As I waited for news about the fate of my lost twenties, I began to consider my options for replacing the loaf of bread that I would not be able to buy for myself in 2027. Suppose I had it all to do over? Would it be smarter for me to buy 30 loaves today and freeze them for the future rather than save for retirement?
Given the energy required to maintain the bread inventory, perhaps the payback would be better if I bought at today's prices and withdrew a loaf every nine months, freeing up freezer space for more high-value foodstuffs. Or, I could practice bread-cost averaging, buying an additional loaf each year. Perhaps I should diversify and allocate some money to frozen, unbaked loaves, which would offer future freshness while better utilizing my freezer assets. Or I could simply spend it on beer and count on the free market inventing a bread substitute, eliminating the need to buy any bread in the future.
But that way lies madness.
The first response on www.itsyourmoney.com came from "Denise," who confirmed that she had snagged a twenty blowing through the library parking lot as she walked to her job at McDonalds. She had not yet spent the money, she said, but planned to apply it toward her college tuition at St. Cloud State in the fall, unless the promised reward stamped on the bill was for more than $20.
I told her education was its own reward and advised her to take an economics class.
Respondent number two was not technically the finder of the bill, but was responding on his behalf. She had been given the money with instructions to send it to the Norm Coleman Recount Fund, but was having trouble finding a mailing address. As for where the bill was found, she would only divulge: Vicinity of Golden Valley Country Club.
I pass several group homes on my way to the bank. An attendant at one of them found the bill plastered against the base of a Duluth Street bus stop bench. So he'd stopped at Walgreen's and bought bags of Peeps for the residents and a pack of Marlboro Lights for himself.
The next report had likely skipped a generation, since the respondent said the bill was passed to him through a car window at Lowry and Queen, which in case I didn't know, was still open for bidness.
A laid-off teacher found one in her yard and asked where she should return it. When told she was only supposed to report how she spent it, she said she'd have to let me know, but I never heard back.
As time went on, the five sets of serial numbers moved around the city and across the country. They purchased gasoline, porn videos, novels, frozen lasgna and haircuts. They were dropped in collection plates and on dinner tabs. They helped finance dental work and paid for the return of a lost cat.
Once, I received a report from a bank teller informing me the bill would be destroyed because it had been defaced. And since I haven't heard about any of them for awhile, I suspect that's been the fate of all my bills — not just the lost five, but every bit of cash that has come into my hands and under my stamp.
Which is as it should be, because no one will ever be able to spend my money better than I can.
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