5 BUCKS

An unfriendly Autumn rain tapped against the window. The days had increasingly grown cold, and now the small flower pot on the third-floor balcony was doused with icy droplets. Despite the downpour, the street below was still busy, and amber rays from headlights made streaks across the pavement. A hunched figure stood beneath a weather-beaten canopy, his stand still open despite the rain. As umbrellas swished past and boots splashed through puddles, he gently called to passersby as his rows of little unsold paintings were threatened by the seeping drips from the canopy above. 

The third-floor tenant who gazed out the window felt a sinking feeling in his chest. It could have been sympathy, or perhaps it was embarrassment on behalf of a hopeless cause. His hand reached into his trouser pocket and curled around a crinkled bill. It had been living in that pocket for a long time, saved for a rainy day. Well, this was one like no other. It had not occurred to him before, however, that it had been waiting for someone else’s rainy day. Drifting away from the window, he shuffled to the breakfast table. He placed the bill atop a strewn magazine and cleared his plate. Scraping off the dregs of an egg omelet, he ran the plate beneath the water and put it in the sink, clanking as it rested next to the glasses from the night before. They were puddled with burgundy, but only one was rimmed with red. The taste of wine and lipstick lingered in his memory. He had to see her again today. The question, of course, was where?  The club? Dancing? Arty’s? All of his ideas seemed tiring. Originality had run dry, as it often does after years of wining and dining. Sighing, he returned to the table. Taking a seat and taking a sip of a now lukewarm cup of coffee, he grimaced in disapproval. The bitter, settled grounds from the press were unpleasant on his tongue. He pushed his cup aside and glanced at the paper; there was the forecast and the weekly news. Tragic headlines got first dibs on the front, but the scandals reigned over the side column. Cultural advertisements lined the bottom. There, among them, was a notice of a new artist’s exhibit.  

ENJOY A NIGHT OF BLUES AND HUES!

JUGENDSTIL JAZZ: RAY DELTON’S NEWEST EXHIBITION

Open to the public. 

He lifted the paper and read on. The event was perfect: cultured, festive, and free. He scurried to the phone and caught up the receiver, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the hall mirror as he twirled the cord around his finger. Not a bad-looking face. He opened his pocket phone book and scoured the list. Down, down, down, success! Oh, wait--wrong one. Close call. With a sigh of relief, he dialed and impatiently waited for the pick-up. 

The conversation lasted a minute or so. The hello was rushed, the proposition exaggerated, and the promises plentiful. Acquiring a “Why, yes!” and an “I’ll be waiting,” he hung up the phone with a grin. He would go reserve the tickets before he met her this afternoon. He pattered around his island with a smirk. What luck! The day was now set, and he could do with a good time. He glanced at the clock. 

11:04 am.

Blast!

He would miss the train if he didn’t hurry! In a flash, he was dressed, combed, and cologned. He hurriedly swung his trench around his shoulders, snatched his hat, and slipped the umbrella from the caddy. As his figure disappeared into the busy, wet streets below, it never crossed his mind that the five-dollar bill lay on the table behind.  

"As umbrellas swished past and boots splashed through puddles, he gently called to passersby as his rows of little paintings were threatened by the seeping drips that fell from the canopy above."