Sixty-Seven Cents

The best place to find money was outside the coffee shop early in the morning. Herded through a maze of nylon rope, people quickly get their morning fill and squeeze through the door. A young lady, about the same age as myself, stood outside the door, balancing a cup of coffee and her change in one hand, and opening her bag with the other. A coin hit the ground next to her pointed-toe high heel, and rolled to a stop next to the waste basket.

Her pause was brief. She checked the time on her watch. A dribble of coffee ran down her jeweled fingers. Time worth more than a dropped coined, she zipped her bag and walked off. Regardless that it wasn’t stealing, I waited for the clicking of her high heels to fade into the morning traffic before picking up the dime.

Unlike the coffee shop, The Golden Nugget was alive. Clusters of fried egg dotted the carpet beneath a highchair. Silver spoons clinked on the rims of lidless ceramic mugs. Linda waved me to the counter.

"Coffee this morning?" she asked, uprighting the mug before I could answer.
"I’m three cents short," I said, scraping a piece of crusted muck off the pale countertop.
"No you’re not," Linda said. She slid three pennies out of the Styrofoam cup beside the register and dropped them onto my napkin.
"Thanks, Linda. I don’t know why so many people line up in those upscale coffee shops. I’d take great service over gourmet coffee any day."
"Eh, let them stay there, for all I care. I have enough people rushing me around, and they don’t have to be anyplace," she laughed.

Occasionally, I caught men watching Linda as she shuttled around the dining room, whisking up bits of food and straw wrappers with a little broom and dustpan. I wondered if they recognized her from the photograph that hung above the payphone at the strip club like I had. She got out before the pole and the drugs wrecked her body and mind. If I could shuck off some of my pride, I would ask her how she did it.

"Thanks for the coffee, Linda." I pushed the coins across the counter.
"That’s your change. Hang onto it for when you really need it."
"I don’t want you to get into trouble, Linda. Just take the money." I pushed it back her way.
"I don’t need it. You do."

"Will you accept a collect call?" the operator said.
"Yes."
"Jordan, I’m ready to come home," I said into the phone. "I don’t have enough money to buy a bus ticket."
"How much do you have?" he asked.
"Sixty-seven cents."

Through the graffittied payphone booth, I saw the strong hands that had once held Linda above the dance floor, while her body arched before paying men, wipe scrambled eggs off a highchair.