In my lifetime I have seen so many examples of when people get a little money, they, then, begin to desire to have more money. As though these little slips of paper and shiny metal coins become and entrance to freedom. I would argue that it becomes more of an entrapment. And I find myself sometimes in that trap as well, forgetting my humble roots.
I ran away from home more than once. I ran. I bolted. I would sacrifice and give away...in order to be free. I wanted the opportunity to see. I wanted the opportunity to become. I took the risk and landed on my own, with nothing.
A bar is closing down to make way for a new condo complex. I used to beg for spare change there. Spare change for food. I had one of my great loves, and most terrifying events come out of that place, too. Ok, maybe more than one terrifying event. But, there was also laughs. And what doesn't kill you does make you stronger. Whoever first said that, was right.
Back to the money, though.
I was living on an apartment roof top across from this bar. Yes, the roof top. There was one way to climb up to the top. And it was a bit of a run down complex, so no one was going to check up there. I lived directly on top of a drug dealer's apartment. So, I did have to be mindful that I didn't get caught by some of the comings and goings of his customers. In years later, he would clean up his act, and become a normal citizen. He knew that I was up there, but he didn't tell. We both had secrets on eachother, so we bonded in a don't ask, don't tell relationship.
Sometimes, I would come down from my perch and he'd let me use his shower. And we would talk on his porch. I traded listening and girl advise for a towel and some hot water. There was a certain freedom in sleeping on a rooftop. All the breezes and stars, very simple sometimes.
One day, I went to have Chinese food with a friend. I had leftovers in a togo box, that I planned to eat for dinner. As I began to climb to my roof perch, I saw a man, about my age. His clothes were dirty, and he was digging in the trash behind a Wendy's. I looked at my container of food, and knew that I wasn't that bad off. I was clean and had just gorged.
I said, "Hey. What are you doing?!?" The man replied, "I'm looking for something to eat." I explained to him that I had plenty of food and had just eaten, and he was welcome to my leftovers, if he wanted. He took my leftovers and said only, "Thanks". He never looked me directly in the eyes.
I climbed to my perch feeling better about myself. And that I had enough to share with someone less fortunate than me. Good feelings can feed a lot of sorrow.
I settled down to read, when I glanced up to see the man digging in the trash can again. What did he do with my food, I thought. There was a ton left, he could not still be hungry. No way.
I asked, "What are you doing?" The man replied, "Looking for something to eat. I don't like Chinese. I threw it out."
Tell me what the hell you're supposed to say to that. Tell me. 'Cause I got nothin'.
I was floored, and mad, and floored. He could have just givin' it back. But, now I realized that he might be nuts and dangerous, so I couldn't go get my food back. So, I was stuck on my perch, floored and mad. Fuckin' crazy fuck! And the sheer oddness of what had just happened.
Years later, I was driving pizzas around. I grabbed a run, and it was to a crappy student complex, near the college, but still crappy. One does not equate big tip, or any tip, from so called "starving students".
As I pulled up to the complex, I could hear the heavy metal. Great, I thought...Drunk, shitty tippers. I could hear the ruckus as I neared the door, number 201. I knocked, and heard the stumbling to the door, through the beer cans, and the shush-shush, in case I was the cops, not the fucking pizza they had ordered fifteen minutes or less ago. I waited, and geared up, for the jokes and sneers. At that time, it was me and one other girl, in the entire town that were pizza drivers. Yes, even with fucking pizza sauce, baked cheese and greasy hair, a girl can still be harassed. (Just on that thought for a minute.)
The door opened. I looked up, from under the brim of my pizza cap, to give my usual speech. But, I stopped.
Again, for the second time, in my life, I was floored.
Who was it? Ah yes it was!
After all these years, there was the slightly older, young man, who threw out my Chinese food. It was his apartment. There was a couple of rock posters on the wall, a crappy worn couch, one lamp, and a jambox. And that was it. Well, there were beer cans everywhere, but that was it. It was a shithole...nothing homey about it. On the other hand, it was a shithole with a roof. So, as my mind raced, I realized that we both, in fact, had moved up. Then, I wondered if he would recognize me. He did not.
The man shoved money at me, and grabbed for the pizza. I counted the money. There was the pizza money, for sure, down to the change. Then there was a hundred dollar bill. I stared at it. One hundred dollars for a tip...shit, that could make my life a bit easier this week. But, the angel vs. the devil. I caved. I have a good heart. I can't take money off a drunk, crazy fuck. I sighed as I explained that this one hundred dollars wasn't necessary, and he must have given this to me by mistake.
This man, looked up, dead right in my eyes, and gruffly told me it was no mistake, and to take the money, and get out of here. Ok, crazy guy, you don't have to tell me twice. I'm outta' here. I took the money, put the old car in gear, and went back to the pizza shop.
Upon my arrival back in the shop, all the guys were standing around. Even though there was pizzas to deliver, they were waiting. All waiting for me. They all wanted to know what kind of tip I had gotten. The man was famous around the pizza joint. That address was notorious. And I just happen to get the luck of the runs to get it...all the pissed off faces told me that. I told them all that it was none of their fucking business, and what was so special about that crazy guy anyway. I did not pipe up that I had met this man before, and I did not explain what the circumstances were when we first met. No way!
Then came the story. The man was a millionaire. He was loaded...super loaded. When he was a child, his rich parents died, and left him the fortune. However, the money was no trade for his parents, and he went nuts...he didn't want to have anything to do with the money. Sometimes he was homeless, and sometimes he would show up at that shitty apartment. The complex owner was an uncle or something...so, he could be a nuts as he wanted to be and never get kicked out. I felt like an even bigger dirty shitbag for taking the guy's money. A dirty shitbag in need of taking his money.
It was three in the morning my shift was finally over. I sat in my shitty car. I took my hat off and ran my hands over my greasy face and through my greasy hair. I put the one hundred dollar bill on my dashboard, and sat there, tired. I sat there eating cold, chewy pizza and staring at the money. I knew that I would spend it. I knew that I had to spend it...all the bills right?!? Yeah, all the bills. I would spend it.
But, I needed to have that money just sit there for a minute, and not be spent. I supposed I needed it to be recognized for something. Also, the sheer weirdness of how this man and I met twice in a lifetime. Both times, being such odd things. This bill, this man, this me, his life, my life, this life...something. Something was there that needed to be recognized.
I spent the money. I never saw him again. Or maybe I moved on enough that I wouldn't recognize him if I did see him again. Whatever....
Right now: Yes, money can be a thing of entrapment, and being mindful of humble roots.
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