Dollar

The first in an intended series of tales interconnected by the presence of a dollar with a strange marking

1.

        Bob Frankle�s headaches were getting worse, there was no doubt about it- his vision would blur every ten minutes and his temples pulsated with tiny waves of sharp pain. He kept punching the buttons on the ATM with as much pressure that his tired fingers could assert, but it was still telling him his pin number was incorrect. He�d reinsert his card and look at his watch, he had twenty minutes to make to the deli and then back to work. But the ATM, unsympathetic to his white collar plight, still told him his pin number was incorrect.
He didn�t need this, not on this morning especially. The boss was up his a*s about the Reilly account and his eleven year old son had taken a pair of pliers to his braces last night, ruining roughly four grand worth of dental work. His wife was riding him about his smoking and the doctors told him that the headaches would continue until he cut back on his work load and developed healthy stress reduction habits.
But the icing on Bob�s domestic trouble cake was his daughter Starlene, who had run away from home three weeks ago with her yellow and purple haired boyfriend. He and the wife filed a missing persons report but the police just told them to sit tight, that she would eventually come home.
Bob was worried sick, though- his vision would blur every time he�d picture his baby girl, in her dirt covered Ninja Turtles t-shirt and tiny flip-flops, swinging back and forth on the tire swing in their front yard. She was such a lovely, bright young girl who started exhibiting a full grown adult�s sense of sarcasm and wit by the age of four. Complete with an elaborate vocabulary, she was the dinner table amusement for him and his wife for years to come- but the years made everything go wrong. Her sarcasm grew into unpredictable anger, her wit was replaced by rings in her nose and her vocabulary dwindled to every other word being f**k or a*****e.
He thought about what he could have done better and what he would do better if she�d just come home- then he�d see a fleeting image of a dead-still tire swing- in the dirt beneath it was a lone sunflower flip-flop- and the pain would shoot down his neck.
Bob finally snapped, took his fist to the ATM keypad.
With a buzz and a whirl, money began sliding out of the machine.

That�s when he noticed it; it caught his eye as he was counting through the stack of bills, a single dollar bill with a strange marking on it, very strange. It was an American Bald Eagle stamp in some sort of metallic sliver, a black skull resting in the middle. It covered George Washington. He also noticed the bill was the only one amongst the ten and fives that made up the twenty five bucks he pulled from his account. He counted the stack again and sure enough, he had twenty-six dollars. The machine had screwed up, which was no big surprise.
He looked at his watch; he had eleven minutes before he had to be back at the office. He didn�t have time to go inside the bank so he stuck the twenty five in his wallet and slid the single dollar into his coat pocket. As he saw a young black vagrant rapidly approaching him, he quickly turned, hoping something would divert his attention elsewhere so he could skip the panhandle song and dance he was so accustomed to.
The vagrant waved a few fingers at Bob and said, �Yo, man- you got-�
�I don�t have any money, no.� Bob interrupted.
He hurried along the sidewalk as the vagrant match step with him. Bob avoided eye contact.
�Yo, man- what makes you think I wanted money?� the vagrant asked.
�Of course you were going to ask for money. You just saw me walking away from that ATM.�
�Yeah, which means you do have money. Besides, maybe I was gonna ask for a cigarette, or a stick of gum.�
�You were looking to bum something nonetheless, and I don�t have anything for you.� Bob said, snapping the words off.
The vagrant smacked his lips and rolled his eyes, threw a defiant palm in Bob�s direction. �What the f**k ever, man. Look at you, with your suit and tie and Visa check card, acting like you know everything.�
Bob continued to walk looking straight ahead, trying to ignore to the vagrant�s needling.
�Bet you got that tie at Sears din� you? But you like for you high rolling friends to think you bought at Fauzios or Burlington- spent a big bill on it.�
Bob felt the words prick his skin, the tie was a gift from his daughter on his last birthday.
