The Buck Pass

By T.R Whittier

When an ordinary dollar bill passes through the hands of six strangers, the life of each one takes an extraordinary turn. The psychologically-impoverished heiress, the homeless housewife, the closed-minded artist, the car-hating cab driver, the down-to-earth rising star, and the paternally-challenged stay-at-home dad have nothing in common other than the fact that they are miserable. Their lives are filled with problems, but their heads are void of solutions. It is only after coming in contact with a certain piece of enigmatic currency that they find their way to happiness.

Inspired by the etymology of the phrase “buck passing,” which recounts that an object (known as a “buck”) was passed during early poker games as a means of indicating which player's turn it was to deal the cards, The Buck Pass is the story of a single dollar bill that acts as an agent of chance and change. Rather than deal the cards, however, the protagonists of The Buck Pass find themselves encouraged to deal inadvertently with their problems – to follow their hearts, leave their mark, and, like the dollar, move on. The Buck Pass – it doesn't stop here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.R Whittier
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310415036

T.R Whittier

T.R Whittier is an Independent Literary Artist, Fictionista, and Everyday Chick who is incapable of living a life less logophillic.

Book preview

The Buck Pass

By

T.R Whittier

Copyright 2013 by T.R Whittier

Smashwords Edition

For JingleKitten,

whose unwavering support and encouragement

carried me through to the very last page.

And for TheMFish,

without whom beautiful images could not exist.

The Buck Pass is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and actions are the product of the author's fecund imagination. The Buck Pass is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or redistributed. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.No dollar bills were seriously injured in the creation of this piece of literary art.

CHAPTER ONE

The Psychologically Impoverished Heiress

Black. Nothing but black. Carla had opened one eye slowly, tentatively, fearing the light of the afternoon sun as it hit her hung-over head. But she needn't have worried. She could see nothing but an endless black abyss. Panicking, she sat bolt upright and opened the other eye. Ah, that was better. Sort of. Reaching up to touch her face, she discovered that one of the extra-long false eyelashes she had so artfully applied the night before had glued itself to the top of her cheek, completely occluding the vision in her left eye. Hence, the blackness. With the precise, dexterous movement of one who had performed the action many a time, Carla grabbed the ragged eyelash delicately between her thumb and index finger and gave it a swift tug. A layer of sticky, black, hairy goo came off on her fingers and Carla could see again.

She rubbed both eyes, smearing the heavy application of eyeliner and mascara even more thoroughly over her face, and ran a hand through her long, blonde, sex-and-sleep-tousled hair. Another night, another man. Another morning waking up in a strange bedroom, in a cold, empty bed which held a shadow of the previous night's passion. She couldn't remember very much about her latest lover, but that didn't really matter. They were all the same, these men Carla dated. Or maybe dated was the wrong word. Got together with was probably more accurate. She would meet them at trendy bars, cool club openings, and hot new eateries. They were savvy young lawyers, hell-bent on making firm partner before they hit thirty, adrenaline-pumped stock brokers who slept with their smart phones tucked under their pillows, entrepreneurs who spent twenty hours a day being married to their companies and the final four in bed with a willing mistress. They were smart, sexy, and powerful. And each night, they found Carla irresistible.

But with the first rays of morning light, she would find herself in bed alone. Unlike her dates, who had to get up early in preparation for another day in the fast lane, she had no reason to pry open her eyes, drag herself into a hot shower, and knock back two double espressos in an attempt to ready herself for the workday. She could take her time, yawn and stretch slowly, leisurely, and roll out of bed sometime around noon. She had no job to hurry off to, no responsibilities to tie her down. Carla was an heiress. And what was more, she was an heiress in the worst possible sense. She was not the type to host glamorous fundraisers to benefit the needy, or to sit on committees for the Preservation of Important Things. Carla Dupree was your stereotypical, run-of-the-mill, do nothing, lazy bum of an heiress. Her life consisted of sleeping all day, partying all night, and shopping for gorgeous, outrageously expensive clothing in her spare time – and she loved every minute of it.

