I Found a $20 Bill, But a Childhood Memory Won't Let Me Keep It
I Found a $20 Bill, But a Childhood Memory Won't Let Me Keep It
I'm never afraid when I walk Doris at 6 o'clock in the morning.
This day, in July, the rising sun that is making its grand entrance in the east, illuminates our path. Only a few other people are outdoors, some mirroring our activity, others in athletic wear racing to a class in our neighborhood gym.
Doris' tail -- typically pasted to her rear -- is high and freely waving. And although we are hardly an intimidating pair -- a tiny, 82-year-old owner and her under 30-pound pooch -- we each believe the other can battle any ne'er-do-well that might cross our path at this hushed hour.
My 3-year-old shelter dog prefers this time of the day; it is noiseless, except for the few shared ride cars sounding their presence in the driveways of neighboring high-rises.
Doris pauses in her sniffing to swivel her head to the rude sound, while I watch as the car's future occupant wheels luggage to the car's trunk.
Airport, I tell my pet. Wonder where they're off to?
She ignores my query and rushes to the gate of the Dog Park. Before I unlatch the bar, I bend to free Doris of the leash. When she has had enough of playtime, and my conversation with other early risers lags, we begin our walk home. I spot something on the sidewalk. It is Andrew Jackson's image on a $20 folded paper bill. I halt Doris, who is straining to charge at pigeons congregating and taunting nearby.
I reach down to pinch and retrieve our 7th President's tribute, and then scan the street to see if someone also out at this hour has dropped it. But the sidewalk is empty.
For a moment, I consider leaving it, just in case a frantic owner realizes their error and heart beating, rushes to retrieve it. But believing that unlikely, I stuff it in a pocket of my small sling bag that also holds Doris' treats.
I know I will not keep the $20. As if coated with my dishonesty, I hide President Jackson and pledge to him that on our next dog walk, Doris and I will find a homeless person, whom I'm certain needs it more than I.
When I shared the first half of my story with a friend, she said, "Your lucky day!"
"Oh, I didn't keep it," I said, leaving her possibly thinking I was a woman of wealth.
Certainly I am comfortable now in the last quarter of my life, but am still tied to a childhood marked by financial failure. And perhaps it was this sad history that would demand I find someone more worthy of my accidental find.
It was the 1940's, in a Chicago immigrant neighborhood, when my parents owned a corner grocery store, Irv's Finer Foods. As I look back, I assume the landlady thought my father's enthusiasm and my mother's good looks, would draw customers, and the monthly rent would arrive in Mrs. Newman's ledger book on time.
Alas, a combination of my dad's hale-fellow-well-met attitude - -which allowed neighbors to wave on their way out the door, "Put it on the books, Irv, I'll pay next week"-- and the A&P Supermarket that opened across the street -- debts outweighed income.
In my 2006 memoir, "The Division Street Princess" I describe the scene as my parents, brother and I watch the contents of Irv's Finer Foods being auctioned off. Perhaps it was that image and the feeling of despair we all felt, that banned any thought of keeping the money.
Our first stop to find a recipient of the $20 bill is a Catholic Church a block from my highrise. Often there are two men sitting on the steps who exchange a greeting with Doris and me, but the steps are vacant.
On the corner outside our local CVS, a man sits on an upside down black milk carton. He is leafing through some pamphlet as we approach him. I reach into my bag, pinch AJ and hand him to the man. "This is for you," I say.
"You're kidding me," he says as he turns the bill over and over.
I learn his name is Shawn, his greying hair streams out of a White Sox baseball cap. He is wearing a blue plaid shirt, and blue jeans that evidenced outdoor repose. A cross that lives around the collar of his shirt, settles in the V of his neck.
"I found it," I tell him; "it doesn't belong to me."
"You're just saying that, right?"
I shake my head no.
"Thank you, thank you," Shawn says.
We leave and I follow Doris who is pulling me back home.
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