled the oilman in the passenger seat, even buckled the poor man in, before hopping in the driver’s seat and speeding off. The longhorn’s headlights revealed the flat and barren landscape until the car disappeared from view.

Frank stood up, leaving himself. He walked, devoid of limp or weakness, to the door. “Sellout,” the waiter whispered to him as he passed, but Frank ignored the quiet jab.

Outside in the Texas night, Frank stood in the Cadillac’s empty spot and contemplated his options, fondling the bills in his hand.

THE END