I need a dollar.
It’s just before bedtime on a school night, and I suddenly, desperately, need a dollar.
My son stands before me in the tiny kitchen of our apartment, grinning his newly gapped toothed grin. His seven year old face is aglow with pride at having pulled his loose tooth all by himself. I beam back at him, but all I can think is how utterly unprepared I am to play Tooth Fairy tonight.
It’s two days until payday, and the only reason I don’t currently possess the whopping 37 cents I have to my name is because the ATM won’t spit out coins, damnit.
My child bounces around the apartment, high on a mixture of pride in his accomplishment and excitement about the money he’ll get from the Tooth Fairy. “Probably twice as much,” he exclaims, “since I pulled it myself!”
Shit. Now I need two dollars.
I get him calmed down and tucked into bed while I ponder my options. Well, my lack of options. I’m a single parent, newly moved to a town where I have no family or friends, and oh yeah, I’m broke.
Enter creative parental shenanigans!
Once I’m sure my son is asleep, I tiptoe to the front door and slowly, quietly pull it open. Since I can’t leave him in the apartment alone, I am sure to stay within earshot. That limits my potential helpers to the two other apartments on our floor, neither of which has occupants I have bothered to introduce myself to. Of course.
I dart over to the closest door and knock lightly, partly because I don’t want to wake my son, but mostly out of guilt for having the unmitigated gall to ask a complete stranger for two dollars. But I know this guy is home. I can hear the faint beat of dance music through his door. I take a deep breath and knock a little louder, sugar.
Obviously not expecting a slightly panicked beggar in mom jeans, he opens the door, one hand on the hip of his gold lamé shorts and a haughty look on his face. The eloquent, kindly request I’d developed in my head freezes somewhere in the back of my mind and I begin to stammer.
“Hi. Yeah. I know I don’t know you, but ummm, I live across the hall, and, uh, well, I kind of have an emergency.” I hold up my hand, finger and thumb close together, “A little emergency,” I say, just to clarify I’m not talking life or death here.
His only response is a suspicious stare and a vast silence into which I must fling my request, in hopes that it will find favor.
“See, my son lost a tooth, and I don’t have any cash to play Tooth Fairy, so I was wondering if I could borrow two dollars.” I see the door slowly beginning to close. “Please! I’ll pay you back five dollars on Friday!”
Maybe it was the grandeur of such a potential return on investment or maybe it was the desperation in my voice that caught his attention, but he stopped, shifted his weight to his other hip and looked me straight in the eye.
“You got beer?” he asked in a heavy accent. “Two dollars for beer.”
“Beer?” I repeat lamely. “I don’t have any beer.”
The door starts to close again, faster this time.
“Wait! Wait! Wait! I have…..” Oh shit, I think, what do I have that this obviously gay Hispanic man could want?
“Music! I have MUSIC!”
He opens the door again.
“What kind?”
What kind indeed, I wonder, knowing full well I have a complete collection of Melissa Etheridge, Indigo Girls, Tracy Chapman, and tons of other Lilith Fair-esque, lesbo-rific albums.
“Uh, I have, uh….” I stall, frantically trying to remember what gay, like man gay, CD’s were in my collection.
“Boy George! I have Culture Club!” I practically shout with relief. “Please, just wait right here, I’ll be right back,” I beg, half sneaking, half running into my own apartment before he can tell me to shove off. I sift through my CD’s, snag the pop classic Colour by Numbers, and scramble back to the hallway.
I present my offering proudly, smiling too much, way more than Señor Golden Bum, at least. He thrusts two bills at me and shuts the door. I stand there savoring the feel of the crumpled paper in my hands, in sheer gratitude to whatever god shines on gold lamé and desperation. The unmistakable thumping beat of Miss Me Blind dims into the background as I stealthily make my way back into my apartment.
I did it.
Trembling with relief, I sneak into my son’s room. He sleeps soundly, but a smile still lingers on his little face. He’s so proud of himself, and I am proud of him and, I realize, quite proud of myself for getting that Tooth Fairy money.
Twice as much, I laugh to myself, because he pulled that tooth himself. I gently reach under his pillow, fishing out the tooth and slipping the crumpled bills in its place.