�And dem shoes, got everyone thinking they Italian, all shiny and s**t,� the vagrant growled, pointing at Bob�s footwear. �But they ain�t nothin� but plastic, like a Barbie doll, ain�t they?�
The needle began to plunge as Bob thought of Starlene�s Barbie doll collection stuffed in a box in the attic. He didn�t want that box opened in his mind right now. He turned his head slightly and looked in the vagrant�s direction.
�At least I bought my shoes.�
�What�s that suppose to mean?�
Bob doubled his pace, trying to break free of the vagrant, but he kept up.
�No, what�s dat supposed to mean? Saying I stole my shoes?�
Bob closed his eyes and exhaled.
�Stole them, panhandled them, bought them with your government check, I don�t care- please leave me alone.�
The vagrant stopped, watched as Bob got a distance down the asphalt. He smacked his lips, looked away and threw his hand up.
�Man, f**k you, n***a!� he yelled. �Think you know everything and s**t, with yo high paying job and expensive sportscar!�
Bob could feel his nostrils flare, tried to push the vagrant�s cry from his ear, dismissing them as the nonsensical ramblings of ignorance. He thought of all the times he�s been turned down for a promotion, he thought about how his wife had to drop him off at work this morning because his 88 Honda Civic was still in the shop. He kept walking.
�Ain�t got a motherfuckin� care in the world do you, big shot! We all just here for you, the whole world is all about you!�
He thought about the stack of bills on kitchen table and the torn up braces hanging from his son�s mouth. He felt the tension rise in his throat.
�Naw, mothafucka, you don�t care about no-goddam-body but yourself!�
An image of his daughter doing unspeakable things in an alleyway jumped into his mind and with that, Bob clicked- he froze in his tracks and turned around. He clenched a fist and made his way back toward the vagrant. He was going to be late for work.
As the vagrant saw Bob rolling up on him he steadied himself, clenched his own fist as he caught sight of Bob�s boiling eyes.
�What, m**********r, what to start some s**t?�
The vagrant flinched as Bob swung a finger up.
�You look me up and down and think I don�t give a damn?� Bob hissed. �Think just because my suit is pressed and I got plastic in my pocket with my name on it means I don�t have any problems?�
The vagrant turned and tried to get away from Bob, now Bob was following him.
�Yo man, just take your a*s to work. G�wan!�
Bob kept pace with vagrant leaning over in his ear.
�Think because I lay down at night in a bed with a roof over my head that I don�t have a worry in the world, do you know how many kinds of pills my wife and I are on, do you know what an ulcer is, son?�
�Yo, man. I ain�t your son!� the vagrant yelled.
�No, but you�re somebody�s son. You got a mother somewhere laying down at night sick with worry, don�t you?�
The vagrant put a finger in Bob�s face.
�Don�t talk about my momma, man. I�ll kick the s**t out�cha�� the vagrant snapped as he cut down an alley.
Bob followed, he didn�t know why he followed but he followed. Once he left the sidewalk and stepped over a crushed Busch can floating in a muddy pothole, he knew he was leaving his world and entering the vagrant�s, but he didn�t care. The vagrant broke into a jog.
�Yo, man. Quit following me n�s**t.�
But Bob ignored his request, he strided down the dirty alley behind him, hugging his briefcase to his chest.
�So Vodka, Bourbon, or maybe just Busch in a can?� Bob asked.
The vagrant turned with a raised eyebrow.
�Man, you crazy. What you talking about?�
�What kind of poison today? Trying to get up enough for a pint of Thunderbird?�
The vagrant grabbed a garbage can and threw it across the ground in front of Bob.
�Thunderbird? You think I�m one of them old n****s? Ain�t you late for work?�
Bob stepped over the waste of a Chinese take-out, careful not to get any on his Barbie shoes.
�Well that�s what you needed money for, right? Just to get drunk, get through the day.� Bob told him. He felt his words losing steam, as they journeyed deeper into the dark alley; he felt the angry tension dissipating and was starting to feel he was being a high and mighty a*****e.
