CONFESSION III

“He’s talentless.”

It’s an expression the old guys in Lac- Saint-Jean use to talk about those who are bad with money. The chronically-on-welfare, the spendthrifts, the eternally broke, the money-eaters, the money executioners. I spent my twenties figuring I was just like them because I didn’t, in fact, have a goddamned cent, and then the thirties came and the job along with it and I kept having a bloody miserable time paying the bills on time, or not forgetting bills at the bottom of my filing cabinet. I lose money in one-hundred-dollar hits because I forget to fill out my requests for reimbursements. I’ll discover, all of a sudden, that I have some extra cash and I spend it on books or Scotch, then I remember two hours later why I’d put it aside in the first place. Come tax time, I ...