Sitting on the stool at the Breakfast Club, I sipped coffee watching my friends finish the last of their preparations for another busy day. I'm moving slow because it'd been a busy night on Tybee Island. Sarah and I went to Julie-just-Julia's Five O'Clock party listening to good live music on her dock (Whitley's bicycle got so drunk that he actually had to walk it home), then we were off to Marlin Monroe's where we met with old friends from Union Mission days. I have no idea what time we got home.
She walks in the door and sits at the counter. I know her. She's recently become a regular having moved here from the Washington D.C. area after her job ended. As long as I've known her she's been looking for something else to do for a living. Every day she seems a little sadder than she was the day before.
"G' morning Micheal," she says sitting down and I sleepily reply.
Reaching into an oversize bag, she pulls out rolls of quarters, dimes, nickles and pennies lying them on the counter.
"Can you use these," she asks Val.
I watch this intently as it seems as all of the air is sucked out of the room.
After the most pregnant of pauses, Val grins and says, "God Bless you! Absolutely!"
The slightest of smiles creeps over the face of someone who is now ... relieved.
"Rolling Change," I ask?
She nods saying "Got nothing else to do."
I nod back.
My Dad used to come home from work every day and throw whatever change was in pocket into a large jar. Over the course of a year it filled and at Christmas he tell one of his grandchildren that, if they could pick up the jar then they could have everything inside. It became the biggest of traditions and each of the kids couldn't wait until it was their year to get the change.
I picked up the habit and in my closet there is a giant jar full of quarters, dimes, nickles and pennies. There's probably close to $200 in it. It's my emergency fund. As long as it sits there, I have some money.
Over the years I've known thousands of homeless people. One of the things that I learned from them is ... whenever they got a job, found a place to live and regained control of their life ... they would get a $100 bill that they'd fold into a tight tiny sliver and hide it in their billfold or purse.
"If it all goes to hell," they would explained, "at least I have something to get me through ... or at least to buy me another drink so I don't care anymore.
I was always amazed at this homeless tradition. It continued from year to year and decade to decade.
"What you doing today," she asked as took $21 from Val and gleefully put it inside the oversize bag..
Thoughtfully, I sipped the last of my coffee.
"Rolling change," I said standing up.
She nodded with a sad understanding.
I meant it too.
It's just a different kind of change that I'm rolling.
