There is a woman standing in front of me at the counter at Starbucks and she’s digging through her wallet, madly. She finds a dollar in there and uncrinkles it and asks the young cashier if she can exchange it for a dollar in the tip jar. Sure, he says, no problem.
I ask if there’s something wrong with the dollar, because it looks like a normal dollar to me (I don’t tell her that it looks normal to me). She looks up at me from under her thick, fluffy blue hat and through the bottoms of her bifocols and says, “Oh, you bet there’s something wrong with that dollar!”
She marches out of Starbucks and I ask the cashier if I can look at the dollar. Sure, no problem, he says, because I know he’s dying to know what’s on that dollar. There’s a note on there, but it’s all scribbled out.