absent. I guess Iâm saying that, even at eleven, when I hadnât seen fifty dollars in one place outside my dadâs cash register, that sound was easily worth a hundred.
So, Lar, guess who didnât have a lot of time for my explanation of why my crisp new Ben Franklin hadnât found its way into my bank account at First Interstate. Tough guess, huh? Ol Lucas Brewster was one pissed sporting-goods salesman.
âYou did what? â
âI gave it to a guy, Dad.â
âWell what did you get from this guy?â
I wanted to tell him, but I thought better. The cold and hungry manâs cry rang clearly in my ears. âNothing.â I told him who I gave it to.
âYou gave it to a tramp?â
âHe was cold, Dad. All his stuff had holes in it. Cooper scared him real bad, and I couldnât see if he had any food or anything.â
My dad palmed the back of his neckâhis trademark gesture for times when his bonehead firstborn son tops himself in the startingly stupid move departmentâand walked to the other side of the living room. I thought about making a break for my room, but when L. Brewster palms the back of his neck and walks away, the only thing you know for sure is, heâs coming back.
âBeauregard,â he said in that low, even tone that means you have offended his sensibilities in a criminal way, âdo you know how many tramps there are in the world?â
The smartass part of me wanted to give him a number, but the survivor part of me pushed the smartass part of me on its smart ass. I said, âProbably a lot.â
âWhat kind of job do you think youâll have to get if youwant to give them each a hundred dollars?â
âProbably a pretty good one,â I said. The hungry manâs cry faded a bit, and I began to feel ashamed for being so stupid. Dad was rightâa lot of people out there needed things. Still, if he had seen this guyâ¦
He was quiet a minute more, then he said, âI guess you know youâre going to have to repay that money.â
He might have won me over if he hadnât said that. âWhat? To who?â
âTo me. I didnât give you a hundred dollars to hand over to the first hobo that came down the pike.â
âIt was mine,â I said. âI worked for it.â
âIâm sorry, youâre right,â he said. âIt was yours. So youâll repay yourself. That money was to go into your savings. You will repay yourself by earning a hundred dollars and putting it into your savings account.â
Even at eleven, Larry, I had learned out of necessity how my dad arguedâor at least thought I hadâso I tried to help him make sense of it in that no-bullshit Lucas Brewster kind of way. I said, âWait a minute. I lost the time and I lost the sleep and I lost the money. Even the way you think, that ought to be enough of a punishment.â
He stood staring at me, slowly shaking his head. âBeauregard, that was a hundred dollars. If I thought youwere capable of learning your lesson from what you lost, Iâd let it go, but you have to learn the value of a dollar. What kind of father would I be if I turned you out into the world with your screwed-up sense of money?â
I retreated to the original passion of my argument. âBut this guy didnât haveââ
âThis conversation is over, Bo. You show up at the store Monday after school, and Iâll start you working to repay your debt.â
âI have a flag football game Monday.â
âNot anymore you donât. This is too important. Youâre going to learn to be responsible if it kills me.â
âItâs not fair! That man wasââ
âThis conversation is about the value of a dollar, son, and itâs over.â
I turned for the stairs leading to my room, knowing full well I was frustrated and angry enough to end up spending another seven months there if I