Some Dignity

How this modest yet altogether boastful slip of soft off-white paper got into my hands is not entirely clear: Roland slipped it into my back pant pocket as he was, not necessarily copping a feel, but basically that. Mind you, I had only known Roland for about 35 minutes, and within this 35-minute window of getting to know Roland Something-something, Borbabeaux? Barberino? I remember it sounding French or like a pizzeria, but I remember him telling me all these things about himself, like how he’s 54-years old and a lawyer, has three kids my age, has a predilection for Brazilian jiu-jitsu, calls it his “bliss,” is an international backgammon grandmaster, whatever that means, and adores the films of Jacques Demy, all these tidbits of information that I just honestly didn’t really care to know about because I was trying to pay attention to the musical talent performing in front of, not just us, but at least a thousand other people, which is sort of why we were all gathered at this venue in the first place: to listen to music, because it was, after all, a musical festival (pre-pandemic, ca. 2019). I only looked past the copping a feel because there was no way I was going to miss out on Nat and Alex Wolff and also because I had guzzled my way through 2 tequila zombies (4 oz. tequila, 2 oz. apricot brandy, 2 oz. vodka, 4 oz. grapefruit juice, 4 oz. pineapple juice, and lime to taste), so I couldn’t exactly feel it. In fact, I don’t even quite remember when it happened or if it did? I only just assumed because I found this slip of paper in my back pant pocket a week later upon folding the laundry.

On the front of the paper, written in red ink read: Call Me! Roland/. On the backside was a phone number with only 6 digits and no area code, along with the login credentials of a Bitcoin wallet holding exactly $20,000 worth of Bitcoin. I knew there was this amount exactly because I checked.

I haven’t made the decision to transfer the money into my own account because… well, for starters: why?

$20,000 seems too steep an amount to be receiving without there being some Faustian consequence, not necessarily dealing with souls or damnation, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t something sexual. Which then gets me to think: I know for a fact that I want that $20,000. And I know for certain I would do something for that $20,000, but I’m just not entirely sure where I’d draw the line.

Also, I recall Roland B’dabignon-something being not drunk. Quite the contrary: before I had downed the tequila zombies, I remember him proudly bragging how he was 13 years sober, showed the chip and all (similar to the one my dad had a year before he relapsed and died by suicide). I remember this because it came across as condescending. Now that I look back on it—yeah, it kind of was condescending, to go to a music festival where drinking is as second nature as listening to the music is, only to tell those around you that you’re this many years sober. I mention this though because that means he surely had to have made a conscious effort, of sound mind and body (remember, he's got a predilection for Brazilian jiu-jitsu), to slip that piece of paper into my back pocket. And I do remember him taking out that small black notebook from his breast pocket, flipping to the back with the perforated pages, writing for what seemed like longer than a minute, tore out the slip, and then must've gave me the ol' reach around.

Oh, what the hell. I clicked my way through the necessary procedures, waited a few days for the transfer to complete, and suddenly found myself $20,000 wealthier. I wasn’t sure how I felt. On one hand, I got ahead of myself, began planning just how I’d spend the money. On the other hand, I was afraid of the repercussions. So to be cautious, I thought I’d just keep it sitting for a while, and if Roland found me, threatening to sue, I’d transfer it all back without hesitation and apologize.

Well, this was 50 years ago and Roland must be dead by now, so I have decided to finally use the money to refurbish my bathroom and kitchen.

But then the oddest thing: while I finished watching the last of the rubber cement dry between the forest green tiles, I received a text notification from a number with only 6 digits.

“Is a blowjob really cheating? Gettin a nice bath. What u doing?”