One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure

“Nope, you're not allowed in here. I'm not serving you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you didn't pay last time.”

“Yes I did. What are you talking about?”

“You left without paying.”

“I didn't have my wallet. I came back a few days later and paid the owner.”

“I don't care, I'm not serving you.”

Whatever,” I say, as I turn about and leave.

Stupid bitch. I paid: just not the night she was serving me. I didn't have money at the time, so I lied and told her I forgot my wallet and would be right back. I had to wait a few days for the welfare check to come in, but when it had it, I paid. And for what? To be treated like this the next time I went in? I wish I didn't pay. Fuck her, and fuck that stupid bar. I don't need her, there are plenty of bars around here. And if not the bars, the back alleys with the bums.

I walk down the street to the liquor store. She wasn't going to impede my mission to get drunk. It was a Wednesday afternoon: there was no better time to get drunk. With 20 bucks in my pocket, that was more than enough to get a buzz. Today I was thinking vodka coolers; they were 7 percent alcohol and packed quite a punch. It was faster than beer.

I buy my booze and walk out back behind the store. None of the crew of here today: No Chris, no Mike, no other Mike. There were three Mike's that hung out downtown: it was annoying. Everyone was faceless and their names didn't mean anything though. They were all lost souls, looking for others to drink with. Chirs was the best, but the worst. He was the best to have a good conversation with, but he was the worst because due to his age and criminal background I didn't see a way for him to ever get off the streets. And then there was Tasha: The girl with borderline personality disorder that would do any and every drug she could get her hands on, and who would suck your dick for a beer. I hadn't been down that road...yet. I crack a cooler behind the store and see a small mouse run past. The garbage and the smell of the pizza shop fill the air as I take a swig. Then I sigh and think about my money problems, and what tomorrow will hold. I'll be hungover, but how will I get drunk? A duffel bag in a garbage can catches my eye, so check it out. Rooting through garbage: I really have become a bum. I unzip the bag inside the can and my eyes explode with surprise. This can't be? But it is. Money. Stack and stacks of cash.

I decide it's better not to take the duffel bag, as I stuff my pockets with two stacks of cash. I move it from the garbage can, into the dumpster and run home. My apartment is around the corner, so it takes less than 5 minutes before I'm back with a garbage bag. I pull the duffle bag out and fill up the garbage bag. This can't be right though, this money has to belong to someone. It has to be a drug drop or something. What if they're watching me? I panic and heap the money into the garbage bag, hand over fist. Then it hits me: I don't care. I can move away. This is enough money to get out of town with and never look back. There is easily 20 thousand dollars here; I've never had so much money in my life. What if it's gang money, hells angels, or some people you don't want to fuck with? All I can think about is getting the money back to my apartment and getting the fuck out of town.

As I walk down the street I see Chris. He spots me and flags me down. Shirtless, dirty, with a bottle of rum in his hand.

“Hey, Mark,” he yells out.

I hesitate but decide to walk over. He's a smart guy, he'll know what to do.

“Come here, I gotta show you something,” I say.

“What's that?”

“I gotta show you what's in this bag, you gotta keep it a secret. I'll make it worth your while.”

“Okay.”

We duck behind a nearby building and I let him peak his head in.

“Holy shit! Where did you get all that?”

“I found it.”

“You found it?”

“Yeah, yeah. I'll give you a thousand bucks too. I just gotta get the fuck outta here with all this money.”

“Why are you so nervous?”

“I know, I know. I'm paranoid. Come on, let's go back to my apartment.”

“You got any drinks?”

“Yeah. Here,” I say, reaching in and pulling out a 20, “Go buy us some more and meet me at my apartment.”

“Alright,” he says, as he walks back towards the liquor store.

I throw the bag over my shoulder and walk down the street, like Santa Clause with a bag full of goodies. Only 2 People pass me on my walk, I keep my head down. When I get to my building, I go straight to my bottom-floor apartment, and luckily I don't run into any of the neighbors.

