Money Talks

My name is George, and all my life I’ve felt worthless.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I guess being a one-dollar bill makes me worth something. But still, not much.

I mean, what am I really? Something pure and intrinsically valuable like a diamond or a nugget of gold?

Nope.

I’m a cheap piece of paper.

That’s it. The only reason I have any value at all is because people pretend I do. And apparently (since people are exceptionally delusional) they also pretend that some pieces of paper are actually worth more than others.

Take Ben for example. We used to get along so well, me and him, both of us being Founding Fathers and all. We first met when we were young bills, no more than a week off the press. We were new to this life, and it was so refreshing to talk with someone from my own time (I can’t relate to those young kids, Lincoln and Grant, and Jackson’s a bit too crazy for me).

Ben and I were close friends, but then something changed. As the days went on, he started befriending other Bens and a few Grants, and then all of a sudden he stopped talking to me altogether. I was confused. I’d try to keep things casual and ask him how he was doing but he would ignore me and exclusively talk with his new friends. I knew they were whispering things in his ear, pulling him away from me. So one day I got fed up.

“Ben!” I said. He and his friends shut up. “What’s going on with you? You don’t talk to me anymore.” I waited for him to respond, but he pretended I wasn’t there. Not cool. “What, do you think you’re somehow better than me?”

And he just looked at me. “George,” he said. “I’m worth so much more than you.”

Well. I’d never been more insulted in my life. I mean, Benjamin Franklin was just a boring old guy—he was never even a president—and they let him be on the one-hundred dollar bill? How does that make any sense? Every American agrees that I was the best president, so why am I the one on the bottom of the pecking order?

Eventually Ben and I got separated because of a bank robbery, and I never saw him again. I lost my first and only friend and thus began my life of misery.

Other than bearing the constant snide remarks from my own kind (my own paper and ink), what really insults me is the way real people treat me. Especially when they use me to buy stupid stuff. I’ve been used to buy the most humiliating items: rolls of toilet paper, toothpicks, rubber bands—the kinds of things you use once and then throw out. A few days ago I was screaming at a little kid, trying to convince him to consider using me to buy a quality product. But instead he used me to buy fake dog poop.

Me. The greatest president. On the same level as dog poop.

An equally confusing event in my life was the time I got used to buy fake money. That really messed with my head.

But what’s crazy is that most of the time I’m not even worth enough to buy this kind of garbage. Almost everything at the dollar store costs more than just a dollar. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is having to get help from little coins to make a simple purchase. And those quarters… Not only do they have a more handsome headshot, but they’re always reminding me of how they’re made of “precious metals” and I’m not. They know that realistically they should be the ones worth more, and to be fair, they’re not wrong. But it’s not like I make the rules. I just tell the stinking things to be grateful they’re still desired, unlike the pennies. That brightens them up a little.

And I don’t know about you, but having millions of clones of yourself is super annoying too. I hate seeing other Georges. They remind me too much of myself.

Even though I don’t get along with other bills and coins, the worst part of my existence is the touching. Over my twenty-four years of being in circulation, I’ve been touched by every kind of person you could imagine. Passed around from hand to hand like I’m some kind of an animal. In fact, I’ve realized that there’s nothing different between me and a rat—we’re both small, expendable, and carry diseases.

And besides the touching, I hate it when people look at me. Particularly when they’re trying to find my secrets. They’ll take me out and say to their friends, “Have you ever seen the little hidden spider in the top right corner?”

And then I’ll be trying to fold myself up. “HEY! Don’t look there, that’s private!”

I can never have a moment to myself. Maybe one day I’ll escape this world and buy myself a slice of paradise.

I just have to start saving.

Today was the worst day of my life.

I’ve never enjoyed existing—don’t get me wrong—but I’m terrified of dying. Today I came close.

It started with me being carted around in some guy’s wallet. Whether I liked it or not, he brought me to one of those specialty acts where people go to see daredevils who ride unicycles on tightropes and breathe fire.

Well, the guy whose pocket I was in got called up by the evening’s performer to be a volunteer. Of course, me being in a wallet, everything was pitch-black, but I felt my captor walking up on stage. Then I heard the performer say: “Sir, do you see this giant pair of extra sharp scissors? This giant pair of scissors will be going down—through my mouth, past my uvula, down my throat, and come to a rest inches from my heart.” The crowd gasped and then cheered.

People are sick.

Then the performer said, “to prove to you that these scissors are deadly sharp, would you be willing to provide me with some money?”

My stomach dropped. My abductor reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. I tried to hide, but then realized I’m an inanimate object. So he pulled out the only three bills inside: me, another George, and a Jackson. We were blinded by the stage lights and the sweat from the man’s palms. All three of us were shaking from head to toe. When the performer saw Jackson, he laughed. “A twenty? Please, nothing that costs that much.”

