The Tale of the Fleeing Dollar

A hard wind kicked up last week somewhere in Colorado. It blew East and swung across Kansas. The stay in Kansas was short. There wasn’t much there. It was flat. And had some corn. That and piles of birds, dead for want of a single tree. Apparently there was too much of one of those three because a huge fire was started.

After picking up terrible, billowing smoke from those short-sighted ag fires, the wind swung North through Lincoln and smacked right into Omaha. It only ever hit 40 mph, so it never had to stop. Nebraska State Patrol has bigger fish to fry.

I started my deliveries when it arrived. My 3-and-5/16ths cylinders of raw Taurus power putted north on 15^th street. Every time I hit a four-way intersection, I felt the chassis of the car lift on the left side. I’d move through the intersection and the houses on the left of me would break the wind.

Like windbreakers. You’re so immature.

Anyway, I pulled into the Pine Street towers and parked. The way the building was situated sped up the wind as it tore across the parking lot. The car door was a beast to open. I climbed out and held the pizza bag with two hands.

Just so you know, pizza bags can make pizza men and women float away like the nannies in Mary Poppins. It’s intense.

I had already called the customer. They were waiting in the lobby. I walked in, handed over the food and took their money. It was a hodge-podge of cash, made up of a ten, a couple fives, and a single dollar bill.

Getting the money into my apron had been difficult because of the wind and my jacket. I stepped out into the wind mid-attempt. The dollar saw its chance and jumped.

“No,” I shouted. Time slowed as the dollar began to fly. I did quick calculations:

Wind Speed: 1,000,000 mph
Dollar Trajectory: E-NE
Dollar Speed: Irrelevant
Kind of shape my legs are in: Nerd Level EXTREME

The calculations were depressing, so I let instinct kick in. I stomped. Missed. The dollar blew a few more feet. I stomped with the other foot. Missed. And again.

“George. Come back here, George,” I shouted.

I stomped, then missed, each time traveling another pace. I had to sprint during a particularly fast gust. Then the stomping resumed.

The wind was messing with me. People had to have been watching. And there I was: a bone-white, red-haired pizza guy doing some sick version of Whip Nae Nae while yelling at the ground.

The wind mercifully took the dollar behind a fence. The dollar lost its wings. I picked it up and held it between my thumb and forefinger. I felt like the Abominable Snowman after it grabbed its ‘snow rabbit.’

I pocketed the dollar and went about my business with more care.

Yeah, it was windy. Could have done a better job getting that money tucked away. Remember folks: If we don’t tell our money where to go, we’ll end up wondering where it went. In particular when life’s wind picks up.

ROE INTENSE