Analytics

The two stacks of bills were so small, so seemingly inconsequential, she almost walked right by them. Each stack was only a half an inch high, and they were so incredibly crisp and flat, with a strip of paper around each one, that they seemed more like currency from a newly-opened board game than real money. But there they were, two straps of crisp one hundred dollar bills, sitting smack-dab in the middle of the little round table. Who would leave that much money just laying there in a coffee shop like that? Was it a prank?

Crystal looked around intently, a large latte in her hand and a fashionable leather purse slung over her shoulder. She’d seen television shows where people were made to look stupid, with hidden cameras zooming in on their dumbstruck faces as they contemplated whether or not to take the bait. She didn’t want to be one of those people, so she tried to stay nonchalant. But she didn’t see anything -- or anyone -- suspicious, and she couldn’t imagine where someone might have placed hidden cameras. She wracked her brain, trying to think of the appropriate action to take - the responsible thing to do -- just in case she was actually being recorded. Her mind raced as she stood there next to the table, scanning for any possible sign that this was a set-up.

“Excuse me, miss” a young man’s voice interjected, snapping her out of her trance. He was wearing a green apron and wielded a wet rag. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he continued, “but I wouldn’t keep that money laying around like that, if I were you. You might want to put it in your purse or something.”

Crystal took a seat at the table. “Yes, right. Of course.” She gave him half a smile, and he nodded back at her before continuing to the next table, wiping down the surface. Crystal deftly scoops up both stacks of bills with one hand. Before she drops the bills into her purse, she glances at the tight fitting paper band indicating the amount of each stack: $10,000. It takes all of her will to resist the urge to look around again. Instead, she takes out a ballpoint pen and a little black book from her purse.

She thumbs through the pages. They’re filled with hand-drawn charts and columns of data. This was Crystal’s life: she was obsessed with data analysis. What others would consider obsessive-compulsive, Crystal considered a blessing. She was able to parse every situation, every decision, into bite-sized data sets that could then be compared and contrasted. She had filled up hundreds of these little black books in her lifetime, and they occupied a sacred spot on her bookshelf. To her, the columns and charts told the story of her life, like a diary that really only she could understand.

She wrote the date in the top right corner of the page, and then a number on the heading, centered and underlined for emphasis: 20,000. Then she started furiously scribbling down other numbers, making quick calculations in her head:

1650 x 12 = 19,800

350 x 28 = 9,800

6,800 + 2,400 = 9,200

20,000 / 5 = 4000 / 365 = 11

The calculations each represented a possibility. With twenty thousand dollars, she could pay her rent for a year. Or she could pay off the lien on her car and her credit cards. She could buy a large latte every day for the next 11 years. There were so many ways she could use twenty thousand dollars, and the calculations continued to pour from her pen, filling up the page.

Suddenly she stopped writing. What if the money is counterfeit? Or, what if it was fake money for a film? She lived in LA, after all. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself, and she would hate for some poor prop guy to get fired, so she closed her book, popped it back into her purse, fished out a single hundred dollar bill from one of the stacks, then approached the barista at the register.

“Excuse me. Do you have change for a hundred,” she said, offering the bill to the barista. If it was a fake, it certainly looked real!

“No problem,” the barista replied. She punched a button on the register, and the door swung open. She grabbed a fat black marker and quickly swiped it across the face of the bill, making a faint yellow mark. Then she slid the bill under the cash tray.

“Twenties OK?” the barista asked. Crystal breathed a sigh of relief. In that moment, she realized that if the money had in fact been fake, she might have been in serious trouble. Would the cops have bought her story that she found twenty thousand dollars of counterfeit money sitting on a table in a cafe? Probably not. Even if it was movie money, she could have been arrested. So much for keeping my cool!

“Sure. Twenties are perfect,” Crystal said, a little annoyed that she’d been so quick to do something potentially reckless. She’d never been one to take risks, and her fortuitous find was already affecting her judgement. Crystal grabbed the twenties, slid them into her pocketbook, and headed back to her table; she had some more calculations to make.

