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100 Cents |
by Danielle LeFevre
"Excuse me, hi, I just wanted to give this to you."
You smile and hand the stranger a one dollar bill. You had taken on your professor's homework assignment with gusto. For your class on social deviance, he asked you to commit a deviant act. In theory, it was a simple assignment with only one caveat: the deviant act could be either negative or positive. When was the last time you got to be a positive deviant—a hero? Not those cartoony comic book character types, but someone who actually changed another's life, for the better. You wanted to be a hero. You're fairly sure everyone does. Instead of catching a woman midway through her forty-story-high tumble, or pushing a delinquent teenager out of the path of an incoming train, you decided to distribute one dollar bills in the local mall.
It sounded simple. It wasn't.
What has charity been to you? In your experience, giving money, in America, has surprisingly strict boundaries. The wealthy Americans (who still manage to disguise themselves as "middle class") tend to hoard their money, or donate it to the community via organized charities. You've seen the commercials for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, and know they would never accept your pitiable five dollars. Who would? Maybe some of the homeless in the metropolis, not too far from your home, would deign to accept such a lowly gift. But then, it might be too much. You decided, after considering it for awhile, that the guidelines for American charity restricted you unnecessarily. Why not go to the mall and give out single bills?
You couldn't think of a good reason not to go. Even better, you are pretty sure no one else in your class would think of something so brazenly heroic. So, after collecting dollar bills for a few days, and fielding some awkward jokes from your college friends, you set off for the local mall early one winter afternoon.
For the occasion, you had dressed carefully. Unbranded jeans, a white thermal and grey vest made you rather unremarkable. You'd left your monogrammed cape at home. You keep the nine dollar bills in your vest pocket and walk with your hands swinging slowly at your sides. The mall smells of day-old grease and leftover vanilla Christmas candles. It is the middle of the week, so at least it isn't crowded. You can't afford to give out a dollar to everyone in the mall anyways, but at least this will narrow your choices.
After being rejected twice, you start to feel discouraged. You try to explain that you don't want anything in return. You aren't even offering your two cents, only one hundred cents. To some, no explanation is good enough. Rebuffed, you refocus your strategy on younger, presumably less ornery, individuals. A hip, pre-menstrual girl looks like the perfect target. You approach, offer the gift to her, and she accepts. You feel elated as she delivers an automatic 'thank you' with her eyes slightly downcast.
Minutes later, as you stand outside of the sporting good store, trying to decide if you really need new running shoes, the hipster tracks you down. In true adolescent fashion, she comes up with no less than three excuses before holding out the dollar bill. You explain that you can't take it, and smile when you realize you have probably helped her internalize the norm of being suspicious of strangers. You hope it keeps her safe throughout her teenage years.
You try to select people at random, hoping to gain a worthwhile sample of the mall's population. Of course, that isn't possible with only nine interactions, but you try to justify your methods anyway. The next man you approach is wearing a baggy grey sweatshirt, which dangles at thigh-length around his equally loose black jeans. He hesitates, mumbles a thank you, and limps off. At least it was easy. Fully twenty minutes pass, with you circling several shops on the upper floor, before he finds you. He introduces himself as Ivan, then explains that he plans to buy a snack today because you had given him the money. This moment should make you feel like a hero. A young man will eat a little more today because you gave him a dollar. Instead, you feel guilty, and responsible. You needed him to complete your assignment. You needed him to learn about the impact charity can have on the giver, as well as the receiver.
Six other interactions pass with minimum effort on either side. You meet a polite young couple, a sassy saleswoman, and several others who slip from your mind. Nearing the end of your second hour in the mall, with one last dollar in your pocket, you stand near the escalator and hope you won't be rejected yet again. An older woman with brightly dyed hair walks briskly past you. You say 'Excuse me'. You repeat it. "Hi, excuse me? Hi, I just wanted to give you this dollar."
"Why?" She barely shortens her stride. You fall into step with her.
"Are you rich?" She stops, turns, stares. You are middle class, but you are not like the Bill and Melinda Gates donors. She pulls her purse a little closer. "Then keep it, you might need it."
"I might, but you might too." You know it's the wrong thing to say as soon as it's out of your mouth.
"You think so? Well, I can't just take one dollar. It will have to be ten."
You smile. After the stress of the day, it feels especially good.
"What do you want me to do with the dollar?" The woman still has not accepted the dollar, which you have pulled out of your pocket, as proof of your intentions. She glances at it every other moment. You explain to her that the dollar is hers, she can do whatever she wants. When pressed, you remember what Ivan said. You tell her she could buy a snack, or put it savings, or buy a small gift for someone else in her life.
"I'll buy you coffee, right down there at the Cinnabon."
Even if coffee didn't repulse you, you still would have refused.
"You're sure?" She looks to the bill and you hold it out more confidently. "This is very strange."
You agree, and you mean it.
"No one's ever done this for me before. No one's ever given me money for nothing." She takes the bill from your hands. Relieved, you say your goodbyes and hope, sincerely, that she enjoys it. As you turn away, you think you see tears in her eyes, along the sagging lines of her face.
You walk away profoundly humbled. You felt guilty for putting her in such an uncomfortable position, and then guiltier when you realize it was all contrived. Would you have given away a dollar—a single one—if it had not been for your professor's assignment? This was not the same as throwing change into a derelict's lap. They never cry. You later justified your feelings because deviance should, in a well-socialized, conformist citizen (which you consider yourself), always illicit feelings of guilt. Maybe, just maybe, this is what it feels like to be a hero.
Someday you will find the courage, and humility, to give out dollar bills at the mall again. Until then, you know that your simple homework assignment touched ten lives, perhaps your own the most. If nothing else, you have become a hero to yourself.
Danielle M. LeFevre was raised in silicon valley before moving to the silicone suburban mess of Los Angeles to pursue her education. When not writing she is thinking of other stories to write, and blogs excessively.
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