Twenty Dollars and Change by Bryony Lorimer

It was that transitory time of year, the few weeks buffering the snow’s disappearance and the sun’s incessant climb north. In a petulance of abandonment, the grit that had lain with the snow all winter on roads and sidewalks determined to express its outrage. No longer satisfied with passive invasion of houses via tires and shoes, it rose up, pursuing living flesh.

Of no help to Raymond was Monday’s parking ban for street sweeping since he was in the throes of the Saturday morning before. And worse, running in shoes along a road lined with sidewalk, his composition was one of tissue and blood—human.

The attacks were repetitive. A vehicle would roar past, disturbing the air and causing an upwards draft. The grit rode this draft until gravity intervened, at which point it thrashed wildly, finding its longing for flesh in the wet of Raymond’s eyeballs.

But he was near the entrance to the trail which meandered along a river straddled by forest, all enveloped in calming birdsong. At each intrusion he simply blinked, registering no irritation at all.

Just seconds from reverie’s gate, with a fair level of clarity despite the onslaught, was where Raymond saw it. Blatant and upright among a scattering of brown grass at the sidewalk’s edge, a twenty-dollar bill—dear Betty gazing out regal and kind, her face grit free.

Reminiscing at the wonder of previous cash finds—two shiny quarters pocketed on the way home from work last September, a rusted dollar coin plucked from melting ice beneath the post box three weeks ago—he knew the coming minutes would bring the same awe but amplified twenty or forty-fold. Anticipation built wildly.

Slowing to a canter, he stooped and lowered his hand to the green plastic banknote, enclosing it in his fingers.

It was cold and damp—reassuring. Likely out all night, slipped out the back pocket of a pub-goer’s jeans on the stagger home. Poor sod still asleep, ignorant of the loss.

And certainly not a gift from a granny, escaped from the clammy hands of a child in a booster seat, Mummy chiding, “I told you not to open the window and stick things out. Remember the tale of headless Harry?”

No, the bill was Raymond’s, free and clear.

He entered the trail, his rapture intensifying just as anticipated. Wiping the note dry on the nylon of his jacket, Raymond regarded Betty one more time. Then with reverence, slipped her into his pocket.

A successful engineer—unmarried and pushing fifty—the find would not enhance his quality-of-life. It was his inner child who was touched, the boy who’d deposit a bloody tooth wrapped in tissue under his pillow wishing it transformed to a gleaming dollar coin as he dreamed, the boy whose granny gifted him dimes with shaking hands each time he sat on her lap.

Basking in the glory of leaves edging towards green, he anticipated the explosion of vibrance in the weeks ahead. How marvellous a place the world was, how generous providence’s hand—past, present, and future.

*******

The turning point emerged in the moments among the budding leaves. A vague, unarticulated impression, filled out to a sense of being followed.

But nothing lurked behind.

At the upward incline away from the river, the trees thinned, and other runners thundered by. The strange presence persisted, taking on a tinge of familiarity. Raymond tuned in, concentrated right to its source. Which transpired to be radiating from the vicinity of the stowed bill.

Must he suffer this again? The same heaviness he’d felt ten minutes after finding the two quarters. But that was understandable, the area of sidewalk frequented by the homeless—only reasonable he’d feel presumptuous at claiming the fifty cents without a thought for those less fortunate.

He’d attempted to return the coins the following morning, clinking them down on the same stretch of concrete.

It wasn’t to be, Raymond managing only four steps clear.

“Excuse me, you dropped these.” A cyclist rolled alongside, his gloved hand offering back the quarters.

The dollar coin hadn’t inspired such guilt, its time in the ice a neutraliser. Possible, yes, it belonged to an old lady who’d dropped it while balancing shopping and mail, but even then, there was the distance of time and memory.

Raymond made no attempts to return the dollar. Instead, he tossed it on a shelf in his living room—beside the quarters he’d abandoned efforts to return.

Over time, the tug of guilt on passing the shelf lessened, and in an arrogance of considering one hundred and fifty cents a mere trifle, things headed towards a casual forgetting altogether.

Stumbling and sweating through his living room, Raymond cast the bill on the coin-laden shelf and experienced a new depth of heaviness. One to threaten the quality of his moment-to-moment existence.

Lathered up in the shower, he closed his eyes, saw Betty swimming in green. Which led to a child in a booster seat, then Granny—the child’s or his? Or the one struggling with shopping and mail? They blended into one kind and currency poor dear.

Crunching an apple, he considered options. The girl guides would be selling cookies soon. Hadn’t they gouged at more than five dollars a box last year? So, say at least six this year. Simply buy three boxes—let them keep the change.

But no, he’d still benefit from the cash then, would need to give them away which would come off strange from a single man. Or it’d look like he was re-selling, triggering an endless cycle.

So, through a convolution of guilt, memory, and time on his hands, Raymond found himself on the train into town late Saturday morning, with the bill and three coins packed in a Ziploc.

Not fifteen minutes later, he stood in the police station at the tail end of the reporting crimes queue.

*******

A busy Friday night it had proven. In an hour of waiting, he overheard tales of stolen bicycles, hot-tub sabotage, and a dachshund kidnapping. But no reports of twenty dollars lost.