He watched as the vagrant approached a pile of junked appliances by the back door of a Rent-a-Center. The vagrant kicked at the door of a burned out refrigerator that lay on its side. The door fell to the ground with an echo that rolled through the alley. Inside the fridge was a dirty sleeping bag, a stack of paperbacks and a pillow with a stained GI Joe pillowcase.
The vagrant crawled into the fridge and picked up the stack of paperbacks. He threw them and the scattered at Bob�s feet.
�That�s what I do to get through the day.�
Bob peered down at the eclectic assortment of tattered Bantam serial pulps at his feet. He had a few Star Trek novels, a John Carter: Warlord of Mars, a couple of Mack Bolan and Able Team, but mostly Mad Magazine books- collected works of Don Martin and Spy vs. Spy.
Bob squatted down and put his briefcase at his side, he picked up a Spy vs. Spy.
�I used to read Mad magazine a lot.� Bob told the vagrant. The vagrant just stared silently.
�So, what you telling me for?�
Bob thumbed through the pages and things seem to go quiet. Not even the noise of the city could be heard.
The vagrant watched Bob, trying to figure out what this white man�s angle was, and assuming the worse. He finally broke the silence.
�Look, mane- you looking to get yo dick sucked you better go hit up them mothafuckas over on Third Street.�
Bob choked up, spitting out embarrassment, �No, no, no I wasn�t-�
�-Because you ain�t getting no dicksuck here, mane.�
Bob threw his hands up, shaking them frantically. �Look, no, no- nothing like that! God, no!�
�Then what�choo doing, followed me down here to peruse my extensive library? You know I keep all my rare, leather-bound prints in the upstairs study.�
Bob, rubbed his mouth, trying to cover his smile. He sighed and slowly stood up. �Look, no- I just�I don�t know what I�m doing here,� he said. �I�m having something of a week. Lotsa of little things all piling up on me at once, you know, and-�
Bob stopped himself, he suddenly realized he was whining to a poor kid who was living in a refrigerator. He suddenly lost track of his intent. Why was he here, what was he trying to prove, how was he going to explain his tardiness to his boss?
The vagrant stared curiously at the white man, he saw his face twisting slowly with iron-clad contemplation. For some reason he decided to speak.
�I find all these books in bus stations. Not the bigger ones, but the bus stations out in the middle of nowhere, in the little po-dunk a*s towns, They be sitting up on wood racks that use to be shelves in stores for panty hose, not the kind that comes the plastic egg thing-�
�-But the kind wrapped in cardboard, with a picture of a woman�s legs on them.� Bob finished.
The vagrant cocked a grin. �Yeah, that kind, �Sweet Brown Sugar� n�s**t...these books be sitting there for everyone to read, but I just hide them in my pockets. They cool, but I wish I could find some Wolverine comics though.�
Bob stared at the vagrant, he lay on his side in his refrigerator propped up on an elbow- he pulled a handful of crumpled bills from his coat and started counting through them.
�Seen a lot of bus stations?� Bob asked him.
The vagrant glanced away from Bob. �I�ve been a lot of places. Been to six states and eight cities.�
�How old are you?�
�Just turned seventeen. You ever been to Kansas City?�
Bob shook his head.
�That�s where I�m trying to get. I�m from there. My momma lives there now.
Suddenly an image of this young black boy on a tire swing flashed in Bob�s head.
�You�re a runaway.� he whispered.
�I guess that�s what white folks call it, I just got sick of s**t where I was living, my drunk-a*s daddy, my momma screaming all the time. N****s trying to get you to sling-�
�Sling?�
�Sell drugs, mane. Sling.�
Bob wondered if Starlene was somewhere slinging.
�Naw, couldn�t take that s**t anymore, so I decided I was gonna make it on my own.�
The vagrant took the dollars and made a straight, even pile.
