I’ll never know why I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk on my way home from the midnight insanity shift at MacAllan’s Bar. I’ll never know why I risked that miasma of mumbled profanity around me as I inconvenienced the locust-swarm of downtown Manhattan pedestrians on their way to their high-paying corporate-ladder-climbing dream jobs.
I’ll never even know how I heard that little sound on the sidewalk against the backdrop of honking, talking, revving, living.
Clink.
But I did hear it. And I did stop. Because MacAllan’s doesn’t have a corporate ladder to climb, just a filth-covered bar to hide behind when the after-midnight crowd is too scary, and a piss-stained restroom to cry in when the overwhelm of unlucky decisions and bad choices chases you away from that after-midnight crowd to catch a single desperate, hopeful breath.
So I crouched down beneath that miasma to pick up the silver dollar, feeling desperate and poor and stupid. I stared at it, made a face to no one but myself that was the crouching-in-miasma equivalent of ‘the things I do for rent,’ and I dropped it in my purse with the other change from the evening’s pathetic tips. Not enough tips for rent. Not even enough for groceries.
Clink.
Less than an hour later, my Mastercard declined at the cheapest sandwich shop this side of the river. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but isn’t it always a surprise?
The sandwich shop had a bathroom to cry in, but it was for paying customers only.
I fumbled for cash. A couple of rumpled George Washingtons in my wallet. Not enough. A handful of change in my purse. Not enough. I reached back into my purse, and there the silver dollar was. I tossed it on the pile of change.
Clink.
I counted money while eyeballs drilled spite into my back with a furious hatred only impatient New York eyeballs can produce. Still two dollars short. I fumbled in my purse some more, and there it was. That same silver dollar. But it was also in the pile of change in front of the cashier. I pulled it out, tossed it onto the pile.
Clink.
I rummaged around in my purse. There it was. Again. And again. And again.
Clink.
I left a generous tip, and I didn’t use the sandwich shop’s bathroom; not for peeing or crying or anything else. Instead, I went home as fast as I could.
I pulled the FINAL NOTICE paper from the door of the cheapest available poor decision in Manhattan. Inside my apartment, I slid the remnants of my sandwich into the fridge next to the packet of bologna and the store-brand mayonnaise. I stripped off the stinking tip-me dress that hadn’t worked as well as it promised, set my purse on the counter and fumbled around inside, pulling out the silver dollar.
I smiled the first genuine smile I could remember.
There wasn’t much in the cupboards, so it was easy to find a couple oversized empty mason jars hiding behind the expired Raman packets and takeout menus. They still had their spaghetti sauce labels. I clanked the jars on the dirty counter, then I set to work. Rummage, clink, rummage, clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Yeah, these old jars would hold a couple thousand dollars of rent. It would be a long night, but I would never miss paying a bill again.
I might even go grocery shopping.
–END
Author’s Note: A few months ago I attended Carter Wilson’s Gentle Writer’s Workshop. It was a joy, and I learned so much, and met so many incredible people. But aside from that, I had a couple of fun stories emerge from the process. This was a quick writing exercise, maybe fifteen minutes. The prompt was “The time I found the money” and we just had to go from there. Since I’m a D&D nerd from way back, I thought of a magic item in the DMG, and thought about that in modern day Manhattan. So here you go.
Copyright 2024 Abram Dress
Liked the desperate need to pick up that coin. And those stink eyes on her while counting out her change.
"Miasma" is an anagram for "Sam I Am"
Clink.