Dollar Bill

From: the dollar bill vignette


"How much ?"

The smell of burnt coffee mingled, not unpleasantly, with the lingering aroma of Thursday morning's bacon. It hung like an invisible halo over her downturned face as she contemplated the notepad in her hand.

"Dollar fifty, honey, same as always." Her voice was gentle, soothing - the same voice she used on five-year old Jack when he forgot to pack away his toys in the cluttered living room (one would scarcely notice, but it was the effort that counted, she always reminded him) - and she lifted her limpid brown eyes to his.

"Pick up !" The cook shoved another breakfast order through the passthrough behind her.

He looked burnt out, she thought. Too much on his mind ? Trouble with the wife at home ? His taupe overcoat, once sleek, looked faintly distressed now, as if in silent sympathy with its owner. His graying hair was wet and slick through with rain.

No, it couldn't be the wife. Years of toil at the Shore Diner - and not a few others like it, before - had attuned her to the ways and moods of customers. She could tell a man by the cut of his clothes and the way he ate his fries (slowly, mind drifting off into thought ? Hunched over, furtive flashes of the eye betraying a recent extramarital assignment ?), or, in this case, didn't touch his swiftly cooling and half-finished plate of eggs-over-easy. He was close to being broken, but not over a woman. She'd served him every morning at 7:30 - no later, unless the crosstown bus was uncharacteristically late - and had never seen him so desolate.

Rain drizzled against the windowpanes like an army of drumming insects, warning against return to the gray skies and slick streets that lay beyond.

"Would you like anything else, Norman ?" she asked softly. She felt an almost irresistible urge to touch him on the shoulder, reassure him, comfort him. He felt it in her voice and lowered his gaze. When he looked up again he had managed the beginnings of a smile. A thankful smile, maybe. He wasn't alone, after all; there was some human kindness yet in this concrete forest of smog-filled canyons and desperate two-legged predators.

"Thanks, Mary, but I'm fine for now." He held the smile, but against the natural force of whatever weighed so heavily on his shoulders, it visibly wearied him. Like a sunset creeping stealthily over an unlit village, his face regained its unnatural melancholy. He stood stiffly, folded the morning newspaper under his arm, and fished a torn, ink-stained bill and a handful of shiny coins from his trouser pocket.

"Thanks, Mary."

With a shrug of the taupe overcoat he was headed for the door, and then he was gone.

-----

As he regarded his visitor, Norman shifted uneasily in the brown-backed leather chair. Corinthian leather. $6,213 after taxes. Not the store-bought sort, but leather cured in Corinth. His brother-in-law had brought it back from one of his trips to the Greek isles, and it would be no understatement to say that he, Norman, was quite proud of this chair, as he was of all the discreet emblems of continuing success which littered his spacious office.

"What you're asking me to do is - er, ... highly irregular, " he intoned with as much gravity as he could subtly weigh onto each word. Norman's brow betrayed the slightest patina of moisture, though the room was quite cool. His visitor's eyes wandered to the bookcase behind Norman's head as he leaned back in his chair (also backed in Corinthian leather, to match the one behind the desk in which Norman sat, though without the rolling wheels: $3,108, after taxes).

The dark brown eyes, perfectly suited to the ebony face they inhabited, disinterestedly scanned row after row of books before alighting on 'Precedent in Practice of New York Real Estate Law, 1965 - 1972' ($125, roughly, in today's dollars; after all, it had been a gift from his late father-in-law. Accompanying law degree: $70, 000, give or take, and not a penny wasted).

"Look, man, I ain't here to talk regular an' irregular. I need a place to park my loot." The black man leaned closer. The rabbit-fur-trimmed hood of his parka formed an aesthetically pleasing counterpoint to his African features and the dazzling diamond cross that swayed, suspended, from his neck.

"My boy told me the quickest way to start getting my money clean is to buy houses an' shit. An' I know that's how he knows you, and he referred me to you, so don't tell me 'bout irregular."

A thick, yet immaculately-manicured finger stabbed the air in Norman's general direction to add specific emphasis. Apparently this new generation of hoodlums was acquiring a bit of grooming to go with their 'bling', he noted abstractly, before exhaling softly.

Norman sighed. The black man waited, settling back into leather and rabbit fur.

When had things started to get so out of hand ? Now his more colorful clients were giving referrals ? Years ago, when he'd done one or two concessions on behalf of the Italians (and that's all it really had been, one or two - perhaps four at the outer limit - favors for some Italian gentlemen of indeterminate occupation whom he'd come to know in a fashion that presently eluded his memory) they had not had the poor class - the temerity ! - to issue referrals to their friends. This was quite a new and unpleasant business, and he intended to make his discomfort quite clear.

