Last night I watched the N. Carolina/Kansas NCAA Final Four basketball game with a group of friends at an apartment with a wide screen high definition T.V. We ate sausage and pepperoni pizza and soft homemade chocolate chip cookies courtesy of S. and I observed my friends bite their nails and put their hands on their heads in despair (you see, these were intense Tar Heels fans and for those who didn’t see, N. Carolina got walloped).
After the game, a small group of us went to a bar a block away (and two blocks from my apartment) and were being silly. The bartenders were passing out condoms (I’m not sure why) and we reverted back to college age (maybe even high school age), throwing them around like Frisbees. As mature adults do. I put one behind my ear, and asked my friends if it was attractive. “You look wholesome,” one said. We got tired of the condom game quickly and got into more interesting conversations (like how O. doesn’t like one of the NPR hosts, and I told him I’d relay the message).
Anyway, we shut the bar down. When we left, it was raining out. We said our farewells and S. and I headed the same direction (she lives close to me, but down a different block). There, on the sidewalk, folded up and soggy was a $20 bill. There was no one else around, so I picked it up and shoved it into my pocket.
I don’t know if I always walk with my head down watching the concrete when I walk, or if I’m incredibly lucky, but this isn’t the first time I’ve found money. I found $120 on a stack of newspapers when I was nine, a $20 bill in the Atlantic ocean when I was 12, and a $20 bill in front of the restaurant Zaytinya in D.C. when I was 28. Pretty wild.
The $20 last night reimburses me for the pizza and beer and it also pays a bit for the psychological services I gave my friends after the N. Carolina beating.