Multiplication

It was our high school's only fundraiser and it was a big deal. Students canvassed the entire city with their books of raffle tickets, hungry for sales. They were everywhere, at convenience stores, outside supermarkets, in bowling alleys, at the malls, waving their books of tickets calling, “A buck a piece or six for five.”

People bought lots, most took the six for five option.

A man who had bought only one ticket from me won the big prize. Twenty thousand big. A neighbor of mine, kids grown and gone. “I don’t need the money,” he said, “so I’ve decided to multiply it.”

“Multiply it?” I said.

“Anyone who has lived for a while has some people they’ve wronged. I’ll use this money to right a few of those wrongs.”

He took the check from the school, which I got to present to him, and cashed it, asking the teller for twenty one thousand dollar bills. Next, he went to the stationary store and bought a small black notebook with good quality paper.

The next day, armed with the bills, his black book, a pen and twenty small printed cards with his phone number on them, he headed to the downtown bus station.

Sitting on a bench near the departure doors, he turned toward a middle-aged man who was carrying a small beat-up backpack.

“Hi, where are you headed?”

The backpack carrier looked, paused and said slowly, ``Indianapolis, looking for work.”

“Would a thousand dollar bill help you?” The man said, bill and card in hand.

The man drew back. “What? Is this some kind of scam? Get away from me!”

“No, no, I thought you could use it...in a good way.”

“What do you want?”

“To help, that’s all. If you accept this bill, a year from now, call the phone number on the card and let me know how this gift helped you.”

“Naa, get away from me.”

Rejection is hard, even when trying to do good.

He wrote in his notebook:

Rejected: middle aged man with back-pack, bus station.

A little while later sitting on a different bench in the bus station, he turned toward a man in a plaid shirt, early twenties maybe, and asked, “Where ‘ya headed?”

The younger man turned, looking thoughtful. “Somewhere out west, I need to make a new start.”

“Would this help?” The older man said proffering one of the bills and a card.

“What’s the catch? The plaid-shirted man said.

“The card has a phone number on it, call the number in a year and let me know how you are doing.”

“For a grand, I can do that.” Looking down at the card and the bill he said, “There’s no name on it, just a phone number.”

“It’s alright. See if you can do some good with it that’s all.”

Later he wrote in his little black book:

Accepted: young man, plaid shirt, bus station.

Next the Multiplier took a bus to a park in the middle of the city. It was midday, the park was busy. Sitting down on a bench, he began reading a newspaper, looking over the top for opportunities.

A young woman came into view pushing a baby carriage and hanging on to the arm of a wiggling toddler. Sitting down on a nearby bench, she looked careworn. He got up and approached her slowly.

“Hello, may I sit down?” He said, tipping his hat.

She nodded cautiously.

He looked her in the eye and said, “Would a thousand dollar bill help you right now?

Her head swiveled. “More than you know.”

Holding a bill and a card, he said, “I have one for you. If you accept, a year from now, call the phone number on the card and let me know how this helped you.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” he said, holding out the card and the bill.

She hesitated, keeping an eye on the energetic toddler running in circles around the baby carriage in front of them. “I don't even know your name.”

“And I don’t know yours.”

Accepted: Woman with infant and toddler in park.

One year and eighteen more donations later, eleven people called the number.

“I’m not available now, please leave your message.”

The callers left their messages on the answering machine.

Some had used the money to pay bills, two of the callers had used the gift to start a small business, one a hot dog stand, the other a newspaper stall. Some said they had given what they didn’t need to others. A couple callers even admitted they blew it.

The man who authored the little black book had died on the one year anniversary of the start of his donations. His son emptying out his father’s house was bewildered by the strange messages on his Father’s answering machine.

Later, the son found the black notebook. It contained more than a hundred numbered entries, each with a short description of a person and a location, each notated, ‘accepted’ or ‘rejected.’

He looked at it not understanding but decided to keep it with his Father’s other mementos.