Carla got out of bed, eventually, and began retrieving her clothes from various spots around the luxurious apartment, where they had been ripped off and strewn in a frenetic fit of foreplay. She took her time showering, then lingered in the bathroom to have a good look in the cabinets. You could tell a lot about a man from his toiletries, Carla had discovered. They gave away much more information than she had ever managed to get from a few hours of sharing a drink and a bed together. Gavin Sawyer apparently had a penchant for brightly packaged, heavily scented products that screamed Macho Man at anyone who came within a foot of them. Placed very neatly next to these grooming aides was a large bottle of Prozac. Carla wasn't surprised. It was pretty rare to find a person in New York City who wasn't on some sort of get-happy pill.

Pulling on her black skinny jeans and translucent turquoise top, which displayed the barest whisper of the black silk bra beneath it, Carla looked around for her purse. With a groan of annoyance, she realized that it was nowhere immediately noticeable. She had probably flung it somewhere during last night's surge of lust, when Gavin had grabbed her and begun exploring her body with his eager hands, lips, and tongue. Getting down on the floor, Carla searched under the coffee table, between the cushions in the couch, and in the wastepaper basket, having learned from experience that her belongings were most likely to turn up in the least likely of places.

In the far corner of the room, under Gavin's ornate, mahogany drinks cabinet, Carla spotted a small, dark lump. She crawled closer to it, cautiously, wanting to make sure that it was indeed a fashion accessory, and not one of Manhattan's famous furry foes. After careful inspection, Carla grabbed it, fairly confident that even the most fashion-conscious of mice did not sport pink satin fringes. Not this season, anyway. She rummaged through the purse, pulling out a tube of hot pink lipstick, a fat wad of cash, and a crumpled receipt for an eight hundred dollar bra from Bergdorf Goodman's until she found what she wanted: her cigarettes. A moment later, she unearthed the lighter and transported herself to a nicotine-fueled nirvana.

As the noxious gray fumes filled the air, Carla toyed with the other items that had been in her purse. She twisted open the lipstick, noting that she'd have to swing by the Laura Mercier shop soon and pick up another; she flicked the crumpled receipt with her thumb and forefinger, curious to see how far she could make it fly. Before unfolding the wad of money, however, Carla hesitated. Cash was something that had never interested her. With the vast amount of credit and debit cards that were available, she simply didn't see the point of it. It was only when she went clubbing, when she was gyrating her way across the dance floor, that she used it. Nobody wants to worry about her cards getting stolen when she's busy busting a move.

Somewhat curious to see how much she had left after a night of reckless revelry, Carla unrolled the wad of bills. She counted out four fifties, seven twenties, and a single dollar bill, then stared at them with disinterest. Realizing that she had no idea how much cash she had taken to the club with her, she had no way of knowing how much she had spent there. Not that it mattered, anyway. Stuffing the larger bills back into her purse, Carla's gaze lingered on the single for a moment. It seemed so insignificant to her, so strange. What was the point of a simple, single buck? Dollars were like people; when there were a million of them, they radiated awe-inspiring intrigue and omnipotence, whereas a single one, alone, was dull and practically worthless. Such had been the case with all the single ones that Carla had met, anyway. Briefly, she considered holding the tip of her cigarette to the dollar, setting it alight, simply to prove its uselessness. But instead, for no real reason other than that it seemed the saner thing to do, she shoved it into one of the heavily padded cups of her amazingly effective push-up bra from Bergdorf's. Somehow, Carla promised herself, she would ensure that this dollar would be different. This single, solitary buck, of all the millions in her possession, would be the only one to be worthwhile. She needed a way to make it stand out from the crowd, to signify that it was special. Glancing hastily around the immaculate apartment, she spotted a pen on the coffee table and snatched it. Retrieving the dollar from its hiding place, Carla drew a large heart – a symbol of love – directly around Washington's head. She sat on the floor, admiring her work for several moments before shoving the buck back into her bra. Then, grabbing her purse, she stood up and sauntered through the front door without a backward glance.

