ABSTRACT
Harley was going to be a cowboy when he grew up. Or a preacher. They were the two biggest guys he knew. One he saw on Saturdays at the picture show, his hands busy with popcorn and a spare buffalo nickel that turned his sweating hand green. The other he heard shouting and pleading on Sundays. In church Harley passed the dreary hour laden with creeds, prayers, and responsive readings by filling out blank checks—always in the amount of a million dollars, always made out to himself. They should have been on their way from the Citizen's Bank to God. As he filled out dates on generic checks, he remembered how glad he had been when finally he could write 50 instead of 49 after the preprinted 19.
