The dollar that wouldn’t die
Kathmandu,Nepal
I AM ACCEPTING a pile of freshly laundered clothes, a hotel employee delivering it to my room. Jeans, shirts, socks, undies. Everything ls so cheap here in Kathmandu so I have the hotel do my laundry every morning, returned in the evening neatly folded, smelling fresh like the outdoors where it dried.
Dipesh smiles as I press folded rupees into his hand, a tip in appreciation for the delivery. He is old, his face wrinkled, his mouth missing teeth. I thank him, he thanks me. English, Nepali, it doesn’t matter. We understand. We know each other now from my daily laundry delivery.
My Christmas card that year
One evening he pulls a dollar bill from his pocket. It is dirty, torn, creased, held together with cellophane tape. I am angry at the tourist who gave Dipesh this worn out dollar. No money changer would ever accept it. It is a useless tip for a poor man who depends on tips. I take it and give Dipesh a fresh dollar bill. I throw the torn bill in the trash once he leaves.
The next day when I return to the hotel after a long day of sightseeing, the dollar bill is lying neatly on the desk in my room. Housekeeping has taken it out of the trash basket, probably thinking I dropped it in there by mistake. I throw it away again, and the next evening, once again, the dirty dollar has been fished out of the trash and laid carefully on the desk.
I laugh. I take it with me when I leave Nepal. Once I’m back home in the United States, I take it to the bank, present it for exchange, and amuse the teller with the story of the dollar that wouldn’t die.
Three years later, after the 7.8 earthquake
