This story isn’t about how I got four hundred dollars—even though I did. Four hundred big ones. Unexpected.
Anyway, I want to say this beforehand:
I once swore that I would never write something like what you’re about to read. In fact, I can’t stand those who talk about what they do with their money.
But then, it WASN’T my money. So, why not.
I gave a hundred bucks to the cable guy. He was as country as fiddlesticks. He showed up with his wife. I saw them working in my yard, burying cable together.
“She works with me,” he explained. “She’s a good worker. We can take twice the jobs as a team, make twice the money. I love her so much.”
I shook his hand. He could feel the folded paper bill in my palm. I wished him a Merry Christmas.
The workman across the street got a hundred, too. He was repairing my neighbor’s sewage line. The brown, foul-smelling water puddled around him, saturating his jeans with stink.
I recognized him. We used to work together in a past life.
We shook hands.
I asked how he’s been.
“Got four kids, man,” he said. “A good wife, good job, great benefits. And after awhile, you get used to coming home, smelling like $#!* water.”
How about that.
I left a hundred in his toolbox.
And the old man in Pensacola, standing on Cervantes. Cardboard sign. Long beard. He smelled like whiskey and cigarettes.
I rolled down my window at the stoplight. I handed him a folded, green paper-football. I started to drive away.
“Hey, sir!” he yelled. “Think you accidentally gave me a hundred.”
“No,” I said. “Someone accidentally gave it to me.”
He shouted a God-bless-you while I drove away.
And the waitress. I ordered eggs, bacon, toast. What I got was a patty melt. I ate it, no complaints.
She realized her mistake later. She…