Excuse Me Sir

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]e shuffled along the beach, dragging our feet, walking in a lazy pattern. A group of adolescents walked past us, dressed in bright vivid colors, high-waisted shorts, and cool neon sunglasses. One of them had a two-foot-high squared off Afro. It was marvelous.

“Did you see those kids?” Jamie said. “They looked like they were straight from nineteen eighty-three.”

“Excuse me sir.” One of the boys broke from the pack, and ran up to me. “You dropped this.”

The boy in the cheetah-print jacket handed me a fifty-dollar bill.

“What in the …” I patted my pockets. “I wonder how that fell out.”

The boy paid no mind to me. He jammed his cheek against my face, and outstretched his arm, pointing his phone-camera at the two of us.

“Smile,” he said. “And hold up the fifty-dollar bill for the camera.”

Ferris Beuler and I both grinned at his camera, the flash nearly blinded me.

I rubbed my eyes. “What was that all about?”

“Instagram,” he said punching his thumbs on his cellphone. “Hashtag fifty-shades-of-good-Samaritan.”

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