The root of all evil

The numbers meant little to him. What did they say it was? $400,000? It didn't really matter. The bills lay before him in disarray like someone had dumped a pile of leaves on the bed. As he ran his hands under and scooped the money up, it almost didn't feel real. He let the bills fall lifeless on the covers. A few cascaded down and onto the floor, mingling with the others that were there.

What he noticed the most was the smell. It was a musty odor that was unique to all the others. Some of the bills were new and crisp. Others looked like they had been in places that he didn't want to think about. But they all had the same smell. Somehow it permeated through everything. It was like it had its own pheromones, attracting to it the right being - one who would mate with it and cause it to multiply and grow.

But it wasn't meant to be. Not for him. The money held no lustful desire, no longing, no need to be accumulated and stashed away like a priceless antique. For him, it was just paper. A means to an end. He picked up a bill and held it out in front of him. A flick of the thumb ignited the lighter in his other hand. As the small flame caught the corner on fire, he pulled the lighter away and watched the paper burn. The face of the dead president stared back with unwavering attention as it was charred and disfigured by the heat. He dropped the bill into the ashtray next to the hotel bed and watched until only ash remained.

"Easy come, easy go," he whispered.

He grabbed the blue duffel bag that lay next to the bed and quietly stuffed all the money back inside. Leaving a one hundred dollar bill on the pillow, he opened the door and softly closed it behind him. He walked to the elevator and pushed the up button and waited. A soft ding preceded the opening of the doors. A young man in a stiff, red uniform stood inside.

"Going up?" he asked.

"That was the button I pushed," the man replied.

The boy cursed at the guest in his mind, but made no display of his annoyance as he politely asked, "Which floor?"

"Penthouse," the man said.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the penthouse is for registered guests only."

The man pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the young man.

"Thank you for registering," he said as he pushed the button for the top floor.

The elevator smoothly rose higher and higher as the bell dinged for each floor they passed. The man watched the green numbers change on the screen from 48 to 49 to PH for penthouse. With a barely perceptible bump, the elevator stopped and the doors opened to a large entry way.

"Have a nice stay," the young man said. "Just don't stay too long before the registered guests get here."

"Don't worry," the man said. "I'll be gone before they arrive."

The doors quietly closed and the man was left in the room alone. He walked over to the large sliding doors that led to the outside balcony. The wind rushed past him as he opened the doors. He could hear the sounds of the city flowing up from below. Looking down, he saw the cars and people moving around like small ants. Unzipping the duffel bag, he pulled out one bill and let it go into the air. It floated slowly down, spinning uncontrollably in the wind. It took several minutes before it finally hit the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. He smiled slightly as it only took a few seconds for someone to see it and pick it up. They looked around quickly and then stuffed it into their pocket before continuing on their way.

"Now for some fun," he said as he picked up the open duffel bag and dumped the contents into the air. Like confetti, the money spilled out and drifted on the currents. One by one the bills hit the street, cars, people and everything else. As they saw the money everywhere, everyone quickly ran to grab what they could. Cars screeched to a halt as pedestrians darted in front of traffic to snatch another fifty. One vehicle didn't stop quick enough and the lady bounced off the window shield, cracking it and her at the same time. Another two grabbed for a twenty at the same time and a fist fight ensued, leaving one bloody and the other $20 richer. Within only a few minutes, pandemonium had set in and what at first seemed like a gift from heaven turned into a riot.

The man watched the scene below with hardly a spark of emotion in his eyes. Then, with resolution coming across his face, he stepped up onto the railing. He looked one more time to the chaos beneath him and then stepped off. As he fell, he thought of all the people below that would forget the money as they looked at the bloody and mangled body on the street. The windows rushed past him and within a few more seconds he hit the concrete below.

The next day the headlines told of a bank that was robbed. Clear pictures showed the man that held up the teller and demanded money from the vault. In another column it had an image of the same man dead in front of the 5-star hotel downtown. The bank was trying to collect the money that was distributed from the top floor of the hotel, but no one came forward. Soon, the story of the "high-rise bank robber" was forgotten and the money was circulated back through the economic system. The boy that received the 20 dollar bill for mowing his neighbor's lawn and quickly spent it on candy would never know that it came from the suicide of a man trying to prove a point to the world.