Outside, it was a typical weekday afternoon on the Island of Manhattan. The wide, concrete streets were full of nannies pushing designer baby strollers and dog walkers being dragged along by purebred pooches. Carla took her time strolling leisurely along the sidewalks, enjoying the warm, late summer air and wondering where she should go. Breakfast (or rather lunch, considering the time of day) at a cute new bistro cafe? No, she wasn't particularly hungry and besides, she had already tried all of the new cafes that had opened this week. A bit of shopping at Barney's or Bendel's? She considered this carefully. True, shopping was her favorite pastime. She loved the thrill of it, the excitement of walking into a store not looking for anything in particular, and walking out with something so perfect she had no idea how she could possibly have lived without it for so long. The problem was, she had already been shopping every day this week, every day of the week before, and every day of the week before the week before. Carla sighed. She was bored. She had reached the point where even the most novel of novel things had ceased to be a novelty. What she needed was to try something totally new, something different and random.

Carla turned and started walking west. She passed Lexington Avenue, with its eclectic mix of shops, restaurants, and banks, Park Avenue, with its rows of luxury apartment buildings, and Madison Avenue, with its multitude of expensive, little boutiques. When she reached Fifth Avenue, Carla glanced fleetingly at the colorful arrangement of enormous flags that announced the latest exhibit being featured at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She considered, briefly, whether she should go inside. That really would be something different for her. The last time Carla had been to the museum was with her tenth grade art history class. She recalled being bored out of her skull while her teacher waffled on and on about brush strokes and the so-called artistic brilliance of a bunch of old, dead guys. Out of the corner of her eye, she had caught Mark Simpowitz, one of her equally bored classmates, staring lustfully at her. While the rest of the class marched obediently through the galleries, Carla and Mark had slipped away, hid behind a large, ugly vase in one of the less frequented wings of the museum, and spent the remainder of the trip making out. So much for soaking up some culture. Carla walked on, past the Met.

A short time later, she found herself standing amidst the lone patch of greenery within the drab grayness of the city: Central Park. She tried to recall the last time she had hung out in the Park, but the memory wouldn't come. It was like strolling through a foreign forest, where the remnant bouquets of spring flowers sprung forth from the small, neat patches of designated earth that had been allowed to remain untouched by concrete. A prim, dark green sign near the Park's entrance informed her that this particular section was known as Cedar Hill. Near the sign stood a long wooden bench, whose dark green paint was chipped and weathered in so many places it hardly looked as though it had been painted at all. On either side of it were two other benches, in slightly better condition, but these were already occupied. Carla may have been in the mood to try something new and random, but she drew the line at getting all close and cozy with the pair of teenagers who were playing tonsil hockey on her left, or the less-than-pleasant-smelling homeless man who was sleeping on her right.

Sitting down on the bench, Carla snapped open her pink-fringed purse, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. Compared to the usual clubs, cafes, and shops she frequented, Cedar Hill was eerily quiet. There was no group of guys hovering around her, buying her drinks and giving her the glad eye; no correspondents from the society gossip rags, following her around town in hopes of snapping a picture of her looking fabulous at some exciting new event; no eager-to-please shop attendants, falling all over themselves in an attempt to spark her interest in the most expensive item. She leaned back on the bench, crossed her long legs, closed her eyes, and blew out a huge puff of cigarette smoke. For the first time in Carla's life, no one was taking any notice of her – and she liked it.

Why is it that the prettiest girls always have the ugliest habits?

