From Writer's Block: trace the journey of a five-dollar bill through the lives of five different owners. What was exchanged during the transactions? How much (or how little) did the transaction mean to each of the people involved?
Katelyn walked up to the TouchTunes box at the end of the bar. Her mom use to give her money to play the jukebox, which is what it was called then when her parents were having a serious conversation. "Here Katelyn, go play some songs, your dad and I need to call." The screen would light up her face as she scrolled through all the possibilities. She could only play so many songs. She had to be careful to pick the best songs and also stay away from the table for them long enough to have their serious discussion which was always a fight . She had it down to a science. She would spend about 10 minutes looking at songs and when she saw her mom lean back into the booth back in victory or defeat, she'd finalize her selection, picking her parents' favorites and maybe one for herself before quietly walking back to the book as if nothing had happened.
She looked at the TouchTunes. Five dollars only got her three songs. She knew he was going to break up with her. The machine lapped up the bill, smacking its lips. She needed to pick carefully. She needed to buy some time. She knew just want songs to pick. And they would say what needed to be said. She pushed P-A and immediately the song came up. "We Belong Together." by Pat Benetar. "I only have eyes for you," by The Flamingos. And Odesza's "The Last Goodbye" which was her new favorite band. She took a deep breath and walked back to the booth.
Will locked the front door. The only person left was Hank. The guy who lived above the bar. This was basically his living room. He found his favorite place at the bar every day when they opened at 3 p.m. Other regulars knew Hank but they really didn't know him. They all wanted him to have a story. He was a Vietnam vet who was haunted by his experience. He was part of the Weather Underground fighting the man. He was a hippy who burned his draft card. He was a school teacher like Robin Williams in Dead Poet Society. But they were all wrong. Hank was just a drunk. He was a high-functioning alcoholic. He wasn't even as old as everyone thought he was but alcohol beat him up worse than the passage of time.
Will took the key out of the register drawer and opened the TouchTunes machines pulling out the hundreds of dollars from the week. People loved TouchTunes. The passive income was astonishing to him. Sometimes the TouchTunes for a week was as good as a Wednesday night at the bar. Close the machine back up and turned it back on. Taking the cash, and the register, over his shoulder he tossed, "Hank. I'll be in the back." Will closed the office door and locked it. There was a gun in the office that was always loaded. He trusted Hank - mostly. Tonight was quiet for a Tuesday. Ever since Adam quit doing trivia on Tuesdays, they struggled. Including the TouchTunes money for the week which was $600, the bar cash, and the credit cards the night totaled $1,100. His tips were just over dismal but pretty expected for a Tuesday. He slipped the money in his wallet, all twenties except for the five he owed after losing a game of poker.
Anthony flipped over the cushions. Surely there had to be money in the seats. There was always change. There were always a few bucks he could find. Since the start of the pandemic though there hadn't been change. There hadn't been loose coins or crumbled-up dollars. There hadn't been midnight runs to Taco Bell. There hadn't been coming home from concerts after the bars closed at 2:30 a.m. pumped up on the music and the people and the drugs. There hadn't been morning poker with his roommate before he went to work out a fiver. Or sometimes ten if he wasn't on his game. There hadn't been any of these things. He realized that these friends weren't good ones. The roommate moved out leaving him with a huge rent to pay. He was laid off. Rehired. Laid off. Found a new job. His body ached. His mind ached. He just needed five dollars. He needed a fiver to go and grab a five-dollar pizza from Little Caesars. He needed to be out of the apartment. He needed fresh air. He needed people. He needed people to know that he was alive. That he mattered.
There wasn't anything in the cushions. He stood up. Too quickly and nearly fell back down. And then he went into the kitchen opening up the junk drawer. And there it was - the last fiver he won from Will months again. Looking up at him. Inviting him out.
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