Loving money, and its roots

Buster, as usual, was making his point at the Brew & Burp Club the only way he knew how: by shouting.

It wasn't that Buster liked to shout. He spoke loudly because he was trained that way, being a lawyer-turned-auctioneer. And he spoke loudly to be heard over the din of other not-paying-attention coffee drinkers and the clatter that Rose Mary, the proprietor-waitress-muffin baker, made washing silverware in the stainless steel sink.

"So it's all about money," blasted Buster, balancing his chair on its back legs and teetering between comfort and calamity.

He was reacting to my observation that the Louis J. Lorimier Memorial World Famous Downtown Golf Course and All-You-Can-Eat Catfish Buffet would be just weeks away from completion, except for a slight monetary snag.

Buster reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. He slapped the quarters and dimes and pennies on the Formica table top.

"There!" he boomed. "That ought to do it."

Buster was right. The 73 cents -- two Washingtons, a couple of FDRs and three Lincolns -- should have been plenty to put the finishing touches on the downtown golf course, except for the fact that the much-needed millions to start the project never exactly came through. Or if the money was sent, it got diverted. Or withheld. Government can do that, you know.

Across the table, Bud, who had just polished off a cranberry and black walnut muffin -- one of Rose Mary's specialties -- poked in his ears to turn up the volume on his hearing aids. Bud didn't see any sense wasting batteries unless there was something worthwhile being said.

"Are we playing poker?" he asked, reaching for some coins of his own to ante up.

"No, Bud, we're not," Buster barked with that Archie Bunker "Stifle!" look. "The editor says he needs money for the downtown golf course."

Bud looked at me with question-mark eyebrows.

I explained, speaking a bit louder than normal for Bud's benefit, that I needed to expand my fund-raising horizons. Clearly, my grant application for "A Sure-fire Economic Development: The Duffer's Cure for Cape Girardeau's Downtown Revitalization" had been rejected.

Bud's face saddened. "I guess that's it then."

No, I said, there were other options.

For example, back when the governor was running for office I got to shake his hand and whisper two words: downtown golf. I'm pretty sure that's been driving him crazy ever since, and he would probably be glad to send a few million of the MOHELA dollars to the golf course.

"Mohela? That's them Shriners, right?" Bud's hearing aids were squealing again.

Buster sat his chair down on all four legs and leaned forward, a sure sign that what he was about to say was Very Important.

"You don't want to mess with politicians ... or their money."

Several others nodded. No politics in the downtown golf course.

I said it was a good thing I had another hot prospect for financial backing, seeing as how my friends and my government were all too willing to let this golden opportunity fly out the window.

"You're not going to propose another dang sales tax, are you?" shot Buster.

No, there's a better way.

"And that is?" Bud's eyebrows by now were arched all the way up to his receding hair line.

The American way, I said.

And, I added, it can be summed up in one word:

Dubai.

"Goodbye?" Bud said with confusion furrows deep enough to plant potatoes running across his forehead. "I thought you were going to tell us about the money."

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.