A one-dollar bill. Fluttering there on the sidewalk, yet miraculously motionless in the early-morning breeze; flapping just enough to attract his attention without flying away…..
His foot clamped down upon it, hard; he squatted down fast and dug it out with greedy fingers; crushed it into a ball and stuffed it deep in his pocket.
It was barely past dawn. Nothing was open. Brad wondered who had dropped it, who had been benign or foolish enough to toss away one whole dollar as if it were nothing, as if it meant nothing. Perhaps they just simply dropped it. It’s only one dollar. It’s not life or death. Brad didn’t think of himself as himself as a temporary collection of atoms with fractionary memory collective. He also didn’t think of himself as worth a dollar. Life is funny that way.
He smiled as he reached his local coffee shop. The curtains hadn’t been drawn yet, but the familiar sign still stood in the window. Coffee, one dollar. He sat down on the sidewalk, waiting. It smelled of stale vomit, the product of the golden hammer of gentrification that had not yet been brought down.
There was a click and the door opened behind him. He was glad to get out of the Oakland rain.