Previous story: In Motion
Cash Money
Photo by the author
Pops maneuvered his shopping cart around behind the Calvin Building. He had to get to the dumpsters before they were on the sidewalk. Once there, the contents were city property.
After securing the wheels with a pair of two-by-fours, Pops stood on the cart to lean into the dumpster. The warm stink from the dregs of fermenting sugary drinks hit him like the smell of money.
Pops used an efficient two-stroke method. Recyclables and edibles into the cart, useless garbage to the side. Two dumpsters later the cart was overbrimming. Pops headed for a nearby city park to sort in private.
All that work had given him an appetite, so he started with the fast food bags, cleanest ones first. One sack had been folded closed with the care a mother might give to her child's lunch. Pops salivated with anticipation as he opened it.
But instead of food, there was cash.
The kind of cash money a man like him wouldn't see in a lifetime. Pops crumpled the bag shut in his fist. His heart pounded. A wad of benjamins like that could get a man killed.
Pops closed his eyes and imagined himself at a high-class bar, buying rounds, raising a glass with a toast. Other fantasies flooded in. He bought an ice cream for his little boy. A diamond ring for his beautiful wife.
Except his wife was dead and his son was all grown up and gone.
Maybe the money was a hallucination too. A man in his condition saw a lot of things that later gave up on themselves. He unfolded the sack and peered in. He reached inside to count the twenties and fifties.
$2,700. Underneath, a photo ID card for Delia Johnston at the Calvin Company.
Pops looked up. From his park bench he could see the top of the Calvin Building.
I'm just an old drunk, Pops told himself. How can I be expected to do the right thing?
Who would expect him to do the right thing?
Nobody. And as soon as they got a whiff of cash on him, they'd sneak up in the middle of the night, bash in his head and take it.
Pops stood, wavering unsteadily on his feet. God, he needed a drink.
He could leave it here. Let someone else find the money and get killed for it. Problem was, he'd seen a name. And a face.
Pops sighed and began pushing his cart back to the Calvin Building.
After securing the wheels with a pair of two-by-fours, Pops stood on the cart to lean into the dumpster. The warm stink from the dregs of fermenting sugary drinks hit him like the smell of money.
Pops used an efficient two-stroke method. Recyclables and edibles into the cart, useless garbage to the side. Two dumpsters later the cart was overbrimming. Pops headed for a nearby city park to sort in private.
All that work had given him an appetite, so he started with the fast food bags, cleanest ones first. One sack had been folded closed with the care a mother might give to her child's lunch. Pops salivated with anticipation as he opened it.
But instead of food, there was cash.
The kind of cash money a man like him wouldn't see in a lifetime. Pops crumpled the bag shut in his fist. His heart pounded. A wad of benjamins like that could get a man killed.
Pops closed his eyes and imagined himself at a high-class bar, buying rounds, raising a glass with a toast. Other fantasies flooded in. He bought an ice cream for his little boy. A diamond ring for his beautiful wife.
Except his wife was dead and his son was all grown up and gone.
Maybe the money was a hallucination too. A man in his condition saw a lot of things that later gave up on themselves. He unfolded the sack and peered in. He reached inside to count the twenties and fifties.
$2,700. Underneath, a photo ID card for Delia Johnston at the Calvin Company.
Pops looked up. From his park bench he could see the top of the Calvin Building.
I'm just an old drunk, Pops told himself. How can I be expected to do the right thing?
Who would expect him to do the right thing?
Nobody. And as soon as they got a whiff of cash on him, they'd sneak up in the middle of the night, bash in his head and take it.
Pops stood, wavering unsteadily on his feet. God, he needed a drink.
He could leave it here. Let someone else find the money and get killed for it. Problem was, he'd seen a name. And a face.
Pops sighed and began pushing his cart back to the Calvin Building.
Photo by 'Ecureuil espagnol'
Pops parked out front. He took the ID in one hand, the sack of money in the other, and walked in the door.
"Sir! You can't come in here!" A woman in business clothes approached, followed quickly by a security guard.
"I'm here to see Delia Johnston." Pops planted his feet wide on the carpet.
The guard shouted, "Out. Now!"
"I'm here to see Delia Johnston," Pops said, waving the ID at them.
