"Trying to oblige," a pencil thin man replied. He didn't apologize.

"And here take this," a fat cheeked woman flipping her hips and heaved in a used kitchen mixer. It hit with a crashing sound and bounced to the hardwood floor. I could tell it was one like my mother had sitting on her white metal top kitchen table.

"But I don't want that either," I exclaimed.

"You, got it kid," the fat cheeked woman said and pushed herself in the door pulling a wagon teetering with a menagerie of what looked like kitchen leftovers. "You owe me $10.00." She held out her hand about an inch from my nose.

"And I've got even a bigger stash," the thin man yelled pushing through the door with boxes stacked so high, I couldn't see the tuft of his hair that he had spiked. I figure he had done it to make him look younger than he was, and hip. The boxed tumbled to the floor, and the weight of an iron circular saw broke out of the seams of its box. It wasn't a new one, more like my father would have had. I could tell, it had the same dusty smell.

"You owe me at least $20.00. And even at that you've got a steal."

I dashed for the phone. "Calling the cops," I yelled. They didn't move. Pencil Thin Face licked his lips. Fat Cheeks thumped her hands to her bouncing hips and tapped her drilling heels. I imagined she could be a retired tap dancer.

Sirens blared and lights flashed up the drive.

"So here we are lady."

"Help me," I said. They (pointing to Fat Cheeks and Pencil Thin Man) are trashing me out.

"But she owes us," they both shouted in protest.

"Pay up I'd say," the cop surprisingly said.

"What?" I said thinking I didn't hear.

"Pay up." I was so surprised my gold tooth popped threw my gapping = mouth like a wine cork and hit the floor with a wonderful ping.

"But I need your protection," I screeched indignantly.

The blue capped cop slapped his hand on the butt of his gun slung in its holster with bullets planted all around his belt hanging low on his slim hips.

"What…but…" I was wordless.

Before I could find another word deep in my throat, the second cop held up a newspaper clip of a wanted add column "Is this false advertisement? If so, we'll take you in. And oh, I got something too." He slid the little brown box he had under his arm to the floor. "A great used vacuum cleaner, the first my little lady had after we were married."

"No," I yelled, "It must be a misprint. Not the right address. Not the right message." I snapped the copy of the news column from the cop's bony fingers. I gazed at the column. No, the address was right.

"A mistake," I yelled. "I'll get to the bottom of this."

Just then up the drive my financial adviser strutted wearing jet black shoes that glittered with diamonds. He wore a new pinstriped suit; pink tie and had a big diamond on a gold tab hanging from his brow. Before he even got to the front door, I could smell his sexy perfume.

"Help save me," I said.

"Here, here, I'll save you. These poor slobs," he brushed them by and handed me a gold padlock. "Here quickly, -- lock up." He said and pulled green bills from his pocket and plopped a few green ones in the hands of the greedy outstretched hands.

"What?" I said. I was breathless.

He smiled. "Best investment right now, is junk. Wait ten years and watch it grow better than interest rates, stock market, even land. He smiled and put his arm around my shoulder.

"Wait!" I said, "And what do I eat in the meantime?"

"Let's go out to dinner. Let's sip martinis on the pier at moonlight on the Santa Barbara pier. Never fear. Your financial advisor will take good care of you in the meantime."

It's two years latter and I still have the key to the gold padlock; the martinis are good, but better yet, are the travels to the Louvre and to London Theatre and to the great square of Rome.