$12.04

There's exactly $12.04 in change in my desk drawer. I know because I counted it, coin by coin, making cute little $1.00 stacks. First it was the quarters, then the dimes, then the bastardized collections of various coins that equalled $1.00. Then there was the measley four cents at the end, sad and pathetic pennies that have no purpose anymore, except to smell like rust and blood and to take up space that could be better used by bigger, shinier coins. But hey, get enough of those little guys together and by god, you can actually buy something. Pack of gum, a newspaper, maybe even a two-liter bottle of soda (the cheap store brand, of course). My sisters and I used to buy gas with pennies, at Fred's Gas-For-Less in Hubbard, dirty ziploc bags full of the little buggers (pre-counted, of course; we weren't completely wicked). Poor old Fred always took them without objection, before time marched on and made his li'l one-pump operation obsolete. All it took was one BP Station, strategically placed about a quarter of a mile up the street, and Fred's was history. I imagine he went into his house and put a shotgun barrel into his mouth the day he closed up shop for good, but maybe I'm romanticizing things a bit. We never saw Fred again, let's leave it at that. I dunno, maybe he cashed in all those pennies and went on permanent holiday someplace warm.

I sometimes think of Fred and wonder who he was when he wasn't pumping gas into my ugly little white Ford Pinto (or later, my yellow Volkswagen Bug). Did he have hobbies? Did he have a wife? Did he have a fake leg from World War II? I seem to recall a bit of a limp…. In any case, who was he? And then, when my mind starts down that path, I start thinking of other people I've known throughout my life (or, more pointedly, haven't known), and realize how cursory my knowledge of them actually was. Teachers, coworkers, landlords, casual friends…. Who the hell were they? What did they do when they weren't crossing paths with me? What were their dreams, ambitions, tastes, fears? Did they rent or own? Did they like polka music (hopefully not)? Who was their favorite Beatle? Were they gay (statistics suggest one out of every ten of them were)? Did they harbor murderous thoughts about anyone? Me?

Dear God, did Fred hate me for paying for my gas in pennies? Would he have clubbed me with a tire iron, given half a chance?

Back to the here and now. I have nothing whatsoever to do today. I had about thirteen minutes worth of work when I started at 8:30. Then, at promptly 8:43, I took on the daunting task of rearranging my paperclips and binder clips. And then…. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch. And sadly, this is the normal state of affairs here. I'm one of a team of eight child support enforcement agents, and the other seven seem to stay relatively busy. All feedback indicates that I'm doing fine; all my work gets done, and my collections number range from satisfactory to excellent. So what the hell? Why am I perpetually caught up with everything? Am I really that efficient, that masterful? Or are the other seven just retarded?

I dunno. In any case, I'm bored outta my skull. Every. Single. Day.

I'm gonna go cash in my change during my lunch hour. If I don't, I'll just end up counting it again as soon as I add more change to it. Hell, I'll count it again even if I don't, just to fill time. Where's Fred with that tire iron when I really need him?