Five Dollars Goes A Long Way

Do you know what it does to my self-esteem when I’m constantly introduced with “I’m sorry it’s not more?”

I’m sorry, too, that your country decided being printed with Lincoln’s portrait isn’t as valuable as Hamilton’s or Jackson’s, but I’ve never actually met someone disappointed to get me. Indifferent at worst. 

That’s the reaction I got from my current holder, who drives for Lyft. I was given to him by a barista who needed a ride home from work while her car was in the shop. It was a short drive, so the driver wasn’t bothered by the tip, but still. 

“I’m sorry it’s not more.” 

I know what she meant, though, because I’ve been passed around enough times to understand how this works. So here’s the translation: 

“I don’t feel safe walking in my neighborhood at night. I barely even feel safe walking to my apartment from my parking lot. You provided me with a clean, safe ride, and I think that’s worth more than what I’m able to pay you for it, so five dollars doesn’t feel like it’s enough.” 

For what it’s worth—five dollars, probably—I agree. But I can’t change my ink, and I can’t change how much value is ascribed to me. 

I’ve been in circulation for a while, and I’ve just set my record for most consecutive times being given as a tip with seven. First, I was given to a pizza delivery driver at a gas station in exchange for a scratch-off. He gave me to a waitress, who gave me to a bartender, who gave me to a Grubhub driver, who gave me to a different pizza delivery driver, who gave me to the barista, and now the ride share guy. 

I find this current streak a little ironic. Everyone gives tips so the service worker can have a little extra for themselves, but service workers also want each other to have extra, so no one ends up with anything at all. It’s like in those pay-it-forward lines at fast food restaurants. If someone pays for yours and you pay for the next person’s, you didn’t really add or subtract any value, other than gratitude for the person ahead of you, compassion for the person behind you, and the feeling of being a good person you get. You can’t place a monetary value on those things, though, so I don’t know much about them. 

The driver takes two more rides before the end of the night, and both of them tip in the app, so I don’t get any more companions. I’m expecting to spend the night getting creased in his bifold wallet, but when he gets home, he removes me, the two tens and six ones he already had before I got there, and puts us in an envelope with a bunch of other bills. 

In a way, I’m excited to be spent, to see the brief flash of satisfaction when I’m exchanged for something tangible. The tip vortex is depressing. This guy is saving up for something big, and I can’t wait to see what it is. 

I’m in the envelope for two more weeks before he counts everything up, slips some of the ones out, and clutches us in his hand. He hesitates before he goes out the door, and his hand squeezes just a little bit tighter, bending our edges in slightly. My mood sours in advance of whatever he’s about to spend me on. It’s clear he’d rather keep me.

Finally, he opens the door and steps out into the cold air. Instead of going to his car, he goes up the street to a three-story house that dwarfs all the homes on the street. They’re mostly old brick homes, but each one with multiple mailboxes lets me know they’ve been converted into apartments. 

He rings the doorbell, and an older woman answers. She has a friendly demeanor, but she cracks the door only enough for herself to fill the space. She wants my holder to stay outside. “How are you today, Mrs. Lee?” 

“I’m good, Evan. Is that the rent?” 

“About that. Can we talk about it?” 

“Do you only have some of it? I’ve told you before, I can’t give you any more extensions.” She says it hungrily, unlike some people who have traded me for food. “No, I have it all. It’s about the heater.” 

Mrs. Lee sighs. “I really don’t have time for this today.” 

“I asked you three weeks ago. I haven’t followed up because it hasn’t been that cold yet, but the forecast for next week is—“ 

“Okay, yes, I’ll call someone.” 

“That’s what you said last time.” He grips all of us tighter.  

“Is there anything else you need?” 

I can already see where I’m going. If I’m being honest, I’m not in the best shape. The second pizza delivery driver wadded me up, and the barista accidentally ripped me a little bit. If Mrs. Lee gets me, I’ll be taken to the bank where I’ll be removed from circulation. I don’t want my last act to be this exchange. 

“I’ve been doing a little bit of reading on tenants’ rights.”

“Oh my God, Evan. I can’t do everything instantly. I’ll get the heater fixed. Be patient.”

“When?” 

“I’ll call someone tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow.” 

“Yes, Evan.” She reaches toward his hand, but he takes a small step back. “If I call someone myself, will you pay for it?” 

“I have someone already.” 

While they argue, I do something that doesn’t come naturally to me. I move. Almost imperceptibly, I inch my way out of the stack. 

I’ve been around enough people who feel stuck in their jobs, like they’re not going anywhere. Often, they make their own world brighter by trying to brighten someone else’s. That brief spark of joy is what I live for.  

I want to be with someone who needs me. 

“I’m only paying part of my rent now,” he says. “I’ll give you the rest when the heater is fixed.” 

“Evan, don’t be like this. If you don’t pay in full, I’ll have to charge a fee.” Just a little bit further. His hands are balled at his sides, making it harder to squeeze through his fist. But his pockets are so close.  

He loosens his grip just a bit. It’s a gesture of surrender, the moment he has decided that the money in his hand is no longer his, and it’s just enough for me. I slide out of the stack into his pocket moments before he raises his hand. 

“I’m not making another payment until it’s fixed,” he says.

“Thanks, Evan.” The door slams, and I hear the fall wreath bounce off the wood a couple of times before it settles. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets because the cold front is already here. My presence is a surprise to him, and he pulls me out. For a brief moment, he looks back at Mrs. Lee’s house, and for once, I’m not sorry I’m not more. 

He has earned this, and I feel the extra lift in his step as he goes back home. I’m small enough that she won’t demand he give me over. I’m his to do whatever he wants with me, whether that’s buying a coffee or a lottery ticket, or giving me as a tip to someone else who provides him with something he thinks is truly worth it.