Fight Over a Quarter

I stepped off the bus and saw a quarter in the crosswalk of 6th Avenue.

I walked into the street and picked it up.

If it were a penny, nickel, or dime it would not have been worth the physical effort to bend over and grab it. Solitary pennies, nickels, and dimes do not hold much much value to me.

The quarter must have just been dropped. Someone would have snatched it up had they seen it.

I was so lucky.

“Why me?” I asked myself, “What did I do to deserve this?”

I put the quarter in my front left pants pocket.

It was like I was granted 19% off my $1.31 morning coffee. I felt great.

I arrived to work, sat at my desk, and reached into my front pocket. I wanted to inspect the quarter. See where it was from. See what year it was made.

I am wearing tight skinny jeans so struggled to fit my hand into the pocket.

I felt around. The quarter was not there. “Where the heck is my quarter?” I thought. I stood up. I reached into my other front pocket. Twas barren as the Sahara Desert at high noon.

I reached into both back pockets. Empty.

The quarter was gone, like a thief in the night.

“Why me?” I asked myself, “What did I do to deserve this?”

My co-worker entered the office.

“I found a quarter,” she said holding the shiny round money-piece in her hand.

I looked at her with evil in my eyes.

“That’s mine,” I said as I pointed my left hand’s finger.

I attempted to pry the quarter from her cold hands.

I pushed her head.

Then tackled her to the ground.

I took the quarter that might have possibly been mine that I found on the floor that was someone else’s.

The quarter was mind once a-gain!

I looked at the ground and saw another quarter.

“Why me?,” I asked myself. “What did I do to deserve this?”

I started to get chest pains.