C.R.E.A.M

I do my absolute best to avoid returning home to Staten Island. Let’s be honest, if it is so appealing why is it free to get there by public transportation yet extremely expensive to pass through unless you have a residential EZ-Pass. I also do my best to suppress any association I have with New York’s former landfill. At most, you’ve probably heard about its escalating drug-overdose crisis, flawed system that unlawfully killed Eric Garner, and Pete Davidson’s wish that the Island just “fell into the sea”. Given the whole COVID situation and my college deciding to kick out broke students who really, really, REALLY don’t want to go home, I was left with no better option. It’s not like I don’t love my family or anything. They’re okay but they’re also Indian, which means I will be losing every right I have to go outside without answering “who, what, when, where, why, how long” before, after, and during every milli-second I spend outside our house. Prolonging going home by blaming our unreliable bus system seemed like the better option to enjoy my last few moments of freedom. As I got off the S51, I planned nothing more than to just sit on a bench at South Beach boardwalk while trying not to convince myself that dying of hypothermia would be better than going back home. I lugged my mud stained, creaky wheeled, BTS themed suitcase past the dolphin statues and made my way to the empty gazebo overlooking the ocean.

In between the crashing sounds of waves and hungry seagulls, I heard the swift noise of a small black book making a one-way trip to the bottom of the ocean. As an avid journal writer, I can imagine whoever left it was probably in a fit of panic over losing the memories and emotions laced within the pages. I dashed over to grab the book before it fell over and brought it back to its rightful spot like the good Samaritan I am. I saved someone’s private property and the environment from littering. I’m a good person and good people respect privacy. That’s why I didn’t open the book. The wind just flipped a few pages on its own. Something was bulging out and for public safety’s sake I had to take a little tiny peak at what it was. These are the lies I will tell myself and anyone else who asks me how I learned of this book’s contents. To be fair, my life isn’t that exciting! I’m just wallowing in self-pity every day over being ghosted by the love of my life. All my journal entries include hypothesizing why or writing out motivational quotes a hundred times to remind me that my worth is defined by me, myself and I only. I can’t help being seduced by the opportunity to have anything interesting happen. Also, as a South Asian, being nosy is in my DNA. I took a small peak in the back flap of the book and get ready for this...I found money!

Not just like a dollar or two. I’m talking about a huge stash. A huge, gigantic, enormous stack of money. $20,000 to be exact. No joke. I counted it at least fifteen times. I searched up how to check if the money was counterfeit. I even got up and looked at the bench to see if there were any hallucinogens lying around that I may have accidentally inhaled. To think, I out of all people would find a little black Moleskin book with $20,000 stuffed in it! There was only one thing to do. Return the book to its rightful owner. The problem with that plan was that there wasn’t a single indication of who the owner was. I settled on calling my sister. She’s twenty-six years old and old people are supposed to know what to do.

“Use that money to fix my car.” she said.

“I am not using the money I just found to fix your car!”

“Considering how much you slam my car door even when I tell you not to, It’s a fair compensation.”

“Maybe I’ll donate it.”

“Donate it to yourself. You need that money too.”

It’s true. I do need this money. At the same time, there’s also so many better uses for it. I could donate to the Black Lives Matter movement, water for Texas, toilet paper for COVID, or help keep GameStop stocks up to fight the hedge funds. I’ve been broke my whole life. I’m used to not having the latest tech and buying discounted Ugg’s off eBay. BTS isn’t touring either.

“Hey, there’s some writing on here. I’ll call you later. ”

There was a little scribble on the last page of the black book stating, “If you use this any other way than I intend you to, expect a $20,000 bill in your name.” Any respect I had for the person who left this money just vanished. How the hell am I supposed to know how this person wants me to use their money? Is there a universal rule book on the right and wrong uses of money? How do I pay the goon back if I use it the wrong way? I don’t even have a credit card. I could use it to hire a private investigator to find the jerk who ghosted me. Maybe the owner wants me to pay the state of Virginia off for my speeding ticket and thirty hours of community service I’m forced to do because speeding is apparently a misdemeanor there. Why am I so caught up in what another person I don’t even know wants me to do? Oh right, because I’ll have to pay a sum four years of work study won't ever cover. I wish I had the power to understand people. How cool of a superpower would that be? Someone please make a store where you can go buy superpowers. I can invest. I flipped through the pages again for any other hints. There was one more line that I missed. “ You have thirty minutes to make your decision.”

As if this wasn’t already weird enough. How does this creep even know the time I opened this book up? The entire boardwalk is empty. It’s so quiet here that I could get abducted, and no one would know about it. I wonder if this is how they make those 20/20 specials. Watch tomorrow’s headline be “Beautiful 19-Year-Old College Student With Luscious Hair Found Dead in Park With Black Book and $20,000”? Or probably just a black book because whoever finds me will most likely steal that money. I could be on a prank cam! Maybe there’s an Impractical Joker hiding around here. Getting up and looking around would only make me look suspicious. I can’t bury it. I can’t hide it. I video-called my sister again.

“Before you say anything, Its not going to your car.”

“Fine. I don’t want your stupid money anyway.” she yelled over the music blasting behind her.

“What are you listening to?”

“Wu Tang sis! The iconic song C.R.E.A.M, get the money. Dollar, dollar bill. ”

“You’re listening to a song about paying for whipped cream?” I asked with every ounce of honest confusion.

“You’re getting a good slap in the face when I see you. C-R-E-A-M. Cash rules everything around me. It’s about how chasing cash is the only way to survive but doesn’t make you happy. They’re saying it’s better to just let go of money than to let your love for it rule your life. Wu Tang is the pride of Shitten Island sis.”

With an eye roll and fifty shades of judgement spread across her face, she shook her head in disappointment and hung up. Insults aside, I think my sister unknowingly gave me the solution to my problem. Nowhere in this book does it say that I specifically have to use the money. It’s for whoever finds it. I don’t want to be held accountable for money that isn’t mine. It’s $20,000 and quick, easy money that could really help me out. The offer is lucrative, but I would rather just make my own money no matter how long it takes to do as much good with it as I want. I don’t love money enough to be a slave to it or its owner.

Wu Tang is right. Cash does rule everything around me, but I’m not going to let it rule me.