Story Time: A Dollar a Day

     Peter wiped the counter, clocked out, grabbed the trash, and stepped outside. His shift had ended. He was ready for home. The air reeked of damp city smells. The ground was sticky. In place of the usual rusty, rat infested dumpster, was a spotless one. Too tired to think, he threw in the garbage, turned to walk away and stopped. Something was calling him back. Shivers shot along his spine as he walked over and glanced into that peculiar dumpster. He smiled. Next to the trash was a fat leather wallet. His luck was changing.

The poor dishwasher spared no time in jumping into that glorious green metal box, to grab the wallet. Peter laughed, for in the wallet was 551 dollars. He recognized the wallet as Hamilton Miller’s, his boss. He shoved it into his pocket and headed for his rundown truck, completely decided about the contents of the wallet. As he crossed the parking lot, Hamilton’s boisterous voice boomed at him.

“Petey!” Peter grit his teeth. He hated being called Petey and his boss knew it. Peter hated his boss.

“Hey Hamilton, I--” He realized that if he had received a penny for every hateful word Hamilton had spouted at him he probably would have much more than a mere 551 dollars. 

“Found your wallet.”

“You did? Where? I don’t remember losing it...”

Peter thought about the green dumpster. “I found it in the alley.”

When the wallet got to Hamilton there was one dollar in it and the rest felt quite cozy in Peter’s possession. 

The next day Peter found another wallet. This time he left the owner, Martha Stanley, no money at all keeping the whole 1,102 dollars for himself. He was not so naive as Hamilton thought him to be and the money was doubling. 

The next morning, when Peter was told that his boss, Hamilton, was dead, he knew his luck had changed. His day was spent in guiltless bliss, he had stashed away the money and hoped that night he would have even more. Afterwards, while watching the news he was informed that Martha Stanley had died that day also. He wished he would have realized then, what he discovered tens of wallets later. The amount of dollars left in the wallet equals the amount of days you have left to live. The weight of their deaths began to settled on his shoulders, but he shrugged it off. Peter had spent his life sweating, while these people were showered in ease. He deserved what they had. He was tired of being looked-down on, tired of being poor. 

Peter worked everyday after that. Time passed and he accumulated thousands each night. He would sometimes leave a hundred or so, if he was feeling generous, but more often than not, he left nothing. Spare moments were spent dreaming of what his money could buy. He was saving up till his money totaled enough to live lavishly for the rest of his days. When the day he had fantasized over arrived, Peter excitedly quit his job. His days of toil were over. He lived his version of the good life. A beautiful, careless week had zoomed by when Peter received the call from the restaurant. 

“I found your wallet”

Peter’s heart fell. “How much cash is in it?”

“Well, there’s your license and credit cards-”

“But how much cash! I know there must have been a ton.”

“There is none” The voice of the new dishwasher replied.