Face Value

I thought she was the one, yet we had never even been out on a date. It was 2015 and the last night of my sophomore year at the University of Washington when I met Madison. I had a long talk with her at a party, and I thought I would like to spend the rest of my life with her.

Unfortunately, I made two mistakes: I didn’t get her last name, and when I entered her phone number into my cell phone, I accidentally deleted her number. I tried to find her but without success. She had just graduated, and I was going to Germany for my junior year. I went to the Goethe University Frankfurt and lived near my parents, who were stationed at Ramstein Air Base. My father was a chief sergeant in the US Air Force, and my mom was fighting Stage III breast cancer.

Two years later, I graduated from the University of Washington with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Drama. I wanted to move to Los Angeles in order to get my big break as an actor. My folks gave me some money, and I drove my 2003 Ford Focus from Seattle to Los Angeles with all my possessions. I hardly knew anyone in LA, but I did have a good friend there, Alex Nowak, who was working on getting backing for his film. He lived in the community of Los Feliz, which was near Hollywood, and had a room for rent in the three-bedroom house that he and another fellow, Carlos Lopez, were leasing.

During the day, I auditioned for acting roles. At night, I worked as a security guard in a large office building on Wilshire Boulevard. For ten months, I auditioned for parts in movies, television, and commercials without any luck. The only part I was able to get was a walk on role, without any lines, for a community theater production. I started to have serious second thoughts about acting as a career and was feeling like a failure.

About that time, Carlos and his friends took me to an art opening in a large gallery in West Hollywood. We had to check our bags when we came in, and I exchanged my blue backpack for a yellow ticket as I entered the gallery. The place was crowded. A sea of people, wall-to-wall, was chatting away, sipping wine, eating the food, and occasionally looking at the artwork. We were there for 15 minutes when Carlos got bored and said he wanted to go to a party a few blocks away.

We were heading to the entrance of the gallery when I realized that I had lost my yellow ticket. I was on the verge of panicking. The backpack contained a little Moleskine leather notebook with pages of notes on the roles that I was auditioning for, including names, addresses, dates, times, etc. Also, to help me get into character, I had written short biographies about some of the roles.

I explained to the attendant that I had lost my ticket. He was so overwhelmed with the bags and coats coming and going over the counter that he had little time for me.

“What color is your backpack?” he asked.

“Blue,” I replied.

I could see on the shelves behind the attendant and there were two to choose from.

He asked, “Can you describe what is inside the backpack?”

“Sure. A purple University of Washington sweatshirt and a little black book,” I said.

He looked inside the bag closest to him and yanked out a purple University of Washington sweatshirt and black book. He quickly looked at the items and stuffed them back in the bag.

“Here you go,” he said. He handed me the backpack, and without pausing for a second, he was taking a yellow ticket from the next person in line.

Carlos and I got home at 1:30 a.m., and we were exhausted. I brushed my teeth and went straight to bed.

The next morning, I pulled the purple University of Washington sweatshirt out and discovered that the sweatshirt was not mine. I wear a size large, and the sweatshirt inside the bag was a small. The night before was so warm that I did not need to wear the sweatshirt. The backpack had a black Moleskine book like mine, and at the bottom was a plastic bag containing women’s gym clothes. I started to panic as I realized that it was not my backpack.

I pulled out the little black book and looked inside. I flipped through a few pages and saw drawings. There was no name on or inside of the book. Based on the notes and drawings, I guessed the owner was an author of children’s books.

I remembered that my book did have my name written inside. However, it had my old Seattle cell phone number, with the 206-area code. I had switched to LA’s 213-area code a few months ago.

I called the art gallery, and they did not have any backpacks. I asked them to call me if someone returned my blue backpack.

I stepped into the kitchen to see Alex typing away on his laptop. I explained to him that I was trying to find out who the owner of the notebook was and how to contact her.

Alex flipped through the book and said, “Did you notice the last few pages are stuck together? Someone might have added a small, secret compartment using glue and a utility knife.”

I asked, “Can you open it?”

“I’ll try,” Alex said. He felt around and gently pulled. He opened the compartment. Inside it was a $5,000 bill, in excellent condition, with a portrait of James Madison. The bill fit perfectly within a rectangular box cut in the last pages of the black book. The box was fastened with two small, magnetic, metal strips.

