My Name is Dollar Bill

November 20, 2009

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My name is Dollar Bill. You can call me Bill. Like most of my family, I was born in the Philadelphia mint. I remember it like it was yesterday. At birth, I was attached to my siblings in a sheet. We were sliced apart and sent to a federal reserve bank. I was sent to Chicago.

Shortly after my arrival in Chicago, I ended up at Wrigley Field. I couldn’t see the game, because of my obstructed seat in the cash register. I could hear the crack of the bat and the excitement of the crowd. I loved my new home.

In the middle of the fourth inning, I was given to a man in change after he purchased two foot long hot dogs, nachos, and two large Cokes. I was hoping that he would share some of the foot with me, but he didn’t. After the game, we left the ballpark and went to the man’s home.

I received a crash course in life at this point. The man was addicted to cocaine, and the crisp new $1 bill (that would be me, Bill) was his instrument of choice for snorting his cocaine. The cocaine gave me awful headaches, and my brilliant green skin became speckled with white spots.

After several weeks, I became depressed at the prospect of living the rest of my life this way. Fortunately, I fell out of favor with the drug user. My body lost some of its firmness, and he found another bill that was still crisp and new. I disappeared into a pop machine when the druggie bough a Pepsi. I sighed with relief. I had escaped.

I chilled out in the pop machine for a few days. It was great to be away from the dealer and his drug parties. The relative silence of the pop machine was a welcome change.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, I was living in the cash register at a used book store. It was a pretty cool place to live – the guy who ran the place loved to talk about books with all the customers. Before long, though, it was time to move on once again. An older gentleman bought a slightly used copy of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and received me as part of his change.

I got to meet the guy’s grandson the next day. The kid is pretty cool. He’s learning how to ride his bike, and he’s taking a few tumbles along the way. He always gets right up and jumps back on the bike, though. Resilient little fellow. The grandpa was proud of the kid’s efforts and gave him a dollar to put in his piggy bank. Not just any dollar – but me!

Now I’m sitting in Billy’s piggy bank. Billy’s mom tells him that he needs to save up all of his money for a trip to Disney World. I’m very excited – I’ve never been to Disney World. I can’t wait to meet Mickey Mouse!

3 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Evan
    Nov 20, 2009 @ 08:12:40

    Very creative! I actually felt myself feeling for the little guy part way into the story, and was glad he didn’t end up in some incinerator at the end.

    I actually sometimes have thought about where the money in my wallet has been, especially if it has writing on it. My wife, on the other hand, thinks cash is filthy, and doesn’t even like to touch it. Maybe this story would change her mind, and tug at her heartstrings a bit.
    .-= Evan´s last blog ..We’d Like Your Input on Ethics in Blogging =-.


  2. kosmo
    Nov 20, 2009 @ 08:21:41

    Are you familiar with Where’s George? “Participants” enter the bill’s serial number into a web site and make a notation on the bill (sometimes just writing the web site, sometimes with an actual stamp) to let people know about Where’s George.

    Each subsequent person can go onto the site and log information about the bill. I’ve only done it with a few bills – I should do it with more.


  3. Evan Kline
    Nov 21, 2009 @ 12:49:52

    No, I didn’t know abbut that. Grabbing a bill and heading there now . . .
    .-= Evan Kline´s last blog ..We’d Like Your Input on Ethics in Blogging =-.


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