Carla's eyelids flew open. She glared at the man who had materialized before her, the Disturber of Peace. He had the scruffy, unpolished look of someone who definitely did not work for a Fortune 500 company. Instead of an elegant custom-made suit, he wore a rumpled pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt with Nine Inch Nails emblazoned upon it. The body beneath these clothes was on the small, non-muscular side and was clearly not that of a man who spent his limited free time working out at the gym. In short, he wasn't Carla's type at all.

As a reply, she took another drag off her cigarette and blew a huge stream of smoke out through her nostrils. Ordinarily, Carla would never allow herself to do anything so unattractive in public, in case there was a cute guy watching. But being as this guy was a total toad, she figured she could let her guard down a little.

I mean, come on, don't you have anything better to do than sit on a park bench in the middle of the day, wearing last night's trashy clubbing clothes and sucking carcinogens into your system? The man berated her.

And who are you, the goddamn health police? Carla demanded. She was beginning to get seriously annoyed with this dude.

No, I'm a website designer, he replied matter-of-factly, and sat down beside her on the bench.

Carla scowled at him. "Ok, so don't you have anything better to do than sit on a park bench in the middle of the day, wearing clothes that could have been from last night or the week before by the look of them, and harassing people who are just trying to relax and have a smoke?"

The man frowned. Sorry if I came on a little strong.

Oh, were you coming on to me? Could have fooled me with that approach, she mocked him.

He grinned, causing a pair of deep dimples to spring onto his cheeks. Hrmmm, thought Carla. Maybe he wasn't quite such a toad after all. That's not what I meant and you know it.

I don't know what the hell you meant, Carla said, tossing the remainder of the cigarette on the ground and stepping on it with the tip of her ultra-high-heeled shoe before reaching into her purse for a new one.

Look, I know I was kinda rude –

Kinda?

I know I was unbelievably rude, he corrected himself. It's just that I can't stand to see another beautiful, intelligent woman ruin her life.

Carla raised her eyebrows skeptically. And how many beautiful, intelligent women have you met who've ruined their lives by sitting on a park bench and smoking a cigarette?

It's not that cut and dry, he replied, glaring at the gray curls of smoke emitting from the offensive little stick of tobacco in her hand. It's not just smoking a cigarette on a park bench. It's the whole package. I mean, look at yourself.

Carla glanced down at her cleavage, which was artfully accentuated by her low-cut top. I've never had any complaints.

The man shook his head in exasperation. That's not what I'm talking about. I meant look at yourself as a person. Look at your life. What are you doing with it? Wasting it away, partying all night and desperately looking for ways to fill in the rest of the time? How do you spend your days? I'm pretty sure you don't have a job.

Carla had had about enough of this. And just why, exactly, do you give a shit what I do with my time? Who the hell are you to judge me? You're sitting on a park bench in the middle of what is supposed to be a workday, too, buddy, in case you haven't noticed.

I run my own business, the man answered defensively. My schedule is pretty flexible, but I work a lot. Most days, I can find the time to take a break and sit on a park bench for a while, but sometimes I'm so busy I need to stay in and work for a week straight.

Well, that explains your clothes. You obviously forgot to change them from last week.

Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole here –

I'm finding that kinda hard to believe.

– I'm just trying to help you see your life for what it is, the man continued, ignoring Carla's caustic comments. And what it could be.

I see my life for exactly what it is, Carla replied heatedly. Fabulous! I do whatever I want, whenever I want, and whoever I want. And I don't have to listen to some random guy off the street telling me that's a bad thing.

The man looked at her pityingly. You sound just like my sister. His eyes shone with unshed tears. Carla noticed, for the first time, how bright and blue they were. She was beautiful, and smart, too. Also, really spunky. She could have had an amazing life, he added sadly.

Why didn't she? Carla asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

The man turned, fixing those bright, blue eyes on her. Because she died, he said simply. She got in with the wrong crowd and started partying nonstop, drinking, smoking, and doing drugs. One night she went too far and that was it. They found her on a park bench the next morning, still dressed in her clubbing stuff, her dead fingers all burnt from the cigarette she'd been holding.