Alex gazed at the bill for a moment, then he turned back to his laptop and did a web search for “$5,000 bill.” He said, “It says here that Madison was the fourth US President. The $5,000 bills were taken out of circulation in 1969 when President Nixon was trying to fight money laundering. There are only a few hundred of these bills left.”

Alex turned to me and said, “Hand me the tweezers from the bathroom. They’re in the middle drawer of the vanity.”

I went to the bathroom and got the tweezers. I handed them to Alex, and he delicately lifted the bill out. Underneath, there was another bill. Alex pulled four $5,000 bills, in uncirculated condition, out of the hidden compartment in the black book.

“Wow! There is $20,000 here!” I exclaimed.

Alex said, “On face value. If you take these bills to a bank, they will accept them as $20,000.”

Alex pointed to his laptop screen and said, “However, since these Madison’s are so rare and in excellent condition, they are worth a lot more to a currency collector. According to this website, the value is between $100,000 to $200,000 for each bill.”

“That’s unbelievable! You mean together they are worth $400,000 to $800,000?”

“Roughly. Could be more.”

The idea of keeping the money went through my head. I wanted to get my old black book and the sweatshirt back, but I could buy a lot of new notebooks and sweatshirts with the money.

I looked at the clean, crisp bills for a moment. Then, I felt a heaviness in my stomach. I wetted my lips, took a deep breath, and said, “Can we find the owner of the money using the information from the black book? I need to return the money.”

“Are you serious?” asked Alex. “You want to want to walk away from this kind of money? Hey, do you want to finance my film? I just need $120,000. It is high concept surfing film and will bring in a crowd. You could triple your investment. Minimum.”

“Sorry Alex. If someone found my money, I would want them to return it. As the Golden Rule says, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ In this world, with so many bad events and bad people, it is the right thing to do.”

“Well, maybe you can get on the TV news or media. ‘The Good Samaritan Actor!’” Alex said, and he extended his hands towards me as if I was a prize on a game show.

Then Alex said, “I’ll send you a list of websites where you can search for what you need. You might want to search the written phrases in the book and see if they appear in any published children’s books.”

After my night shift as a security guard, I came back home and searched the internet looking for the children’s book author. After a couple hours of searching, I came across an author named Penelope Rose. I could not find much information about Penelope, nor a photo. I contacted the publisher of the book she wrote, and he scheduled a meeting for us to exchange our backpacks and their contents the next day in the art gallery in West Hollywood.

I arrived at the art gallery a few minutes early. Suddenly, there she was—Madison from the University of Washington! She was as beautiful as I remembered her at the party three years before!

Madison smiled and said, “Hi Stranger. How are you?”

I smiled back and said, “I’m good. I’m delighted to see you! I meant to call you, but I accidentally deleted your cell phone number.”

Madison said, “Technology can be frustrating at times. I was hoping to continue our conversation.”

“Maybe we can do that over dinner. Do you work here or are you buying art?” I asked.

“I help out on big events. My friend’s parents own this art gallery.”

“Oh, that’s great! I do have a bit of business here. I am looking for Penelope Rose.”

Madison smiled and said, “In certain circles, I am Penelope Rose—that is my pen name.”

I smiled and said, “Interesting. Why did you choose that type of rose, the Penelope Rose, as a pen name?”

“‘A rose is a rose’ as Shakespeare wrote. I like having the name ‘rose’ as part of my pseudonym.”

“Certainly ‘Penelope’ has special value?”

“Yes. It denotes a certain combination of playful and sophistication.”

Madison looked down at the backpack I was holding and said, “Speaking of value, I do appreciate you returning my gym clothes and notebook. I have your backpack behind the counter.”

“Well,” I said, “as I have learned, ‘a notebook is not just a notebook’ and ‘a $5,000 bill is not just a $5,000 bill.’”

“Yes, I did make an alteration to the back of the book.” Madison said. I could see a bit of flushness creep into her cheeks. “I have a snooping housemate and needed to keep my father’s collection safe. I was meeting a collector of rare currency the day of the art opening and happened to have the bills and notebook in my backpack.”

She reached out a hand towards the bag.

I paused for a moment. I felt a wave of anxiety as I considered the fact that I was handing over a fortune. I gradually lifted up the backpack and handed it to her. I said, “All is safe. You might want to use a security deposit box next time.”

Madison took the backpack and leaned toward me. She said, “You can share all your security tips over dinner. I should give you a reward for returning the Madison’s.”

She smiled and asked, “How about $20,000?”

I leaned back and said, “I am not sure. Depends on the bills you are going to give to me.”