Shari Garmise

I am just sharing a flash story on bucket shops, which I wrote as part of the NYC Midnight Flash Competition. The story should provide some interesting insights on the speculative period of crypto.

Synopsis: Clara tries her luck at a bucket shop to earn enough money to get her home back.

“They say Jesse made $1,000 dollars at the bucket shops at 16,” Clara told her older sister, Minnie, as she flipped another pancake. “If a young lad could do it – “

“None of your schemes, Clara. Gambling’s the devil’s temptation,” Minnie cut in, pumping the water into the kettle to make tea. Her thin lips turned down in a scowl. Minnie worked all the time, making her quick to temper. Clara worried her sister’s heart was shriveling away.

“It isn’t gambling, its investing.” Clara placed the finished pancake on a plate and covered it with a towel to keep it warm, then poured more batter onto the scarred pan.

“Why are police raiding the shops, then?” Minnie plonked four clay-baked mugs on the wooden counter.

Clara blew out a breath. “Aren’t you sick of sharing our home with lodgers? Mr. Jones’ flatulence sticks to the walls no matter how much lemon and bleach I use, and that Miss Blakely. Always whining. We’ve no peace.”

“It’s honest, decent work and we keep the home, Da almost lost us in one of his schemes.” Minnie poured the tea, then wiped her hands on her threadbare apron. “I’ll have no more talk of bucket shops in this house.”

Clara had other ideas.

She yearned for the home of their youth, clothes without patches, and fancy new electric lights to replace the oily smell of kerosene lamps she worried would blow up at any time. She was smarter than Da, more cautious. She’d get this right. After breakfast, she stuck $1.00 from her savings and her lucky rabbit’s foot in her shopping bag and practically skipped to Mrs. La Touchon’s All Ladies Bucket Shop on Dearborn Street. Clara’s biweekly shopping chore would be a perfect cover for her visits.

Heart beating, beads of sweat forming on her brow, she pulled the door open and entered a square room filled with women seated in wooden chairs, facing a large blackboard covered with commodity prices. The ticker tape clicked away in the corner.  She glanced around to see quite a few women who reminded her of Minnie, sitting silently in starched white shirts, mended brown skirts that brushed their scuffed, laced black boots, gray streaked hair pulled back into buns, hands folded primly in their laps. Except for their eyes, those gleamed in anticipation. Minnie’s were always sad. Clara found a seat in back, and for today, she decided to watch and take notes.

It took her five visits before she laid down any money. Clara studied the Chicago Sun daily for stock tips, watched the results of others’ investments and learned to ignore the shellshock in so many women’s eyes at the end of the day. Losses were common, the norm if she were being honest with herself.  That’s why she spent the time to figure out her own investment system.

 Her patience paid off. She won more than she lost.  Little bits, but enough to put pennies away and pay for the odd luxury, like a sweet treat on the way home that tasted like the grandest caviar. She added a walk to her daily routine to visit the bucket shop five days a week. And if she had to sneak the odd dollar from the house savings account on loss days, she’d be able to put some of it back when she won again. The pawn shop she found on the route to Mrs. La Touchon’s supported her system. With the lodgers, they had to put so many family heirlooms in the attic, Minnie would never notice any were missing. She’d just buy them back on days she won.  

Oh yeah, her system was working. When she’d earned enough, she’d share it with Minnie. Proving her sister wrong would add to her joy. So very much.

            Clara was counting her day’s winnings when she heard a shriek, chairs falling, and someone grabbed her out of her seat. She came eye to eye with a burly man in blue, with a broad, blunt face and no humor in his eyes.

            Police raid.

            The policeman yanked her by the arm and dragged her outside and into a crowded wagon, which took her to the police department. Minnie was waiting for her with a grim face, hair loose from her bun, as if she had hurried. How had she known to come here?

            Minnie cuffed her ear. “You never could hide anything from me.”

            “You called the police. How could you? I was winning,” Clara sputtered, more shocked than angry.

            “Just like Da, and I’ll have none of it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You’ll be moving into my room so we can rent to a third lodger.”

            And watch over me, Clara realized, blinking back the tears. “But I was winning.”

            Minnie touched her hand to Clara’s cheek. “No darlin, you were obsessing. Like Da. You had less in your savings than when you started. And there’s less in the house savings too. Don’t think I didn’t notice the attic.”

            Clara shook her head. “Not true.”

            “You know I’d never tell you a thumper. And you know I have house records.” Minnie tried to smile, but she was so rusty at it, her face looked like a jack-o-lantern. “With a third lodger, we can save more money. If we’re frugal enough, we’ll have the house back to ourselves in a few years.”

            Clara looked down. “It was just nice having something of my own.”

            “It was never yours. But the house, that’s ours.”  

Clara nodded, wiped at her tears and looked, really looked at Minnie. “I’m so sorry.”

Minnie put her arm through Clara’s. “Family’s always the best bet,” she said. “Let’s go home. I’ll make the pancakes.”  

Photo Image: A bucket shop in 1892. Photo is in the Public Domain