"Look, I'm not sure that I can actually do this. First off, in order to, um, move a half-million into real estate by buying this condo, the value of the property would have to come in at least in that ballpark. This appraisal I have here ..."

Norman gestured to one amongst a sheaf of papers nestled on the mahogany rolltop desk ($5,200, Ethan Allen)...

"... came in at three-fifty, so you'd be one-fifty short."

He paused.

"I do have an appraiser I work with sometimes who can sometimes be persuaded ...".

The brown eyes flickered briefly with recognition. Streets or not, he was a businessman, too.

"How much ?"

"Before we, er - get to that, there's the - um - other problem of your... employment ?"

No reply. Norman paused again before continuing.

"I mean, I assume that you're not - um - drawing a regular paycheck, declaring income on taxes, that sort of thing ?"

The black man pursed his lips and steepled his fingers, waiting.

"I mean, I can - maybe, maybe, work out some type of arrangement with a numbered company, ownership unclear, purchasing the condo. But it would be very complex, and possibly - erm - possibly very expensive."

The black man leaned forward again, having satisfied his foresight of this little dance's particular choreography.

"You get 15% off the top. I don't want no complications, and I need it done in a month. Bonus if you get it done in a month."

It was Norman's turn to lean back into the supple embrace of leather tanned in Corinth. He furrowed his brow.

"How much of a bonus ?" he queried in a fashion affecting nonchalance but which sounded to the guest like the whine of his pitbull being separated from a favorite biscuit.

"Let me think about it." A moment, then: "Five thousand."

Norman let an appropriate amount of time pass before looking up again, keeping his brow furrowed, though to slightly less exaggerated depth.

"Listen. I payin' you half the bonus right now to show you the type of fuckin' hurry I in, seen ?"

That perfectly manicured right hand dipped into a velvet brown coat pocket, emerging with a thick roll of bills between thumb and ring-encrusted forefinger. Bills peeled off onto Norman's desk with a whir, delivered as by a practiced croupier. Among the crisp notes, one stood out: a tattered and torn greenback stained with ink thumbprints the color of indigo or another deep, intriguing bluish hue.

"I'll see what I can do." Norman smiled wanly and extended a shirt-sleeved hand across the rolltop. "What was your name, again ?"

The black man's hand glided to meet his in midair; the handshake was as firm as the eyes were steady.

"Streets," came the faintly musical baritone reply. "Dem-a call me Streets."

Norman glanced at his watch - 6:30 to the minute - but the motion was unneccessary. His guest was already rising, headed toward the solid oak ($3, 213, installed) door.

A shrug of the broad shoulders, a quick adjustment to the fur-lined hood, and as noiselessly as the oak door opened and closed, Streets was gone.

--------

The block was hot this Tuesday night. Lenox Avenue brownstones flitted by the half-lowered tinted windows, crowding together in a blur of gentrification like a huddled group of retirees giddily sipping from some hidden Fountain of Youth.

"Undercovers dressed as fiends,
Makin' so much money,
Product's movin' fast,
Put away the stash...."

Streets lowered the bass on the catchy tune, caught the eye of his crew runner at the red light on 109th and Amsterdam; both looked away as if without recognition. Seconds after the black Lexus glided away to its next stop, though, Pops was already punching numbers into the silver Motorola, shutting the operation down for the night. 1:30; block is hot, time to relocate the weight.

Churchboy in Washington Heights got the message too, did the finger dance on his shiny phone as the Lexus pulled up, slowed down, drove away. Same with Fitty and Torch outside the coffee store further uptown. Never use the phone unless absolutely fuckin' necessary, was Streets' credo - drummed into him by his mentor, the late great One Eighty (as in, the amount of weight he used to sling personally, in an hour, even before he had a crew of his own).

It was close to two o'clock when Streets had hit the last corner, signaled the last runner. The nose of the Lexus was being drawn inexorably downtown, toward home, when he saw Stringer. He recognized the doubled-over figure immediately, even though the suede jacket was three shades blacker than it had been the last time he'd laid eyes on him, three weeks before. The tan elbowpads were a sooty gray in the halogen glare of the Lexus headlights.

Stringer was bent over in the doorway of a gated-up liquor store, arguing vociferously with a crack who- well, an individual whose pharmaceutical pursuits left her open to the vices of the streets. Her arm was wrapped around his leg as she tried to pull herself up his body, presumably to grab the tissue-wrapped package that Stringer was desperately waving in the air away from himself.