So he put Jackson back, and I heard the bill heave a huge sigh of relief. “Later, losers!”

Now it was just me and George. The guy holding us said, “I only have these two dollars. Which one do you want?”

And then the scoundrel said it. “Doesn’t matter to me; they all look the same!”

Wow. Did he really say that? I felt hot rage boiling over my thin skin. But before I could do anything, I heard begging. George, who I felt getting pulled away from next to me, was being handed to the performer, pleading with whoever would listen. But I was the only one who could hear his cries. I watched as the performer took him in his hand. He smiled an evil smile. The blades of the scissors straddled poor, hysterical George. I tried to shut my eyes but whoever made me forgot to give me closable eyelids. So I was forced to watch. George began screaming at the top of his lungs. What could I do? Then, in one swift pinch of the wicked man’s fingers, George’s screams abruptly stopped. They were cut short.

I watched him float to the ground, split in two. No longer worth anything. Never again to be redeemed in a bank.

He was so young.

So crisp. Only a year old.

I was sick to my stomach. I’m sure my face turned green.

As I remained clutched in the hand of the accomplice to the murder, I watched as the killer rubbed his scissor blades down with a sanitary wipe. “In case we’re dealing with dirty money,” he joked. Everyone laughed. But not me. I knew that it’s people like these who are responsible for all the filth that we’re forced to be exposed to daily. They call us disgusting but never dare try to clean us. They use us and then discard us like we’re nothing, like we’re made of pa—uh, you know what I mean.

As I saw the performer slide the enormous scissors down his throat, I was stuffed back into the man’s pocket. Everything went dark.

And I cried.

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind. I changed hands enough times to find myself sheltered in the cash register of an airport supermarket. Ever since that experience at the specialty act, I’ve been quieter than usual. More reflective. Here, in this nice, dark cash register, I finally have a place to rest, to heal, and—oh wait, never mind, I’m being taken back out.

The cashier lifted me in her hand and additionally picked up a penny. “Here’s your change,” she said, handing me over to someone new. This new person had nice, soft, clean hands. They were comforting. She put me in a wallet that was completely empty. I couldn’t believe it. It felt so spacious. So good. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t surrounded by any other bills.

“Where are you flying to?” asked the cashier.

“Back home to England,” said my new owner.

England. That’s when I began to realize that things might change for me. I may for once get a chance at a new life.

I waited with bated breath as she walked away and sat down by her gate. I was high strung the entire time we sat there, scared that for some reason she would decide to leave me behind and I wouldn’t get the chance to escape.

But then we got called up to start boarding.

And then we entered the plane.

And then it happened: I felt the rumbling of the aircraft’s wheels, the stomach-dropping swoop of takeoff, and suddenly I was overwhelmed by a huge wave of relief washing over me. I was finally getting out.

A few hours later we landed. Already I could tell that something was different. We traveled by car for a few more hours, and then at long last arrived at what must be the lady’s house.

She brought me upstairs. Next thing I knew she had taken the wallet out of her purse and emptied me onto a desk. She stood back and sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll hang on to you as a souvenir.” I had never heard such glorious words. I wouldn’t be used by anyone ever again. She walked out of the room.

I was about to start planning my retirement when I noticed someone staring at me.

She was very close by, also on the desk, propped up against a book. She had fine skin, perfect eyebrows and curled hair, and wore a beautiful crown. Her face was flawlessly printed on a rectangular piece of paper (much nicer than mine) and the number 5 was patterned around her.

I couldn’t believe it. She was money, just like me. And she was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. She looked like a million bucks.

I spoke first. “I’ve never met a bill that’s a girl.”

She gave me a questioning look. “Yes, well, most girls aren’t named Bill.” Her voice was like it was from a different world. Then she smiled. “I’m a five-pound note, but you can just call me Elizabeth.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m a dollar, but you can call me George.”

“Nice to meet you, George.” I noticed that she was a little thicker than me. But I didn’t mind. Not at all.

“Um, what are the notes like here in England?”

She snorted. “Well, some are family members, and the rest aren’t so attractive.” This was good news. “Are you from America?”

“I am. But life back there isn’t as great as everyone makes it out to be. All my life I’ve been stuck around bills who are nothing but dirty old men.” Never a lady.

She laughed. It was a sweet laugh. “Well, it’s refreshing to see a new face,” she said.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

As we stared into each other’s inky eyes, I felt a warmth spreading over me, which made me afraid that I had somehow caught on fire. But then I realized it was something else. This warmth came from my heart.

It’s been said that the love of money is the root of all evil. But right now I’ve fallen in love with money, and it’s the one thing I’ve been missing my entire life.