Eight quarters. That’s what did it. It was two dollars sucked into a laundromat dryer with nothing to show for them that cracked her final effort to put on her game face. And now, as she sat on a cold bench, holding a large bag of wet laundry and waiting for the bus, a few tears burned her eyes. She blinked quickly to chase them away.
It had been six months since she moved from her small town back in Oklahoma. Her parents had worn worry on their faces like freckles; but they had bravely waved goodbye, whispering prayers – prayers for her to remember where she came from, prayers for a sense of home in a strange city – they thought she hadn’t heard. Her dad had flipped a quarter in the air and she’d caught it.
“Remember,” he’d said. “Remember even a quarter says to trust God.”
“And if a quarter knows as much,” her mom had added, “then you do, too. And whenever things get troublesome, just take a quarter’s advice.”
Only she had used her last quarter in the laundromat dryer – the dryer that didn’t work. She didn’t even have a quarter to look at. Oh, she went through the motions of bedtime prayers and thanks for food, but . . . The baby in the manger seemed very far away.
Now it was Christmas Eve. She would be missing the special stew her mother always made and cocoa and cookies as they decorated the tree. But if she thought about it too much, it would just depress her. She would ignore the day. She had rejected her parents’ offer of transportation money. Too proud, she admitted. She would take their phone call and pretend she had gone somewhere exciting. A trickle of water seeped from the laundry bag in front of her and ran down the slanted pavement.
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
She glanced over at size 13 shoes. At least 13, she thought. Her eyes moved to a wooden cane topped with an engraved solid brass cane head in the shape of a tree branch, and upward to a wrinkled, leathery face.
“Looks like you were in a hurry,” he chuckled.
“I . . .”
“Dryer on the fritz?” he tossed her the question that felt like a lifebouy.
“Yes, that’s it.” She wouldn’t admit the quarters she’d lost in it were some of the last until her next paycheck. At least she had a bus ticket. 
Fumes from the bus clouded the air as they climbed the steps. It occurred to her that steps might be hard to manage with a cane, but when she turned to look, the old man seemed strong and spry.
As she stepped off the last stair at her stop, she heard a familiar voice.
“Imagine living so close,” the tall stranger marvelled. “Say – I have a washer/dryer in my unit you can use.”
She considered. Was it safe? Her wet load made her decision, and she nodded.
His apartment building was so close – only a couple of buildings from her own. But she supposed it wasn’t unusual to not have met him before.
She couldn’t have said what she’d expected, but she stepped into a surprisingly cozy home. For that’s what it was. The very air was a welcoming hug. He plugged in lights on a Christmas tree in the corner, then showed her to the dryer.
While waiting for her clothes to dry, he brought her a heavy blue bowl of beef stew along with buttered french bread, perfectly toasted. The simple meal warmed her through. It reminded her of home.
“I was going to finish decorating the tree this evening. Care to help?” he asked.
He held out an ornament with an iridescent glow. She took it and carefully hung it on a branch. It was one of a kind. Truly stunning.
As she lay in bed the next morning, the events from the previous evening played in her memory. She could almost taste the gingerbread cookies and hot cocoa the old man had brought out while they finished decorating his tree, a tree that rivaled any she’d ever seen.
The phone rang: a Christmas morning call from her parents. Was she doing okay? Had she made any friends? They still prayed every day for her to encounter some sort of family-like support when she needed it. They missed her, and had hung her special ornaments on the tree. She told them of the tall old man she’d spent Christmas Eve with, leaving her wet laundry and missing quarters out of the story.
She slipped into her newly laundered jeans and sweater. She couldn’t remember laundry smelling so fresh! Energized, she decided to hand-deliver a thank you note to her new friend. The winter sun muted the light as she stepped onto the sidewalk on her way to the old man’s apartment two buildings down. She passed the first building and – wait. She turned around. No, this was where his apartment building had been. Had been! She stared at an empty lot. Yet not completely empty. For there, a few steps in, was a pile quarters. Eight, to be exact. And snowflakes gently fell as she read, IN GOD WE TRUST.
Images: Pexels.com; cjp; Story prompt: ajp
(nearly 30 years of 4 kids and 2 dogs running, playing, and jumping – or, as some would describe it: life, lead to less than stellar floors). Actually, they were pretty awful, especially the one spot that got the most traffic and dog drool. So one project which led to another project blossomed – like a prickly thistle you step on barefoot – into an unwanted third project; a project that lasted nearly a month, I kid you not.
missed an A by 1 point, and, no, the professor didn’t see any reason to change my grade despite my hard work. Because – statistics. He did not grade on a curve and his life was black and white. He wasn’t like the ones alluded to in the above quote. He didn’t dilly dally with numbers. But plenty of people do. Let’s walk down that inviting path for a minute.
A study cited by reporter Wesley Lowery in a 2016 Washington Post article is an example of how statistics can be used to lie – Wesley, not the study. His writing is guilty of flaws that misled readers. “Lowery wrote that ‘black Americans are 2.5 times as likely as white Americans to be shot and killed by police officers’.” He neglected to include the part of the study that notes “Police are 42% less likely to use lethal force when arresting blacks than when when arresting whites, and 59% less likely to use lethal force when arresting blacks for serious violent crimes than when arresting whites for the same crimes.”¹
to drown us. We are, admittedly, living in a time where it’s difficult to discern what’s true and what isn’t. But it is our responsibility to try. And when someone lies once, then again and again and shows no signs of stopping, we need to do the stopping. We need to stop listening to the lies. Who’s guilty? The one who speaks a lie? The one who writes a lie? The one who pays for a lie? Or the one who believes a lie? This is your mother speaking: Stop being lazy and research a thing or two from a source other than your favorite.
Two hours later, I’d not only made a fresh pot, but was more awake than I’d been since my mani-pedi. I’d shown the Sergeant the pictures from my phone, I’d told him everything I’d told McBrennain, and more. I’d even told him how glorious the stranger had been. John D. was a very attentive listener, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The coffee didn’t help.
Detective McBrennain showed his badge and stepped across the threshold. I invited him to sit at the kitchen table, made coffee (my policy was no decaf, but he looked like someone who preferred the dark of night to the light of day anyway), and told him my story. I told him about the car, the man with glorious gray eyes, and seeing the same car on a Facebook post of a missing car. I told him the car must have been given a paint job, otherwise – and here I held up my beautifully manicured nails – it had been white. I told him I recognized the car by a triangle of tiny dings on the door handle.
Then he punched in some numbers, tapped once or twice, and tapped again. Handing me my phone, he jumped into the car and started a purring engine. A perfect triangle of tiny dings on the passenger side door handle caught my eye as he pulled into the light afternoon traffic.
hungry. So we sauntered over (I know, what a word; but I believe it matched the extravagance of walking over the threshold of a place using French in its name, don’t you?) to Sissy’s Diner and ordered soup. Again, I know. But we’d just had manicures. What did you expect us to do? Break a nail carving steak? We considered sandwiches, of course; but by the time we would’ve handled the greasy fries that came with them, again, why take chances? And it wasn’t like we ordered chicken broth. We had the clam chowder Sissy’s was famous for. Plus handling a spoon gave each of us an excuse to glance at our newly polished fingertips: Pink Delish for my friend and Why Wine for me.
As we chatted on our way out the door of Sissy’s, I noticed a car just a few parking spaces down that exactly matched my mani-pedi color. What are the odds? We decided to walk (done with the sauntering now that we’d had clam chowder) over and take a hand selfie by the car. I mean, the color match was so unlikely – in our minds, at least – that it deserved a photo.