Weapon of Choice
WEAPON OF CHOICE
A Domestic Tragedy in One Financial Gesture
By: Mason Absher
There are moments in a person’s life
when you reach for your weapon of choice.
Mine?
Was already in my hand.
The basement had flooded.
There was chaos.
Wet socks. The smell of drywall dying.
The washer made a sound like regret.
I called in reinforcements.
He showed up in ten minutes.
Tool belt. Steel-toed boots. A calm that made me suspicious.
He fixed it.
Quick. Clean. Like he’d been born with a wrench in his hand.
And as he stood, wiping his hands on a rag,
I knew what I had to do.
I reached into the drawer.
Pulled it out.
Laid it flat on the counter.
The checkbook.
Yes.
A paper weapon.
An instrument of honor.
A gesture that says:
“I will not let this debt go unpaid.
I will acknowledge your labor with a flourish of ink and old-world formality.”
I drew it.
Slowly.
Dramatically.
And then—
He said:
“No need.”
(Beat.)
I froze.
Mid-stroke.
Pen hovering like I was about to sign a treaty.
“No need?” I asked, as if he’d insulted my lineage.
He smiled.
Wiped the last of the water from his boots.
And said:
“I’m your brother-in-law.”
(Beat.)
Which… yes.
Technically, he is.
But in that moment—
in that posture—
he was a tradesman.
A savior.
A hero of the sump pump.
And here I was.
Trying to cut him a check
like a Victorian widow paying off a chimney sweep.
I said, “But… I insist.”
He said, “Still no.”
And then he picked up a Gatorade and left like it was just another Tuesday.
And I stood there.
Checkbook open.
Signature unfinished.
Alone with my financial instinct and a house that no longer needed rescuing.
(Beat. Performer slowly folds invisible checkbook.)
Weapon… holstered.
I don’t know what the moral is.
Maybe it’s that family doesn’t always charge.
Maybe it’s that gratitude can’t always be quantified.
Or maybe—
just maybe—
I’m not supposed to pay people in cursive anymore.
(Beat. Performer nods, rueful.)
But still…
when the next flood comes—
I’ll be ready.
Because a man has to have a code.
And mine comes in carbon copy.