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Coney Island Windfall Memorial Day 1985: As waves gently lap a litter-strewn beach mere yards away, John and I allow ourselves to be carried by the current of people clattering along the old sun-drenched boardwalk. The crowd is of mostly Latin origin, and the clamor of animated conversation, music and dancing fills the air, a soundtrack to the multitude of colors and patterns dazzling our eyes. A pungent sea breeze mingles with the aroma of heaps of food, boardwalk creosote, and the perfumes and body odors of the hundreds bustling around us. As we pass the ancient parachute jump (see here), we're awed by its size and stature, intrigued by its alien aspect in this neighborhood. John's distracted into an almost meditative state by the famous tower; his head is turned skyward and he doesn't notice the small bag that drops almost inaudibly between our feet. I stare at it for a moment, registering half of a one hundred dollar bill inside the clear plastic. I bend quickly and grab it, scanning the churning sea of pedestrians, trying to determine its origin, but I cannot. I pull a thick fold out of the bag and begin counting. As I reach Ben Franklin number seven, John turns from his reverie. Our eyes meet - he looks intense - he places a firm grip over my trembling hands and says, "We need to walk. Away from here." |
I pocket the cash and we saunter casually for about half a mile, past all the arcades and restaurants and into a quiet residential district. There's only the occasional jogger or carriage-wheeling mom now. I count again: the sum is in the vicinty of $2400. The money is a mix of new and used bills and is divided into two stacks of hundreds and fifties, each totalling $750. The rest is an assortment of twenties and tens. It's John's confident assertion that we've found drug money, and The Universe has brought me a special gift. He feels strongly that it's intended for me, as he was lost in space when it came to my attention. Nonetheless, he believes that since he shared in the day's journey he's entitled to a portion of it. Besides, he's a little short on rent. This strikes us both as amusing, and I gladly hand over three crisp Bennies. It hasn't occurred to me that I ought to take the wad to the police, and if it crossed John's mind he isn't letting on. While I ponder what type of guitar I can now afford, John urges me to take it with some gravity - after all, it's better in my hands than in a dealer's - and save it for a rainy day. This advice will soon prove nearly invaluable. Meanwhile, it seems prudent to both of us to "skim some off the top" and spend a night on the town. I will not go into any detail here!
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