The First Thing You Do

A man at the Public Library at Lincoln Center was looking at me. He told me he was an artist and asked if he could draw my portrait. The man insisted we take the elevator one floor down, rather than the stairs. I was nervous about being trapped there with him, but I went.

In the elevator, I counted the time it took to go down one floor. It was not enough time to rape someone.

The man sat me down at a table and began to draw. He told me to be very still. Not to move. To remain as still as possible. He asked me about my life and what I wanted to do. I told him I wanted to be a writer.

You won’t make much money, he said. It will be a struggle. Here is what you must do. The first thing you must do is get a big ugly coat. Once you have this big ugly winter coat, shove it in the back of your closet behind all your clothing. Make sure the coat has giant pockets. Every month when your paycheck comes, take twenty dollars cash out, stuff it in the pockets of the coat, and forget about it. Make that the first thing you do.

Disappointment

I spotted money on the M4 bus after getting on at 93rd Street. I sat down on the money and asked the woman sitting nearest if anyone had sat there before me. No, she said. Seeing that as permission to take the money, I slid it into my pants pocket. I was sure the woman could see me do this.

I was excited because I had been worrying about not having enough to pay my rent, analyst, and acting class. This was just what I needed.

But I grew unnerved. What if the money belonged to someone on the bus? More importantly, what if I was arrested? Google, “What do you do when you find money on a bus?” In some states, it is theft to find money and keep it for yourself. You are supposed to turn it in to the police. Then, if no one claims the money, it is yours.

I called my parents from the bus and told them what was happening.

“Keep it,” my father said. “Are you kidding me? How much money was it?”

“I think a thousand dollars, maybe more. All I saw was a stack of hundreds.”

“Keep it,” he said. 

“Ask the bus driver, but don’t tell him how much money you found,” said my mother, who was also on the call. “Take it out and look at it and tell us how much it is.”

“I can’t,” I said. “What if it’s laced with Fentanyl?”

“It’s not laced with Fentanyl,” they both said.

I asked the bus driver if there was a Lost and Found for the money.

“No,” he said. “That’s never happened before. It’s your lucky day.”

“Thank you,” I said. But I did not feel lucky. The sweat was kicking in. My throat was closing and my jaw clenching.

Surely, I was overdosing. I would need to get off the bus, pass out, and die. 

“Ask a rabbi,” my father said. “Ask Gillian. Isn’t she in divinity school? She could advise you.” 

I soon got off the bus, with the money still in my pocket, and walked toward my dance rehearsal. I gained confidence from the idea that if I refused to tell anyone about it or check how much money there was, nothing bad would happen. So, I kept the news to myself. 

I enjoyed feeling the secret against my ass in my back pocket as I walked up a flight of stairs. I didn’t say anything when a woman asked if anyone had cash she could use at the vending machine. I liked feeling the bills between my ass and the wood floor as I slid across it as we rehearsed our number beneath a fat cross.

As soon as rehearsal ended, I found a bathroom. Using a paper towel, I slid the money from my back pocket and counted it. To my disappointment, I counted only two hundred twenty dollars. I counted the money a second time. A third. The same. There were no hundred-dollar bills at all.

After leaving rehearsal, I walked to a nearby health food store. I hadn’t been having smooth stools. So, using some of the money, I bought a fifteen-dollar chewable probiotic, a water bottle, and a bag of peanuts.

Riding the bus home, I continued enjoying the feeling of the bills between my butt and the seat. I ate the peanuts, took the probiotic, and drank the water.

When I got home, I got into bed and fell asleep. When I woke up a few hours later needing to take a crap, I felt for the money in my back pocket, but it wasn’t there. Somehow, I’d lost it.

***

Hannah Applebaum is a writer and performer who lives in Brooklyn, NY. Her stories have appeared in Byline and the Jersey City Times.