From Amanda Bergson-Shilcock's, "A Few Good Words," Fall '99 From Amanda Bergson-Shilcock's, "A Few Good Words," Fall '99How much money would be too much for you to stop and pick up off the ground? So I was a little taken aback to see Andrew Jackson's face on the bills staring up at me from the dirty station floor. There were people around -- it was only 9:30 at night and plenty of commuters were still trudging up the ramp toward the local trains. The news stand was closed but the Dunkin' Donuts was still open. I looked around, but no one seemed to be paying attention. Adrenaline pumped through me, making my hands shake as I picked up the money. I felt guilty and awkward, like someone was about to leap out of the shadows and accuse me of stealing. I held it clumsily in my hand, as if to proclaim to my non-existent audience: "Don't worry -- I know this isn't mine! I'm looking for the rightful owner." But I wasn't, at least not exactly. Thoughts catapulted through my head. Who knew where this money came from? Any type of person might have dropped it, but who carries that much cash? Was it connected with a crime? What if someone did accost me? How would I know if they were the true owner? Maybe I should have left it there. I felt so ridiculous. The first person I saw was the clerk wiping the counter at Dunkin' Donuts. I told him that I'd just found some money and asked him what I should do. "Give it to someone who needs it." He seemed pitying. I couldn't help feeling young and foolish. I went back down the ramp toward the Amtrak police desk. There were four officers there and a short guy in business clothes who was ranting about some poor service he'd received. I stood for a moment feeling indecisive and slightly ludicrous until one of the officers noticed me. "I? uh? found some money." My words stumbled. "I really don't know if I should be asking you guys to deal with this." "Cash?" said the short man. "Oh yeah, I lost that! Ha ha!" "How much?" said the cop, ignoring the other man, and I counted the money. A hundred dollars. The officers were looking at each other as if they, too, were unsure how to handle the situation. Finally the officer who'd asked me the question got out an incident report. I gave him my name, my address, my home and work phone numbers, my date of birth, my Social Security number. It took a long time to fill out. I handed him the money and he looked at me and shrugged. "I think if no one claims this in 30 days, it's yours." And that was it. When I got home I told the story to my family and the next day they told friends. Responses split into two groups but the basic consensus was that I was an idiot. The majority thought I should have taken the money and not looked back. They could not believe I had trusted the police or the system. They were sure that nobody would have claimed the money. They could not understand why I had told anyone about it. I was, they were sure, not only stupid but willfully naive. The minority thought I should never have hesitated. It doesn't feel that simple to me. Maybe it was a pretty easy call: I lead a relatively privileged existence, complete with well-salaried job. I don't even have a mortgage or kids. From that perspective, almost anyone else needed the money more than I -- the man at Dunkin' Donuts, the police officers, the Salvation Army holiday bellringer. But then again, under the law of finders-keepers, the money was mine to do with as I pleased: buy CDs or clothes, donate to charity or splurge on friends. About a week after I found the money, I discovered a dollar on the floor of the train station. I picked it up and put it in my pocket without a second thought. Later it occurred to me: somewhere between $1 and $100 lay my magic number -- the amount of money I would pocket without a second thought. Where was the line? I still wonder. The 30-day period expired without a call from the police. Friends no longer prompt me for updates and I no longer expect to see the money. But sometimes, I look down at the station floor as I pass through, just in case.
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