She opened her book again, turning to a new page. She dated the top again, then started tapping her pen on the page, trying to think of a heading. Finally, she scrawled on the top, in all caps: HAPPINESS. Below the heading, she began to write a list:

Rent

Car Payments

Utilities

Student Loans

A photo safari in Kenya

A yoga retreat

A new television

An exercise bike

Coffee for a year

IRA Investment

As the list grew, she had to think harder for each entry. By the time she filled up the page, she was pretty sure she had exhausted the list of things that she might want to spend the money on. Now came phase two. She started at the top of the list, and attempted to indicate the amount of happiness each item on the list would provide.

She crossed off the first four things on the list. They were all essential payments, and she already had the money to pay for those things -- so the extra money in her bank account would just go to something else on the list anyway. So the first real item on the list was a photo safari in Kenya. With twenty grand, she could have quite the trip, and could probably buy some killer camera equipment to take with her. She’d been fantasizing about a trip like that for years. But would it increase her overall level of happiness? She suspected that it would; travel and experiences always seemed like a worthwhile expense, and she’s never regretted spending money on leisure travel. But there was something nagging her about the thought of spending her newfound treasure on a dream vacation. She tapped her pen on the page again.

Finally, she crossed that one out, too, along with the yoga retreat and the other trips she had jotted down. She decided there was a certain satisfaction to knowing that your vacations were earned, but randomly finding pile of cash doesn’t exactly count as hard-earned! That left the material goods, and there were quite a few of them on her list. Buying a new exercise bike or TV could certainly bring happiness… But there was something still bothering her.

She crossed off everything else on the list, scribbled a single word at the bottom of the page, then shut her little black book with newfound resolve. She strode out of the coffee shop, crossed the street, and made her way down the block. Near the corner was a bus stop, where she studied the signage -- but there was no timetable. An older man with a cane was sitting on a bench, looking straight ahead, lost in his thoughts.

“Excuse me sir,” Crystal said, a little louder than she might have to a younger gentleman. He looked up and grinned at her. “Do you know what time the next bus arrives?”

He slowly pulled back his sleeve and studied his watch. “It was supposed to be here four minutes ago. So I guess any minute now.” He looked up at Crystal, clearly thrilled that someone had spoken to him. “Here it comes right now. You’re just in time!” Crystal offered the old man an arm as he got to his feet and approached the curb with his cane.

She followed the man onto the bus and reached into her pocketbook for some singles to feed into the fare collector. The man took a card out of his pocket and tapped the screen by the driver, and it beeped and a light turned green. Crystal didn’t see anywhere to drop coins or insert cash. She looked up at the driver, a bit embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I haven’t ridden the bus in years. Can I pay with cash?”

“I’m afraid not. We got rid of our cash systems a while back. You can purchase a fare card at one of the kiosks across the street. The next bus is about 10 minutes behind me. You can catch that one.”

“OK, thanks,” Crystal said, starting back down the steps. The driver recognized the tiniest bit of resignation in Crystal’s voice. “Where you headed?” she continued. Crystal looked up at her, a glint of hope.

“Just a few stops,” Crystal said.

“Hop on,” the driver said. She hit a button on her console which made the screen beep and the light turn green. The bus was mostly empty, and Crystal found a seat a few rows in front of the old man, who was staring out the window. The bus lurched forward down the road, and Crystal looked out the window too.

In fact, she had never taken the bus in LA before. A few seconds later, the bus passed Crystal’s car parked in one of the metered spots on the road. She opened her purse and took out her little black book and the two stacks of bills. She opened the book to the page where she’d left off. At the bottom of the page she had written the word “luck.”

She had decided in the coffee shop that she had been lucky to find the money, but that luck would not bring her happiness. She was already happy. She turned the page, and began to write again - her penmanship suffering from the swaying of the bus, but legible nonetheless:

I hope this can bring you happiness. If not, please pass it along.

She tore the page out of her book, cringing slightly. She had never torn a page out of any of her books before, but this was warranted. She folded the paper in half, then slid it carefully under the paper band encircling the 99 bills; with the absence of the hundred dollar bill, there was just enough space for her note. Then, she placed the two stacks on the seat beside her and pulled the cord next to the window to request a stop.

As she departed the bus, she waved to the old man, who smiled from ear to ear, and she thanked the driver graciously. It was about a half a mile walk back to her car, but she had a feeling she would enjoy every minute of it.