Inside, I start tearing into the bag and I hide about a quarter of the cash under my sink. I wait for Chris and within 10 minutes he's knocking at my window. I go to the front of the building and lead the way back to my place.

“Holy fuck, Mark. We've hit the jackpot.”

“Well, what the fuck are we going to do? Whose money do you think this is?”

“I dunno.”

“Listen, don't tell anyone about this. I'll give you 2 grand because you've always been a good guy, but don't tell nobody else about this. Those scumbags you hang around, we can't trust them.”

“Believe me, I won't.”

I reach in the bag and hand him a wad of cash, and he thumbs through it. Then I sit down and put my face in my hands. I look up to an extended hand with a bottle of rum. I crack it and take a swig, as it burns its way down my throat almost making me sick. I feel like I'm going to puke, but I hold it back. Then it hits me: I haven't eaten today. I haven't had a good meal in days.

“Fuck man, I can get something to eat. We can order anything.”

“Yeah.”

“We gotta think of a plan though. We gotta find out whose money this is.”

“It's probably stoners.”

“I've heard the name, but I don't know who that is.”

“He's the biggest fentanyl dealer in town. He doesn't live far from here. I've never brought you there because I know you don't like that shit.”

“Listen, Chris, I gotta get this money outta here. To be honest, I don't trust anyone, not even you.”

“You can trust me.”

“No, this has got to go. People are gonna start asking questions around town.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“You promise you won't tell anyone about this shit? I don't want to get killed.”

“I promise, Man. Relax. You're paranoid.”

“Well who the fuck would leave all this money out there?”

“I don't know. Maybe stoner was all fucked up and forgot it.”

“What's my next move? Like should I buy a gun? I don't even know where to get one, do you?”

“Maybe, I'd have to ask around.”

“I remember years ago my younger brother told me he could get one, but I never bought it. He said it would have the serial number filed off and everything. Said it would cost 2 G's.”

“You don't need a gun.”

“Well what should I do?”

“Put it in your bank.”

“Put it in my bank account? Are you nuts? That'll raise huge suspicions.”

“Who cares? They can't prove anything. It's not illegal to find money.”

“I think I'll text my little brother. He's got a house two towns over, and he's got a pickup truck. I'll tell him to come pick it up and I'll keep it there for a bit, until I can figure out what to do with it. I want it out of this neighborhood.”

“Outta sight, outta mind.”

“I think I have to move away.”

“You don't have to move away, you think too much.”

“What if somebody comes for it? What if someone was watching me take the money from an apartment window?”

“Are you crazy? There's no apartment that can see back there, that's why we drink there. No one saw you.”

“What if someone saw me walking from back behind the alley with the garbage bag?”

“So? Say you we're taking out the garbage. No one can prove anything. You don't know nothing, and you didn't see nothing.”

“So it's all mine then?”

“Yup.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?”

“I guess we live like kings.”

I pause and take it all in. How nice it'll be to have money to pay the rent, for good food; not to have to worry about buying the basic essentials in life. The life of a writer was hard enough: no one pays you anything and to get by and you have to eat no name chips or a box of kraft dinner for supper, sometimes three nights in a row, just to survive. My belly grumbles and I know it's time to treat myself.

“Wanna uber eats some food? We could get some chicken wings, Chinese, whatever. We could even get steaks somewhere.”

“Now you're talking. What do you say we order us up a few pounds of chicken wings, some fancy craft beer, and then we pop over to the strip club.”

A huge smile spreads on my face.

“Alright, after I text my brother and get him to hang on to this cash for me. I guess I'll have to give me a cut, but whatever; spread the wealth, and let the good times roll.”

“There ya go. Here, take another swig,” he says to me, as he hands me back the bottle.

I take a swig and shudder.

“Dude, why'd you buy this cheap shit? You should've bought some champagne.”

“Yeah, I guess your right.”

“From now on I have a feeling it's going to be all cocaine and caviar. The Gods have looked down upon us... someone up there must like us, for some reason.”