Dime a Dozen

There was no sound quite as beautiful as a quarter being dropped into my bank, as I lovingly called it. Really, it was a clay mug I made in a third-grade art class. The edges where the walls and the bottom connected were rough, poking out, and disheveled, with little lumps. There was a crack in the side, too, because the kiln was too hot and it dried it out too fast.

Regardless, it was my only real property, and it managed to stay intact for nearly seven years.

As I leaned against the garbage can in the alleyway, I closed my eyes, holding out the little clay mug in hopes of someone pitying me. Pity equals money; that’s all there was to it.
And money I needed, desperately. I’d wait on street corners and alleyways, for the sound of a dime, nickel, or penny. Whatever I could get – it was better than nothing. There were also rare occasions where I couldn’t hear anything. I’d open my eyes, and there’d be a bill in my hand.

On those days, I was overjoyed.

~*~

In November the air was crisp. Not yet cold, but enough to drive me mad. You think after years of dealing with it I’d get used to it, but I hadn’t. Where I was, in New York, it was crisp during the day, and cold during the night. Bitter cold. It made my fingertips numb and my nose turn red and soggy.

Since it was November, my least favorite holiday was coming around.

Thanksgiving.

Because, on the night before Thanksgiving, about twenty people, at least, walked by me with fresh baked goods for their table. About ten of them had the whole meal – turkey and all – because they were too lazy to bake their own damn dinner.

If you have ever been starving – which you haven’t – anything edible smells amazing.
November 11; it was only a dime, but it made me open my eyes nevertheless. I looked inside the tan container and frowned. But when I looked up I couldn’t help but smile.

A small boy was standing about five feet from his mother, whose back was turned as she jabbered on her cell phone. He was facing me, with little blue eyes and blonde curling hair.

“Thank you.” I said to him, lifting the dime out of the cup in my hand. I brought it to my chapped lips and gave it a small peck, showing my gratitude.

“Shu-wer, mister. Do you want more?”

I nearly laughed. “No, thank you.” I would like more, yes, but where would he get any, anyway? He only looks about four years old. He probably found that dime in-between the seats of a taxi or something.

“No, no!” he whispered. It shocked me. I briefly glanced at his talkative mother, who was now trying to grab a cab, oblivious to her son’s actions. “There is mo-wer in my mommy’s poi-se!” He pointed to a rather large bag slung around the thin women’s arm. I nearly drooled. It looked expensive.

His body waddled as he ran to the bag, carefully unzipping it while watching for any reactions from his mom. Sneaky little thing, he was.

He reached a small hand inside, digging around slowly for – I guessed – a wallet. His faced suddenly beamed, and he dragged out a black square. Opening it quickly, he yanked out all the money inside, and put the wallet back.

When he handed me the money I was still gaping at him. Who know a little four year old knew how to sneak past his mother like that?

I took the bills from him anyway, not looking at them, worried that if they were anything more than twenties I would start bawling in front of him.

The kid stood there, smiling. Proud of himself, no doubt. I put my greasy hand up.

“High five?” I whispered. He giggled and complied, patting his little hand against my much bigger one.

“Gabriel!” someone shouted, and we both looked up. His mother was putting away her phone, all while grabbing some hand sanitizer. She squeezed it on her hands, grabbing Gabriel’s hand in between and dragged him out of the alley.

“You don’t touch people like that,” she scolded. I scoffed.

I could faintly hear Gabriel defending himself as they walked away.

I looked down, and in my little clay mug, there were seven one-hundred dollar bills.

~*~

I did cry, after all; like a baby as I jogged down the street. I didn’t care who saw me, as I got my fair dose of humiliation every day while begging for money.

Seven-hundred dollars.

Do you know what I could buy with that? Food, glorious food, and clothes I can stay warm in. Though I’d add the rest to what I had saved, no doubt.

My hands shook as I climbed the wooden ladder up to the tree house, clammy and anxious. It was behind a condemned building I knew too well.

When I got to the small balcony, I peaked inside the window through the slit in the wooden boards that covered it. It’s not every day I’d be able to get to the safety of the tree house, with it being so far away from everything. Food, people, money. I learned the hard way that I’m not the only thing to go in there; I was lucky I didn’t get rabies that day, though I do now have a terrible fear of raccoons.

When I saw the coast-was-clear, I walked backwards as far as the balcony would allow me and jumped kicked the door down. It was the only way of opening it, because I boarded the door up from the inside.

I said before that my clay mug is my only real possession, and I wasn’t lying. I do own other things, obviously; I’m wearing clothes for example. (I’m not in jail for indecent exposure, am I?) But that clay mug is the only thing that has any real meaning.

I sat it down in the windowsill as a walked in, and looked around. It was the same as always; a palate of bedding off the right, where I slept, a table to the left, and nothing in-between. I opened the ratty suit case under the table. I was going into town.

I felt like a five year old girl on Easter, excited to go to church in her pretty, new dress. Going into town meant that I couldn’t dress like I usually did, in grungy hoodies and mud-stained jeans. I had bought some new faded jeans at a thrift store a few weeks beforehand, and a black button up shirt. The jeans were a little saggy, but it was the style anyway.

I had a stash of water bottles that a “friend” had given me. He worked in a packaging company for Aquafina and Deer Park water that was settled on one of the streets I visited often. He would give me a twelve-case every few weeks. I used it to drink, but I mostly used it to keep myself clean. It might seem a little wasteful, but there were plenty of water fountains around, but not many public showers.

I ripped a bottle out of the plastic and placed it on the table, before unzipping my hoodie and tossing it off to the side somewhere. I didn’t care where it went; I was too excited to leave. I lifted my white undershirt over my head and pulled down my pants, leaving my boxers on because they were the only ones I had. Gross, I know. But I was planning to buy more.

I opened the cap, sprinkling some of the water onto my hands and rinsing the dirt off of them, and not caring that I didn’t have any soap. I then poured some into my greasy coffee-brown hair and over the rest of my body. I scrubbed with my hands until I was reasonably presentable, and I put on my newer looking clothes. I then combed through my hair with my fingers, and put on my same pair of Nikes I found in a garbage bin outside somebody’s house. They were only half a size too big; can you believe it?

I grabbed my bank off the table, gently taking out my earnings for the evening and putting all the bills in my pocket. All except for that one dime. I give it a kiss and put it back in the mug lovingly.

I was going to town.