I haven’t heard a word from my old pal Mooch in over a month, so I dropped by his house yesterday.
The older than dirt Dodge pickup sits in the drive, and his lawn was knee-high, so I figured something is not right. Mooch loves his yard like it was his child.

Five minutes of door banging, and Mooch cracks the door and says, “go away, I don’t want any of it.”
” I’m not selling nothing old buddy, what the hell is going on with you,” I say.
He opens the door enough for me to get a good look at him, and holy crap, he looks terrible. A white beard, hollow yellow eyes, and a pale complexion. Not the fit and the tanned man that I know.

” I’ve been out of town for a while,” he says. “The wife and I heard that them Antifa folks were paying people to protest and riot, so we went to Portland for a while. We figured, why not, somebody’s got to get paid and it might as well be us. Old peoples got to eat too. We made $3000 a week plus room and board at the Holiday Inn. If we got arrested, there would be an additional $2000 a week for jail time. I made enough to buy a new pickup next month.”

” Where is your wife, Mrs. Mooch,” I say.
He looks down at his shoes and mumbles something. I ask him to repeat it.
He sort of shifts around and says,

” I left her in jail for a while longer. I figure another month, she will have made enough money and we can pay the house off.”
When I return home, I ask my wife if she would consider a visit to Portland.