Money. It keeps us rolling. Lets us do things, buy drinks, eat, live. It leaves my hands quicker than a flood receding. It does not take its time. Simply slips right through my pockets, my hands, and into the purses of women, restaurant owners, tavern keepers, taxis, hotel rooms, subway tokens, and luxurious life for just a little while until a few days later the green is gone. Not even any silver. And I am back to my natural state; broke.

Back in Chicago, I had St. Thomas Schmidt to go to in times of need. He said he believed in me. Me? A careless fool. Boy, I sure hoodwinked him. Or, maybe he knew all along that I would  never pay him back. Hard to say. But, it stuck with me. All the money I had borrowed over the years. And not just him, but various people. People I didn’t even like. I just hung around them for the dough, often paying a price myself. The price of listening to their problems with wives, jobs, cars, kids, the constant whining about everything. I deserved that money. I was cheaper than any therapist. And often I solved their problems for them without lifting a finger or saying a word. Just sit back and listen. And when the time was right, ask, never beg for what I needed most; money.