Every morning, for the past many mornings, I’ve been at a coffee shop writing, clicketyclacking my little brains out, making sense of the stream of text that loops on a mobius strip along the backs of my eyes. And so sometimes I am sleepy when I arrive, and sometimes it is cold, and sometimes I drive to the coffee shop, a bus of one, and sometimes in my sleepy and cold it seems impossible to pay for parking at the silly parking meters that require quarters or credit cards. I mean: if you can make it take a credit card, can’t you make it take a nickel? And so sometimes I just park and hope nothing will happen. But one day this week I walked out of the coffee shop blinking and caffeinated and found a dollar under my windshield wiper. I don’t know if this would ward off the coppers, were they to descend upon my 1993 Buick LeSabre, but it might. Or at least maybe someone thought, with a car like that, this gal can’t afford parking. But either way. I held the dollar bill to my heart for a good few seconds and looked all around, and found no one with a fistful of dollar bills looking suspicious, so I just yelled, THANK YOU and went on my way.