The woman put a hand on Pops' shoulder. "Why do you want to see Ms. Johnston?" She spoke gently to make up for the guard. She hated the way he was such an ass to everyone.
"I have something for her."
The guard reached for the sack. "I'll take it."
Pops stepped backward. He couldn’t trust anyone.
"I'm here to see Delia Johnston," he said.
"Okay," said the woman. The old guy was stubborn, but he seemed purposeful, not crazy. "Give me the ID and I'll take it to Ms. Johnston. We'll see what she says." Maybe Delia knew the Recycle Man. These days, you never could be sure.
Pops hesitated. Even a Delia Johnston who worked at the big fat Calvin Company would know if she was missing $2,700. He handed over the ID. "I want to see Delia Johnston."
The guard and the woman exchanged a hard look. "All right," the guard said.
The woman took the ID. "Why don't you wait outside?" she said. Purpose or not, he was truly ripe.
Pops wanted nothing more than to get out before the walls collapsed in on him, but he had to see this through. The woman went up the elevator while the guard stood by the door giving Pops the stink-eye.
When the elevator returned, a short Latina stepped out alone. She had long, dark hair and thick tortoiseshell glasses.
"How did you get my ID?" she asked. She looked right into the bum's eyes to show that he couldn't scare her. Pastor Tony wanted her church to start up some kind of homeless shelter, but Delia would have none of it. They couldn't have men like this stinking up the house of the Lord.
Pops stared back. She looked like the photo. "You're Delia Johnston?"
"Yes."
"Sir! You can't come in here!" A woman in business clothes approached, followed quickly by a security guard.
"I'm here to see Delia Johnston." Pops planted his feet wide on the carpet.
The guard shouted, "Out. Now!"
"I'm here to see Delia Johnston," Pops said, waving the ID at them.
The woman put a hand on Pops' shoulder. "Why do you want to see Ms. Johnston?" She spoke gently to make up for the guard. She hated the way he was such an ass to everyone.
"I have something for her."
The guard reached for the sack. "I'll take it."
Pops stepped backward. He couldn’t trust anyone.
"I'm here to see Delia Johnston," he said.
"Okay," said the woman. The old guy was stubborn, but he seemed purposeful, not crazy. "Give me the ID and I'll take it to Ms. Johnston. We'll see what she says." Maybe Delia knew the Recycle Man. These days, you never could be sure.
Pops hesitated. Even a Delia Johnston who worked at the big fat Calvin Company would know if she was missing $2,700. He handed over the ID. "I want to see Delia Johnston."
The guard and the woman exchanged a hard look. "All right," the guard said.
The woman took the ID. "Why don't you wait outside?" she said. Purpose or not, he was truly ripe.
Pops wanted nothing more than to get out before the walls collapsed in on him, but he had to see this through. The woman went up the elevator while the guard stood by the door giving Pops the stink-eye.
When the elevator returned, a short Latina stepped out alone. She had long, dark hair and thick tortoiseshell glasses.
"How did you get my ID?" she asked. She looked right into the bum's eyes to show that he couldn't scare her. Pastor Tony wanted her church to start up some kind of homeless shelter, but Delia would have none of it. They couldn't have men like this stinking up the house of the Lord.
Pops stared back. She looked like the photo. "You're Delia Johnston?"
"Yes."
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Pops held out the sack. "I found this in the dumpster."
Her face went white as the sack. Delia recognized it instantly, and her heart lurched forward. How did it get into the dumpster? She thought she'd left it locked in her desk. Delia’s hands shook as she took the sack from him. It gave off the metallic, shameful smell of money. |
 Photo from the US Federal Government |
Delia had hated begging from her brother and sisters, but there hadn't been a choice. Between them, they'd put together enough to cover her mortgage. She didn't know what she would do next month.
Pops turned to leave. He needed a drink, bad.
Delia said, "Hold on!" She was counting the money.
Pops felt his face get hot. "It's all there," he said.
Delia looked at him with surprise. It was. "Why didn't you take it?"
Pops pointed to the ID. "I saw your face. I knew your name."
Delia counted out five twenty dollar bills. She shoved them into his palm.
"I can't," Pops said.
"You must."
"Don't you need it?" Pops asked.
Delia nodded. She didn't know where she’d find another hundred dollars. She needed the money more than anything, but God and Pastor Tony would want her to do right by a man who'd done right by her.