I’lI kinda felt silly holding a cup, panhandling with a gold ring on my finger. Truth is, I did not make a single penny for the first hour-and-a-half. It was then, that a wellmanicured man in his late forties, wearing a suit that looked like it came out of a Burberry catalog walked over, pulled out his wallet, and dropped three bills into my cup. As his hand pulled back, I noticed an almost identical ring on his finger.
“All you need is in the box,” the well dressed Mason said to me, “It’s all in the box.” Before I could even respond, he turned and walked away, leaving me speechless. A moment later, I looked into the cup. Three images of Benjamin Franklin stared back at me. I quickly stuffed the bills into my
pocket. I got up and started walking wherever my feet would take me. I stopped at a CVS
and picked up a couple single-serve bottles of Mountain Dew and a couple packs of Newports. It was time to start heading back to Miriam’s to pick up Kittie. We wouldn’t be eating there that night.
Instead, I got a cab to take Kittie and me to Ruby Tuesday in Chinatown. Over steaks and baked potatoes the size of NFL regulation footballs, we talked about the day’s events. “So you’re telling me that panhandling with that ring got you three hundred bucks?” Kittie asked me incredulously. “I think it’s a little less magical than you’re making it out to be Kittie,” I answered. “ The guy that gave me all that
money was wearing a Masonic ring too. Now I know that Masons should support each other in times of financial need.” “But you’re not a Mason,” she interrupted. “No, I’m not, but neither was Frank,” I countered, “Now if this was some way to reward Frank for saving that old man’s life back in ‘99, why does it extend to me now?” “I don’t know Bill. I just don’t think we should be looking a gift horse in the mouth is all,” she said, munching happily on a mouthful of baked potato, smothered in melted cheese. Once we finished eating, I used the debit card to settle our check and left a generous tip for our server. After smoking an after-dinner cigarette, I hailed us a cab and rented a room at the Motel 6 on
New York Avenue in Northeast. A thought occurred to me as we lay in bed watching a mediocre comedy on the hotel’s cable. “It’s all in the box, he said,” I mumbled absentmindedly. “What box Bill?” Kittie asked sleepily.
“I wonder….”
(To be continued)
