I spent most of my meager two-week paycheck on a most snappy getup that matched my water snake-skin boots, all I had left was one Benjamin Franklin. Yessir, a one hundred-dollar bill. A C-note. I was on my way home from work, to afriends house when I realized that I needed gas. I lied. My 1993 Ford Ranger needed gas, I needed a blow job. So I stop by a Circle K to gas up. I snagged a four-piece Reese’s Peanut Cup and asked for the rest up to $20 on “Pump 5″. “Nate” rung me up.

I pulled out The Benny and handed it to the man. He looked at me like I had pulled out a $100,000- Woodrow Wilson-dollar bill  and asked if I had “anything smaller?”  The $100 dollar bill was the only money I had on me. I politely said that “I didn’t”. He then got all red an puffy and said that he didn’t have change for that “big of a bill.” I looked at his watch. It said 10:16. So, here in Circle K, a national chain, they didn’t have $80 in change at 10:16pm! Outrageous.

People it’s 2009, if I can actually have a non-stolen $100 bill in my possession, it’s not too much to ask for $80 from a gas station. Just think how unwanted that Ben was!! It’s like it was hexed. I remember back in the day when the Benjamin was coveted. No wonder they always want unmarked $20 bills in the movies; they can’t even break the $100’s. Not even worth it. To make matters even worse it was one of the old school Bennys, even more worthless. That’s kind of a funny sentiment; more worthless. Putting emphasis on having less worth.

I digress. So here I am, my worthless Benjamin flapping in the air conditioning, the teller shaking his head at me – needless to say I was peeved. On my way out of the store a panhandler flashed his skillet in front of me and demanded a payment. Only half-thinking I toss the now crumpled Franklin into the depleted non-stick pot. On the down-step of my third step I felt the soft crisp of a thrown $100 bill behind my left ear.

I whirl around just as the homeless man produces a pocket knife from his bulging pocket. He proceeds to unfold the serrated saw blade and cut of his thumb, index, ring and pinky fingers. His face grimaces with each finger when it hits the cardboard he  sits upon. Fingers removed, he waves the sole middle finger in my direction and mouths “fuck you” as the pain prohibits audible speech. As I try to look away,  I catch sight of the Benny as it lazily tumbles down a sewer grate.

This is why I hate Benjamin Franklin.