I guess Ill post this here, if nothing else just so I have it saved somewhere, for my economy class I was supposed to write a small paragraph about inflation and how illegal immigrants affect it, hope you like it I guess, criticism welcome!

(The over economic sounding stuff is the stuff that we had to include; medium of exchange/unit of account and store of value)

A Day In The Life Of Money


Pedro San Garcian was by all modern means of the word, a simple man. He spent his days working under the blazing Nevada sun on a construction job that he wasn’t even guerenteed to have at the end of every week. Roughly around four pm every evening he left to his humble apartment on the outskirts of the outskirts of Las Vegas. He took of his gear, took a cold shower in his stained bathtub, and then dried off on one of his two itchy blue towels. After bathing, he would make a modest meal of tortillas and beans usually, and retired to his front room (which also served as his kitchen, and more then often his bedroom). He would pop a bottle of Coca Cola in solitude and end his night by watching the reruns of his favorite Spanish soap opera, waiting anxiously for the finale episode that came closer every day.
Pedro has a family, but isn’t necessarily a family man. He has a wife, a son, and two daughters in his native country of Mexico. He saves his extra earnings at the end of every week (he gets paid in cash as to avoid unnessecary attention from the IRS) in a small glass jar that used to have jelly in it. At the end of every month he takes the money from the jar and mails it to his family back home to live off of. Sooner or later he is hoping to one day bring them out to the US to expierence the lifestyle that he so strongly wants for his kids to grow up in. The end of the month was two days away, and it is about time for him to send the cash.

That morning was just like any other for Pedro. Pedro was planning on going to work, he was planning to watch his soaps and planning to put the pay for the day in the savings jar. But plans don’t always work out the way thery are supposed to in the dusty Nevada wasteland, especially on the outskirts of Sin City. Pedro was eating his morning bowl of Wheaties (another subtle daily ritual of his) when a coworker that he seldomly talked too, and knew nothing about except his name called him up on the apartment complex’s communal phone. The man’s name was Sam and he sometimes worked with Pedro on asphalt duty, but never spoke to him because he mistakenly assumed that Pedro didn’t speak any English. Sam was calling because he wanted to know if he could pay his bail to get him out of County Jail, four counties away, on account of some wild midnight escalades that he failed to elaborate on to Pedro. Pedro reluctantly agreed that he would.
Pedro agreed for two reasons. First was that he had made virtually no friends in the two years he spent in this country, and that he thought that maybe it would be healthy for him to make one finally. The second was that he was a devoted Catholic, and lived by a creed of helping those less fortunate than him, so it led him to regrettably help his acquaintance out. Pedro figured that right after they could go to work and explain to their overseer the situation which rendered them late. Again plans never go right in this land.
Pedro washed his bowl, put on his favorite (and only) pair of snakeskin boots and disembarked on his journey, away from the miserable stench of his slowly decaying apartment. He walked out over the dead grass his landlord consistently failed to water, and felt condolence for the yellow-brown stalks. For the first time since he came to this country, he allowed himself to fully reflect, and he felt that that grass became a direct avatar for his life. Almost miracously during this moment of observance, he remembered that he forgot the bail money. He retraced his steps to the musty brown, patched couch that served as his chair, his bed, and also his safe. He lifted the dusty cushion and retrieved his savings that were due to his family the next day, and set upon his journey for the second time.