�But s**t, I just wanna go home now. I don�t care how bad it is. M�tired. I keep thinking about that bed in my momma�s spare room. Trying to get a bus ticket, I need two-hundred and forty seven dollars.�
Bob scratched his head, looked down both sides of the alley, �Why don�t go to social services, they�ll help you get home.�
The vagrant clicked his tongue, �S**t, they try to process me through all kinds of bullshit. Take�m two weeks to get me home.�
�Two weeks isn�t a long time.� Bob told him.
The vagrant stared at Bob with a slight hint of amazement.
�It is when you live in a motherfuckin� refrigerator!�
Bob clammed up again, he stared at his watch- he was supposed to have been sitting at his desk crunching numbers thirty minutes ago.
�So why don�t you call your mother, tell her to buy you a bus ticket?�
The vagrant shook his head, �She ain�t got the money, mane. I saved up some change, got a calling card and called her, she told me she wanted me home, but she didn�t have the money to get me there. Then she started crying�.couldn�t take that s**t.�
Bob, stared at the pile of cash on the dirty sleeping bag. Was it really for a bus ticket, or was it going in the kid�s arm? He wanted to help him, he wanted to see this boy�s mother finally getting a good night�s sleep, but how was he suppose to know if this kid wasn�t conning him?
Then he glanced down and for a brief moment pictured his daughter lying in that burned-out refrigerator mouthing the words �help me, daddy.�
�How much are you short?�
�What?�
�The bus ticket, how much more do you need?�
Bob watched as the vagrant�s lips mouthed numbers and he threw the last few bills on the stack.
�Twenty-six dollars.�
Bob�s eyes widened slightly. He chuckled, he closed his eyes and tilted his head to the sky and laughed.
The vagrant watched at what he thought was a white man losing his mind.
�What�s funny, mane?�
Bob pulled out his wallet and grabbed his twenty-five bucks, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the strange dollar bill. He put the money together and stuck it out at the vagrant. �Twenty-six dollars.�
The vagrant just peered at the money. He grabbed his stack and crammed it his coat and climbed out of the fridge. He stood in front of Bob and looked down at the money in his hand.
�You ain�t no cop or nothing.�
�No.�
�I take this money you ain�t gonna yell for cops?�
Bob jabbed the bills at him, �No, look- just take it..go home.�
The vagrant stared Bob sternly in the eye, then his slow stare slowly faded as he snatched the money. He crammed the bills in his pocket and turned, started pulling his meager belongings from the fridge.
Bob watched as the boy crammed his tattered clothes into a duffel bag. He snatched at the sleeping bag and pulled it out. Then he stopped and dropped everything and looked at around.
�F**k it, leave it for the maid.�
Bob chuckled, rubbed his forehead.
The vagrant turned and looked at Bob, had a look in his eye like a kid on a playground and it was his turn on the slide.
�Yo, mane- thank you.� he said, reaching for Bob�s hand. He shook it up and down and told Bob thank you three more times. Bob then realized his sharp pained headache had resided a bit. A comfort he hadn�t felt in weeks.
�The books.� Bob said.
The vagrant looked down at them around their feet.
�You want them, they yours.�
Only the Spy Vs. Spy. You take the rest of them home with you. Start that extensive library.
The vagrant grinned, he squatted and started cramming the other books into his coat. �Sure, mane- alright.�
The boy jumped up and spun around, taking off down the alley. He got thirty feet and turned, started to run backwards and yelled at Bob, �Yo mane, you ever get to Kansas City- we hook up, play some X-Box!�
�Don�t miss that bus! Go!� Bob yelled back.
Bob watched as the boy slowly became a dot at the end of the alley and finally vanish.
Bob stood for a moment, he grinned, picked up his briefcase and though of the vagrant boy�s mother- the smile on her face as she watch her son come up her steps. He thought about how late he was for work, and how he didn�t care because his boss knew he was the only one who could fix the numbers right.
He thought about Starlene and inhaled deeply, with a newfound sense of hope, that she was out there but she was okay- she would come home soon and they would fix things. She would pick up a phone somewhere and call him.
He pictured a little black boy and a little white girl sharing a tire swing, going back and forth in the breeze.
He started to whistle, and whistled all the way back to his office.