Tails Up

"Blast," said I aloud as I sped toward Minneapolis. (Yes, I was talking to myself. I do so quite frequently. It is most enjoyable, especially when other people look at me strangely.) "I forgot to get cash."

I was on my way to class, and needed a measly two dollars to pay for my parking spot in the garage. The whole process is automated: take a ticket and pay the machine before you return to your car, thank you very much. Want to write a check? Too bad for you; no one's on hand to receive it! This, for an Emily who lives out of her checkbook, is most inconvenient. The original plan involved stopping by the ATM after completing the take-home midterm that consumed the period of time between three-thirty to six o'clock today. Unfortunately, when the first fifteen minutes of said time period is spent asleep on the floor by the space heater, a bit of a hectic time crunch ensues.

I pawed through my wallet, knowing its contents full well - a completed book of checks, several extraneous receipts, Tom's e-mail address, a ticket to one of the spring concerts in which Alex and Oliver participated; a single dollar bill, three quarters, a nickel, three pennies. As I walked through the garage, I trained my eyes on the ground. "If only I could find two dimes or a quarter. Surely someone has dropped a quarter."

But no, no one had dropped a quarter, or a dime, or a roll of nickels. So, already running late, I dashed into the little campus store that would be closed by the time my class was over and bought a bottle of water. "Can I write my check out for a quarter more so I can pay for parking?" The clerk laughed and nodded, and I went on my merry way to class.

Two and a half hours later, I descended from the fourth-floor classroom to the third-floor restroom, one I had never entered. And what did I discover there by the leftmost sink? Two dimes, tails up. I put them in my pocket, walked to the garage, and paid with a dollar and four quarters.