Pedro was about twenty minutes out towards the jail where his closest thing to a friend was being detained, when he noticed that his used pick-up truck (if it could still be classified as such, given the decayed condition it was in) was again near empty on gas. The Nevada sun took its toll on man and machine equally, because Pedro assumed that it evaporated into the desert air (in actuality, the neighbors routinely siphoned his gas, knowing if they got caught there was nothing the illegal alien could do about it). Pedro also noted his somewhat fortunate luck in the way that one of the iconic “Last Chance” gas stations that are sparsely littered across the American Desert was coming up, and he happened to have a whole months worth of wages by his side in the passenger seat that hasn’t seen any use since he bought the truck from a retired coyote. Pedro pulled over and walked into the mangy establishment.
The shelves weren’t lined up with items that most people would come to expect from a convenience stop. Where the candy was supposed to be, sat 12 gauge shells. In place of the usual bottles of pop and milk, were bottles of Jack Daniels and some locally made moonshine. On the wall, where absolutely nothing usually is, was the biggest confederate flag that money could buy. These were the first things that Pedro noticed; the second was the large, ex-biker looking fellow standing behind the wrought iron counter. Pedro first noticed that he was adorned with such fantastic features including, but not limited too; a buck knife on his hip, a swastika tattoo on his burly shoulder and a border patrol cap on his clean shaven head. The second thing Pedro noticed about the man was his hateful expression.
“You need gas? How much?” growled the attendant. Pedro stuttered and without saying a single word pulled out a $10 bill from his jar that he foolishly carried in with him and handed it over (during this time period, $10’s unit of account bought a full tank of gas). Instead of the customary “good day, thanks for the business” salutation that Pedro was accustomed to, he got a menacing stare that dared him to make a move. Pedro, in his awkward awestruck state of mind, made the exact mistake that the skinhead shopkeep was praying Pedro would-he spoke. “That’s a pretty big flag you have on the wall, how much did it cost you?” asked Pedro. By doing this, Pedro unconsciously made two mistakes, he gave the attendant an excuse to hold him there longer with conversation, but more importantly he gave the obvious proof that he was from south of the border. “That flag there, it cost me $8 from the local gun shop a few miles north of here, and this cost me about $100 more” he said, followed by a swift draw of the six-shooter that he kept behind the counter. This was the second time Pedro had a gun aimed at him, but the first time that he had one at a mere four inches from his eye. “Good deal huh? I’d say that the money was a fair exchange for it at this price.” Pedro was too entranced with fear to answer the question, so the shopkeep took the liberty to continue “I am a family man, I’m raising kids up…” Pedro took his chance. “Me too!!!”, he shouted. The shopkeep was not happy with his sudden outburst. “The difference is that my family belongs here, and yours is draining our economy!”, (by illegally working and sending the money out of America, Pedro was making the store value of a dollar go down, and it was worth less as an unit of account). “Give me that jar”! This was a good thing however, because the gas station was one of the types with a fenced in clerk-cage. When the attendant came to collect Pedro’s earnings, he was required to break line of sight and walk through a back hallway towards the shopping area. When the keep emerged to collect the currency, he was somewhat dumbfounded to find himself to be the only one in the store…
Pedro wasn’t a suicidal pugilist, but he was brave, and thankfully he was also fast. The second the gun left the proximity of his skull, he dashed. The shopkeep took thirty-four seconds to get into his store’s shopping section. Pedro took twenty to get into his truck, five to start it and be out of the immediate range of the pistol, and three to thank The Christ under his heavy panting.
At this moment Pedro evaluated his sparse array of options. The most obvious to most people would have been to call the police, but for Pedro this option was not available. Because of his alien status in this nation, any police investigation was just as likely to punish him as much as the homicidal gas station clerk. Realizing this much quicker than you probably did, he decided to take his chances, mixed with some prayers that he threw in there for luck, and continue on towards the jail and hope that he wouldn’t be trailed by a neck-bearded native.

As Pedro continued on, and in the time it took for his heart to cease its spastic pumping, he came to the realization that he was a very lucky individual. He got out of a situation he thought most would have not been able to effectively handle. He escaped with his life, his body in one un-penetrated piece, and with his savings. . . His savings minus $10, and with a truck that was minus gas…
The conditions of Pedro’s situation that one must keep in mind, in order of most important to least, were as follows:
1)He was in the hottest region of the US, stranded in a black truck
2)He is in one of the most desolate regions of the US, where it could be a whole day before someone comes along, stranded in a black truck
3)There are no gas stations within a one hundred mile radius
4)He is stranded in a black truck

