Dollar Bill by Joy Page A

looking up his mother and little brother. It was time to start the preparations for getting his life back. He needed to come at them with more than, “I’m out of jail and I’m just hanging out at the Y not doing shit with my life.” Dollar had to stop staring at the ceiling and make a move.
    Dollar went into the communal bathhouse at the Y and got himself cleaned up. He spent $33.54 on some clothing items he picked up from a local thrift store. He pieced together an “I’m looking for a job” ensemble that consisted of a tan pair of khakis and a white three-button Henley. He roped a husky brown belt around his waist that was the same shade of brown as his boots. Dollar armed himself with the $54.67 he had left and the list of job contacts Ed had given him, and copped a ride on the city bus to the first address on the list.
    Dollar hit the buzzer for the driver to stop the bus and let him off at the next stop. He walked a couple of blocks down Oak Street before he came to the address he was in search of.
    â€œI’m looking for Redd,” Dollar said to the group of men hanging outside, in the cold, of the worn down–looking building that had a hand-painted sign that read WORK FOR A DAY .
    The men pointed Dollar toward a double glass door. As he walked through the doors he could see, through the reflection, a few of the men screwing up their mugs at him. No one said it aloud, but those whom he managed to make contact with during his inquiry gave him that “yeah, that nigga just got out the joint” look. People saw a buff dude and automatically assumed he been locked up. Although Dollar looked as though he had been in the World Gym training for the Schwarzenegger Classic, the men were correct in their unspoken assumptions.
    â€œAre you Redd?” Dollar asked the biker type–lookin’ redneck sitting behind one of the two cluttered desks that were in the office.
    â€œI am,” the man answered. “You come for work?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Dollar said.
    The man laughed and replied, “No need for that ‘sir’ shit. This ain’t IBM or nothing like that. Next thing I know you’ll be handing me a resume.”
    Redd immediately handed Dollar a stack of papers to fill out. He informed Dollar that it was just some general liability waivers and whatnot. Redd gave Dollar a clipboard and a pen and invited him to have a seat.
    â€œCan you read?” Redd asked Dollar.
    â€œExcuse me?” Dollar said.
    â€œCan you read?”
    â€œWhat the fuck kind of question is that?” Dollar said, taking offense. “A black man walk up in here for a job and you think he can’t read?”
    â€œWhoa!” Red exclaimed. “Slow down, brotha. Homeless men and white men with a first-grade education come up in here for jobs and can’t read, or write for that matter. They get embarrassed and they run out of here and miss out on making money that could have afforded them their next meal. I hired Kera to help out those types. She reads and completes the paperwork for them. That’s all I’m saying.”
    Dollar, feeling a little salty, apologized to Redd. “That’s good looking on helping out cats on the streets and those fresh out of the joint.” Dollar proceeded to complete the paperwork one sheet after another. As he completed the final page, which was more so biographical information, a soft aroma filled the air. Redd’s Benson and Hedges menthol light smoke odor had been superseded by JLo’s Glow, which was similar in scent to the Night Queen oil Dollar’s mother would always wear.
    Dollar looked up at the sweet young thing who was walking over to the second cluttered desk that sat behind Redd’s. Ma had it going on. She was a soft, yellow-toned, petite flower. She wore her hair in a natural, curly bob that could have very well been a wet and wavy weave. She had a medium-sized frame with a chunky