"Listen, I'll give you the twenty bucks. Just get the fuck off my leg first !".

Streets honked his horn. The headlights shone a pool of steely yellow light around the two figures in the doorway, slowly drawing their befuddled attention. Stringer's brain reacted a split-second more quickly than his companion's, instructing his leg to withdraw from the momentarily-loosened embrace and stagger toward the half-lowered window on the passenger side.

The swirling detritus of city life - McDonald's burger cartons, pages from a third-grade homework assignment, condom wrappers - eddied around his ankles as he pounded a retreat to the car door.

"Streets ! What's up. Man, I - I -" Streets cut him short, motioning toward the electronically unlocked door.

"Get in, man."

Stringer did as he was bidden, scrambling to find the window switch as the car pulled away from the curb.

"You betta come back here with my shit !" a shrill voice screamed alarmingly close to the still-open window as the black car powered away. Even a block away the voice still raged, growing fainter and fainter as the wind of a sparsely trafficked street filled the car interior.

Streets lowered his eyes from the rearview mirror and eased his foot off the gas pedal. The black minivan that had glided four cars back, in his wake, for blocks, was still there. If he didn't know better he might think he was being followed. "Whatchu need ?"

Stringer was shivering, jittery. His eyes darted involuntarily from left to right. Full-body tremors shook his too-lean frame. His pale cheeks were sunken, hollow, and he wore the look of the damned, along with a fur of two-day-old stubble.

"Man, I- I only got thirty bucks...... I know you don't do thirties, but - "

Streets sucked his teeth. "Man, what happen to you ? You used to start off with a hundred-piece. Don't be talking shit in my car 'bout thirties. You crazy, nigga ?"

These fiends were all the same. The party starts; it lasts for three months, maybe six. Then they get fired. Then the money dries up, the hustle starts. He used to see it every month before he had his own crew and stopped slanging himself - a new wave of fresh faces, begging to be led down the garden path to Beelzebub's lair.

He sucked his teeth again, waved off the halting pleas he'd known would follow. "Just gimme the $30. You lucky I even saw you fuckin' wit' Betty over there. You don't know she stabbed a man last week ? Don't fuck wit' that bitch, nigga. Get yourself right, man, 'coz what I'm seeing right now is sad."

Streets briefly recalled the Stringer who had been buying him bottles of champagne at Sway as lately as two months ago, comparing that hale and hearty party animal to the torn prey swallowed up in the bucket seat next to him. Niggas will never learn. He mentally shook his head and pulled a piece of plastic from his sock.

Bills changed hands. "Get the fuck out, and stay outta my block if you gonna be such a fuckin' heatscore !"

A pause, then, as Stringer was halfway out of the car: "HEY ! What the fuck is this ?"

The look of mortification on Stringer's face might have melted a warmer heart, but Streets knew the terrible consequences of warmth when it came to the welfare of committed addicts.

"I- I- only had tw- tw- twenty-five, man... I'm sorry, man, I'll get you back......."

"You don't have no other change ? Swear to God I'll pop you in the mouth for talking trash and then not having my money !"

Stringer desperately clawed at every pocket on every piece of clothing on his body, finally coming up with two forlorn dollar bills, one torn and smeared with blue ink. Streets snatched them out of his tremulous hand, and with feet skittering like the paws of a scared rat, Stringer was gone.

---------

The slightest of dawn breezes blew Mary's dirty-blond hair into her eyes as she climbed the last steps of the West 135th stop, coming level with the littered sidewalk. She could trace the steps from this spot to the church without thought, as she did every other morning during the week on her way to work at Shore's Diner.

It was a small sacrifice, bringing the previous day's leftovers to the soup kitchen on the way to work, but a necessary outgrowth of her enduring faith. What was that line in the Bible, about faith without works being dead ? Mary hoped she could be forgiven for not remembering the exact book and verse, and to be sure, her quiet actions were not unnoticed by the One who had caused those very words to come into being.

This early morning, to her surprise, her regular route to St. Stephen's was interrupted by a tangle of yellow police tape and a phalanx of red-light-whirling police cars pulled up hard to the curb. In their midst a black Lexus was crazily tilted half onto the curb, half on the street. The door furthest from her vantage point on the sidewalk was half open, glass littered the street, and two police officers were in quiet conversation with a tall plainclothes detective.

