The Fate of Andrew Jackson

(Brief mentions of drugs and sex)

It is dark and it has been for some time.  I don’t know how long I have been in this location.  I have to say though; it is quite comfortable, being between two soft pieces of fabric.  I’m okay being here.  I am not being man handled like I was before.  

Although, I do miss my friends.  I had plenty of friends before someone placed me here.  I had all kinds of friends.  There were usually a few of me, but Abraham Lincoln and George Washington were always there and occasionally I would see Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin.  

I feel a human hand around my body.  What is this?  Am I being removed from my comfortable spot?  Is this daylight I am seeing?  I can’t remember the last time I saw daylight.

“Look at what I just found in my pocket.  It’s 20 bucks.”  A woman’s voice says.

Followed by a man’s voice saying, “drinks are on you tonight.” 

And I know I will no longer be in my comfortable spot.  Someone will place me in a wallet and be rejoined by friends.  

“Hello, friends,” I say.

“Hello,” they all say back.

Even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them.  It’s mostly George Washington but there is a Lincoln here too.  I am the sole Andrew Jackson.

As we travel together, we discuss our travels.  Most George Washingtons have similar stories, traveling with other George Washingtons and being exchanged for petty things like a bag of chips, a can of soda, and packs of gum and then given as change.  Many have spent their time in bodegas, supermarkets, and the occasional sweaty strip club but one of the George Washingtons in this wallet has been to a Macy's which the other George Washingtons are all keen to hear about. 

I have been to Macy's as well Nordstroms and Bloomingdales, so I am not that impressed by George Washinton’s story.  I have also been to a ski resort and a casino in Las Vegas.  Those were my most exciting trips, but I too have seen plenty of bodegas and supermarkets.  I try to sound interested in these stories but they are all the same. 

“Two Budweisers please,” the woman’s voice says as I am yanked away from my friends.  I am happy I will now find new friends.  Hopefully, these new friends will have more exciting tales to tell.  I usually travel with other Andrew Jackson’s and hope to be reunited with a few of those.  Their tales are more interesting than George Washington or Abraham Lincoln’s tales. 

The tales of Benjamin Franklin are almost always interesting.  They seem to see a lot of white powder, naked women, and people with questionable morals.

I am placed on a hard surface for a minute or two before being handled by a rough hand and placed in a neat stack, facing the same way as other Andrew Jacksons.  I am happy to see them.

Once again, even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them.  We greet each other and follow with telling stories of where we have been.  But as with most cash registers, we see friends come and we see them go at dramatic speed until it slows and then stops.  

We are all familiar with what happens when it stops.  Some of us go into a large envelope, a few may go into a pocket or a wallet, some of us remain in the register. 

 As someone takes us out and counted, we wonder who will go and who will stay.  Benjamin Franklin and Ulysses S. Grant always goes away.  They almost always keep George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in the cash drawer.  For Andrew Jackson, it is usually a toss up.

I feel myself lifted out the register and placed on the same hard surface I was before.  I pray to stay.  Staying means seeing more friends come and go the next day.  Going means being put away, perhaps in another drawer and perhaps in an ATM.  Although there is a rumor that some disappear for good.

When they place George Washington and Lincoln back in the drawer, I pray it is time for me to go into the drawer.  I hold my breath before being placed in the envelope with other Andrew Jacksons and a Benjamin Franklin.  

From here, we remain together.  We travel but where we are going, no one is sure.  We are likely to end up in a bank, but sometimes it is back into a wallet and sometimes a drawer.  As we move from place to place, we all speculate together where we will go.  Until someone pulls us out of the envelope.

I take in the new surroundings, trying to speculate where I may be.  A home?  A store?  An alleyway?  But it appears we are in a bank.  This is the least desirable place to be for a dollar bill.  

I look at the numbers on my fellow Andrew Jacksons.  None of them are lower than 2018.  I look at my number: 2014.  I was hidden away between those two pieces of fabric for so long, who knows how old I had become.  From what I know, you don’t see a bigger gap than eight numbers between the other Andrew Jacksons and I worry.  What happens now?

I am moved from place to place, being separated from the Andrew Jackson's I arrived with and joined with new Andrew Jacksons.  Someone mixes us up and counts us and they move us again and again.  Someone moves us between drawers, envelopes, hands, and trucks.

And then I hear a noise I have never heard before.  I hear the screams of my friends.  Even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them.  And their screams are terrifying. 

It is not until I get closer that I understand their screams.  They are being torn into small pieces.  As I get closer, I scream too.  Until I am torn into small pieces too.  They have shredded us all.  Now instead of Andrew Jacksons, there are strips of what used to be Andrew Jackson, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant, and Benjamin Franklin.  But now, no one can tell who we used to be, we are now all worthless and are now ready to sleep after a lifetime of exchanging from one place to the next.