“How can I help?”

“I was out running this morning, found this bill. Just on the sidewalk between 10th Street and 25th Avenue. Here to hand it in.”

The police officer looked up. “You waited in line for this? Well, it’s good we’ve honest people in this city, but it’s yours to keep.” He glanced behind Raymond. “Enjoy your day, sir.”

Raymond stayed put. “But surely you could check if it’s reported missing?”

“Wouldn’t record that unless there was a wallet or other identifying items.”

“But someone must be missing it?

“The world’s not fair, I know. You’re free to give it away if it makes you feel better, but you’ll excuse me, sir, there’s many behind you.”

Deflated, Raymond turned.

Near the exit, a woman and a boy of six or seven stood in line. Raymond’s heart quickened. In a show of spontaneity, he held out the Ziploc. “It’s your lucky day, bud, get yourself some Lego?”

The boy froze.

“No thanks, sir,” said the mother, peering up the queue.

“It’s just twenty dollars and change, not even mine.”

“Thanks, but we don’t take money from strangers, do we, Jason?” she said, looking at the boy.

Traipsing outside, Raymond reasoned his intention was pure, and it was a poor world which scoffed at giving a few happened upon dollars to a child.

Well, nothing for it, he’d carry the load a fraction longer. Other opportunities would present themselves.

Time was getting on towards lunch and why not treat himself at that new Italian café? Swinging open the door, he sauntered inside, then perused the wall menu. Prosciutto and parm looks good, oh, but there’s a chicken special with mozzarella—

“Excuse me, sir, if you wouldn’t mind stepping outside.”

A pull on his elbow. He turned and saw two police officers. “Pardon?” Raymond’s mouth continued to salivate over the special.

“Let’s just step outside.”

The three patrons of the café stopped talking.

Out on the street in front of glass windows, Raymond and the officers huddled, allowing the patrons a muted view of proceedings.

“A lady at the station says you tried to give her son money in a Ziploc bag,” said one officer, the other writing in a notebook.

“Yes, what of it?”

“Make a habit of handing out bags of cash to minors?”

Raymond exhaled. “Look, I’m sure you’ve already checked, I was at the station trying to hand the money in—I found it this morning.”

The officer with the notebook nodded.

“Yes, we’re aware, and the sergeant on desk duty found the interaction strange.”

“What, handing in money?”

“Yes,” he lowered his voice, still clutching Raymond’s elbow. “Truthfully, we think it was a front to make it seem you’d innocently stumbled on the cash before using it to lure a youngster.”

Raymond laughed, “What kind of monster d’you think I am? His mother was there—I’m an engineer for Christ’s sake.”

“Do you have the bag?”

“Yes, here it is, and you’re welcome to it.” Raymond thrust it into the officer’s hands. “Now, can I go?”

“Not yet.” He turned to the other. “Run a quick ID check.”

The one with the notebook took Raymond’s driver’s licence and spoke into his cellphone. An awkward silence followed as he held it to his ear. “No priors,” he eventually confirmed.

“Right, we’ll head back, collect your statement.”

Famished, Raymond followed them to the station. Inside, they escorted him past the growing queue and into a side corridor. The note taker disappeared, the other officer directing him into the fourth room on the right—home to strip lighting, a grey plastic table and three matching chairs.

“Ten minutes. Write down events of today, starting with finding the cash, ending with offering the boy the bag.” He held the Ziploc up to the light. “And background on the coins too.”

*******

Despite the harsh ambience and his roaring stomach, Raymond experienced a catharsis. The cheap black biro skittered across the paper, words flowing out relentless. As his wrist ached, an internal load drained away.

He wrote of guilt surrounding the quarters he’d stolen from the homeless, his lack of shame around the dollar and the conceited assumption its owner was oblivious to its loss. Then, trumping it all, he recorded the jerk he surely was as a comfortable middle-aged man, snatching away poor Granny’s gift.

Only seconds seemed to pass before the officer re-entered the room. Scrambling, Raymond resorted to bullet points to jot down final events—the encounter with the desk officer, the boy, and his mother.

“Time’s up.” Picking up Raymond’s statement, he scanned one of the eight sides of paper filled with cursive. “Wasn’t War and Peace we wanted, just the essentials.” He dropped it on the table. “Good news, the lady won’t press charges.”

“I can go then?”

“Yes, consider yourself warned.”

Raymond stood, feeling buoyant and free—his troubles shared, the money returned. He paced out of the room, down the corridor, seeing a clear path to the queue.

“Sir.”

He kept walking, speeding up, focusing his attention on the orderly line—just a few metres.

“Sir, don’t forget this.” The steps pounded faster and faster.

The queue in spitting distance, he felt the familiar firmness grip his elbow.

“I said, don’t forget this.” The officer thrust the bag at Raymond who kept his arms limp at his sides. Sighing, he found a gaping pocket beside the hanging limbs and shoved the Ziploc in.

Raymond emerged onto the street, a patrol car rattling past—sirens blaring—unsettling the grit. Cursing, he rubbed at his eyes, considered all the unbidden objects he was destined to carry, and accepted the burden of adulthood.