As out of the mist, a crowd was beginning to materialise along the yellow tape. She blew her hair out of her eyes and gripped the huge container in her hands, craning her neck to take in the scene even as she hurried by. She had to be at work in forty-five minutes, no time to dawdle.

"... pulled up next to him, five, six shots through the window........ perp unknown... witness saw... black minivan take off like a bat outta hell at the enda the block...."

The snippets of conversation floated through the crisp morning air and trailed her as she crossed the street on her way to St. Stephen's.

Today, maybe she would donate yesterday's tips - everything in her left pocket - in addition to the leftovers. Yes, today she would.

---------

Stringer stared up at the cross; it seemed to gaze back down on him. Jesu's figure, right leg curled over left, arms outspread, was superimposed on that gently lit crucifix of pearlish white. His surroundings grew indistinct as he focused on this symbol of the faith of his youth - the voices of homeless men around him grew dim, the scuffed and chipped tiles of the church basement floor slid onto the periphery of his perception. The chipped oaken table on which he laid his elbows was no longer uncomfortable, it wasn't even there.

He was seeing this cross, hung high on the basement wall of St. Stephen's Church against a square of black velvet, but he was seeing another cross, too: the one his mother had worn every day of her life until her death two years ago. He had loved her deeply, and she him.

"Faith will sustain you even when all else fails, " she would say. "Lean on our Lord and let Him lead you, always, " she would say.

He knew, even without admitting it consciously, that his wild bacchanalia had commenced not long after her death, as if to press a poultice of raw sugar to a deep and grievous wound. Thinking of the gossamer-thin strand by which his faith now held threatened to overwhelm him with a wave of emotion from which he was not sure he could recover.

"Last round for seconds ! Kitchen closing in twenty minutes !".

The sound of many men rushing (to load half-full plates with free breakfast bagels and pork sausage) was a welcome interruption to his train of thought. Stringer's eyes dropped from the cross.

He had - what ? - twenty, maybe twenty five dollars left in his account. He could buy a twenty-piece with that, if he could still find Betty or Chinese on the corner and they had anything on them. Or a ten-piece, with enough money to catch the subway home and buy lunch or dinner later in the day.

He grit his teeth and forcibly expelled the breath he'd been holding as he calculated. Who was he kidding ? A ten-piece would just make him want more, and he'd be back for another ten. Better to get a twenty from the get-go.

"Lean on our Lord and let Him lead you, always."

The words came to mind unbidden, as clear and vivid as if his mother had been right there, had leaned over to whisper them into his ear.

Stringer squeezed his eyes shut and tried, tried to find the strength. Who knew it took strength to lean on the Lord ? Where was that strength supposed to come from ? Was he too weak to do even this ?

The other men greedily filling their plates turned half around as an anguished yelp escaped Stringer's lips before he fled up the stairs, up to the door that led out of St. Stephen's Church.

He descended the church steps outside quickly, struggling to regain what he hoped might pass for composure. He almost knocked over the lady making her way up the stairs, one at a time - her head bent downward and unexpectant of his hasty descent. In her strong hands she helds an enormous Tupperware container whose heft had slowed her steps.

"Oh !"

"I'm - I'm so sorry, miss !" Stringer bent to retrieve the fallen container.

Mary smiled and prepared to tell him it was quite alright, that she was fine, and no harm done, but she drew a sharp breath when he stood upright and the feeble dawn illuminated his drawn face. He looked so gaunt, so hollow, that she felt he might have been the one more likely injured by their brief contact - only his clothing seemed to keep his bones from falling and piling together like some archaeologist's cache.

"Don't worry about it, " she breathed, still wondering at the skeleton now holding her Tupperware. She could see intelligence in those eyes, though. Intelligence and potential on the verge of being squandered forever.

"Do - do you need some... some change ? To get something to eat, later ?"

Stringer's eyes flickered briefly, the answer came instantly, before pride could swallow it, take it back.

"Ma'am, I'd very much appreciate anything you could do. I'm a little down on my luck right now......".

Mary reached into her right pocket; nothing there. Ah, left pocket. That was where she had put yesterday's tips. She emptied the pocket, placed the bills and coins in Stringer's outstretched palms without counting them.

"Ma'am, thank you so much, so much...... you don't know how much....."

Mary smiled and took the Tupperware from him, resumed her climb up the stairs.

Stringer fingered the coins and bills in their warm nest as they sat in his pocket. For the first time in a long time, he smiled. He turned left off the bottom step, began to walk quickly toward the subway, toward home, his mission clear.

Had he looked closely, he might have noticed that one of those bills - the dollar bill - was torn on one edge and stained with blue ink.