Having turned
sixty-five I am now allowed to do things I’ve never done before, things that
were denied me by such forces as the good judgment of youth. We all know how
good that really is once we hit the golden age zone. I intend to take advantage of the opportunity.
Why wouldn’t I?
I’ve got a doozy,
enough to make my daughters shake their heads and say “Daaaad …”, for my first
go around. I’m sure my girlfriend will be supportive. Maybe I should by her
some things to go out onto the beach with me, but she’ll probably say she
already has everything she needs.
I’m going to head
for Goodwill to find a few things I’ll need, besides a petite red dress (I lost my last one during a street chase)
and a large bra, the largest I can find (a guy can dream, can’t he), I’m going
to get an aloha shirt and a pair of baggy short pants that fall, hopefully not
literally, to the knee from mid stomach. Either mint green or a pale blue pin
stripe will do. Accessories will be pale yellow or red mid-calf socks and a
wide brown leather belt, nothing too fancy. Reluctantly I’ll don a pair of
sandals. I’ve never liked or worn sandals. (back to the street chase thing
again). I’ll top it all off with some sort of natural colored straw hat with a
wide brim and a pair of sun glasses.
That is the
necessary uniform when I head for the beach with my new metal detector and
start hunting treasure. Where else would the pirates have buried it? I intend
to make my next million quickly. It’ll be a couple of months before I can find
my way back into the United States (not the street chase thing this time) and
get to Maine. It’s safe to tell you all about it because most of you have never
heard of Maine. Those who don’t live in New Hampshire (whose residents can’t read)
have no idea where it is. “Isn’t that by Rhode Island?” The couple dozen who
can pass both tests were undoubtedly drunk when they stumbled onto it and
probably still are. Drunks who get that badly lost are seldom able to take even
that first AA step.
I laugh at those
who settle for finding car keys in the sand. The few times the car and the
owner are not gone are probably good for about ten bucks a pop. It takes a long
time to make a million that way. Even those who find the occasional diamond
ring or Rolex or Rolls Royce buried in the sand (I’ve never had much luck
fencing expensive cars) usually only do so once or twice or so in their lives.
They are, unlike me, hopeless dreamers.
Unknowingly, I
have practiced for this hobby for many years. I have gone treasure hunting
every time I’ve gotten onto an airplane. That little pouch that has gotten
closer and closer to your knees over the years often hides something special,
and I almost always go digging. Some of the best things have gotten past weak
stomached airplane cleaning crews, but that’s another blog.
During the time I
am waiting to sneak back to Maine, I’m going to visit the library and find some
books about buried treasure, maybe “Treasure Island”. I guess I’ll have to
learn French too, since they can’t seem to get their hands on many books
written in English here in Quebec. I may have to resort to Amazon, or Abebooks
or maybe e-bay and build my own library of how-to and what-was-lost books.
About all I’ll need after that are some antique maps that shouldn’t run over a
couple of grand or so. That’ll barely dent my next million. I’ll just have to
skip a few meals or switch to something cheaper than Alpo until I get it.
Oh yeah, I’ll need
a shovel, and maybe a flintlock pistol too. Since I don’t know what the state
laws are regarding sharing treasure with the tax collectors and municipal
authorities, I’ll do my detecting in the daylight and dig at night. Probably
better pick up a flashlight or lantern too. Which is cheaper, lamp oil or
batteries? When I get a good reading, I’ll look as nonchalant as anyone about
to dig up a million dollars or so can. If someone is looking over my shoulder,
I’ll pretend it’s nothing important, maybe just a Rolls Royce or a pull tab
from an old soda can, so they won’t catch on and dig up the treasure as soon as
I turn my back.
When you hear a
giant sucking sound, followed by an insane laugh, on some mid-July night this
summer, you’ll know I’ve lifted my first shovel full of wet sand out of the
surf and am on my way to becoming maybe the richest AARP or MENSA* member ever.
*Men seeking
action, I think (So far, they say I haven’t passed ‘the test’ to join, whatever
that is. Maybe this endeavor will do the trick.)