Carla leapt up from the bench, glowering. You are one sick freak, she told the man angrily. That's not going to happen to me, if that's what you're hinting at.

And she left him sitting there, his face sober and serious, while she hightailed it to the nearest department store for some retail therapy.

CHAPTER TWO

Burnout

Carla awoke the next day and, almost immediately, wished that she hadn't. Sitting up in the king-sized bed, she gathered the tacky black satin sheets around her, and dropped her throbbing head into her hands. Once again, she was in a strange, empty bed in a strange, empty apartment. Her date from last night, Brandon Something-Or-Other, had left hours ago for his high-powered job as Chief-Executive-Of-Something-Or-Other. Carla could barely even remember what he looked like, and worse, she didn't care.

She had gone a little too far last night. After spending the remainder of the afternoon – as well as several thousand dollars – at Barney's, Carla had headed down to the Meatpacking District. There, she had met up with a few friends at the grand opening of a new club called Fresh, which was being touted as the latest den of debauchery for New York City's elite. Carla had been in the mood to really let loose, especially after that incident with the creepy guy in the park. Her head had been haunted by images of the dead woman, lying cold and stiff with burnt fingers, on the bench. Carla had been furious at the strange man, not only because of his insinuation that she would eventually meet the same fate if she didn't change her wicked ways, but also because she was fairly certain that he was a damned liar. His sister, if he even had one, was most likely alive and well, exemplifying the ideal American family life in some boring suburb with her sexual dud of a husband and their statistically significant two-point-five children. He had probably made up that horror story about the woman on the bench simply to scare her, because he was one of those sadistic, chauvinist pig types who hate to see a woman enjoying herself. Except...he hadn't seemed like that at all.

Disturbed and confused, Carla had sought solace in the smoky haze of the club. She had knocked back flute after flute of expensive, vintage champagne, followed by a few rounds of cute, little, pink mystery cocktails. She had smoked as many cigarettes as she could find, some tobacco, some not. She had danced with scores of men, did the bump and grind with at least half a dozen, and made out in dark, shadowy corners with several others. And then, shortly after midnight, the pills had started to get passed around. Big pills, little pills, pills of every shape, size and color spread around the club like wildfire. There were pills to boost you up, pills to bring you down, pills to make your heart beat fast, and pills to make your head spin around. Carla had tried every one of them.

And now, she was paying for it. She felt weak, lightheaded, and extremely nauseous. The thin beams of soft afternoon sunlight, which were peeking shyly through the curtains, caused her eyes to burn as though they had been scorched by hellfire. Carla pulled the covers over her head and curled up in a fetal position, planning to sleep forever. But her stomach had other ideas. Seized by an unexpected attack of the dry heaves, Carla was forced to roll out of bed quickly and rush to the bathroom. But when she tried to stand, she found that her legs wouldn't carry her; she collapsed in a pile on the floor. Naked, shaking, and retching, she crawled to the toilet on her hands and knees and vomited for nearly three quarters of an hour. When she had finished, the bowl was full to the brim with a revolting rainbow of regurgitation. Carla stared at the remnants of the drinks, the pills, and the small amounts of gourmet hors d'oeuvres that she had consumed. When they had entered her body, she had been the Queen of Clubbing, sexy and sophisticated. But upon their exit, she had become a subservient slave to a throne of cold, hard porcelain. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Slowly, hanging onto the edge of the sink for support, Carla stood up. Her legs shook violently, as though they were made of jello. Leaning against the wall for support, she took a few tentative steps. Then, a few more. Eventually, she felt confident enough to venture out of the bathroom to collect her clothes and purse. As usual, however, they were scattered throughout the apartment. Her hot pink, sequined tube top was half-buried between the cushions of the couch in the living room, her black leather pants were crumpled into a ball in the corner of the dining room, and her bra, with the buck still tucked into the folds of the padding, was dangling from the chandelier in the