Written to the prompt Y is for Yellow
The Dealer
Before he’s even opened his mouth I know what he wants.
‘Vinnie,’ I says to him. ‘I’ve told you before – it’s no good keep coming back, I ain’t got any and I can’t get me hands on any.’
‘Have you tried—’ he starts.
‘I’ve tried everybody I knows and they’ve tried everybody they knows. But there’s none to be had in any direction from here to the coast and nobody’s got a clue when the next shipment’ll be coming in.’
‘But I need it,’ he says, all whiny.
‘I knows you do,’ I says, ‘but your need don’t make a blind bit of difference to my supply problems, do it? And I ain’t a miracle worker – I can’t just magic it up out of thin air. Anyway, it’s your own fault. Told you to ration yourself when you last got some, didn’t I? Well, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah…’ he says sheepishly.
‘And did you? No, you didn’t. What did you do?’
He puts his head down and stands looking at me like some schoolkid who’s been caught widdling in the headmaster’s garden but he don’t say anything.
‘You went all out and used it up as soon as you could, didn’t you?’
‘I needed to…’
His voice trails off as if he wants me to finish his sentence for him.
‘No, Vinnie, you didn’t need to. You wanted to.’
‘But it makes everything look bright and cheerful,’ he says. ‘It makes me happy.’
‘It might very well make you happy,’ I says, ‘but it’s making everybody else miserable.’
‘Why?’ he says, and from the look on his face he’s not taking the mickey, he genuinely don’t understand.
‘Why?!’ I says, not knowing whether I’m going mad or he is. ‘Vinnie, other people wants it as much as you do, but they can’t get any ’cause of you. You’ve used that much of it you’ve caused a stinking shortage.’
‘Oh,’ he says and he looks so pathetic. ‘But I need it. What can I do?’
‘Try doing something different. Trouble is, Vinnie, you’re obsessed. You’re just doing the same thing over and over again. How many are you up to?’
‘Eleven…’
‘Eleven?!’ I says. ‘That ought to be enough for anybody.’
He looks like he’s found a pound and lost a fortune.
‘For the love of God, Vinnie,’ I says. ‘Do something different!’
His eyes are brimming over.
I reaches into me pocket and pulls out a small metal tube, rolled up almost to its stopper.
‘Here,’ I says, holding it up in front of his face. ‘This is what’s left of my own personal supply. There’s not much, so you’ll have to ration yourself.’
He takes it from me and his face kind of shines, like I’d given him gold.
‘But listen, Vinnie,’ I says. ‘You are not to use it on painting any more stinking sunflowers.’
© Carol Carman 2025
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