Two hours passed before the desert heard the sweet “snap” sound of a Sprite can being opened. Pedro, two hours ago, decided to put his well-being in the capable hands of his revered Virgin Mary and set out on foot into the unforgiving Mojave Desert, hoping to reach some sort of human civilization and get help. This was the second time Pedro trekked though the North American desert trying to find a better place than where he came from, but this time he had the fortune of having a can of sprite that he dug out from under the driver’s seat of his truck, the same truck he left to bake in the desert sun. On his person, he also had a multifold pocket-knife that he got as a Father’s Day present from his oldest son (who he now sorely missed more than ever). He also had on him his savings jar, which he carried discreetly in his backpack he frequently used to hold his work tools (and his dirty laundry to the cleaners on Saturday afternoons). The sprite cost him twenty-five cents at the cleaners he stopped at, and he realized that it may have just been the best quarter he would ever spend in his life Hypothetically that quarter held a unit of account equivalent to human life, because it prolonged it out in the brutal sun long enough to keep him going.
That quarter kept him hydrated just long enough for a Mr. Ronald Johnson to find Pedro’s unconscious body on the side of the glaring desert road. That sprite kept him hydrated just long enough to keep the vultures over head at bay.

For most people, a twenty hour nap would end with their body telling them that it is refreshed and that it has more than enough energy to begin the day fresh! For Pedro it began with a mop bucket of ice cold water from a bathroom sink being poured on his face, and with the grim realization that he had the inability to wipe it off, mostly because he was hogtied to a light pole in a dark alley behind a gay-club. The “Shaking Bacon” was locally known to be the one place where for thirty years the store of value of one dollar never changed, because for thirty years a dollar would get a man the private attention he craved from one of the clubs many male talents. It was also locally known to belong to a Mr. Dimitri Boufis, who was recognized as West Las Vegas’s premier mob boss.
Pedro didn’t know this however; all he knew was that he was cold, and that the kick that he just received in his ribs would have been just as effective in its message if it wasn’t delivered by a steel toed boot.
Mr. Ronald Johnson delivered his new found prospect to his boss, Boss Boufis, for a hefty sum of two hundred dollars (which was the standard medium exchange for a body), and a fifty dollar bill was the unit of account for a living body.
Again this was something Pedro was unaware of. He did become aware of the after-taste of sand left in the crevices between his teeth and a slight reminiscent taste of what he incorrectly guessed was the sprite flavor leftover in his mouth (it was actually chloroform left on his breath, he was administered it by Mr. Johnson for extra precautionary measure).

Boss Boufis Looked down upon the desert-dweller that his right-hand man found on the side of the road, upon the Pedro that was helplessly tied up in front of him. It was then that he did the closest thing that anyone who knew him would call symphetic, he ordered one of his many goons to pour water not on his face, but down his throat. He needed to keep him fresh, not comfortable. His good did just that, and finally got him to down the whole bottle after several coughing fits. Boss Boufis was dangerously close to becoming irritated, not at poor Pedro, but at the doctor he called to meet him at this spot ten minutes ago…
But Boss Boufis did not become irritated, because at the very moment before he was going to ask Pedro who he was, a familiar voice did it for him.
Out of the shadows cast by Boufis’s club, emerged Doctor Schlaff, escorted by an armed goon, which was hardly necessary due to the familiarity of the two men through past dealings.
“Do you have any legal identification on your person?” asked Dr. Schlaff to the bounded Pedro. The man coughed up a storm, then replied in a faint voice “no”. Are you legally permitted to be in this country, and don’t like or one of these men will shoot you.” Again, Pedro (under the influence of having a gun aimed at him for the third time in his life) answered “no”.
Dr. Schlaff was delighted at the response, for he was not legally a Doctor for the past thirteen years. Since the end of the Second World War, his macabre medical experiments in the German camps became something of an urban legend of the criminal underworld. Despite these conditions, the criminal community of Vegas still called him Doctor Schlaff, out of either respect or fearful paranoia.
Doctor Schlaff was also known as the go-to man for contraband organ sales in the criminal community. Few knew how he obtained his “wares”, and few cared to know. Boss Boufis knew though, because he was one of his favorite suppliers of un-harvested bodies.
“Illegal Immigrants I generally pay more for since their disappearances are untraceable and I also will pay more because this one is alive and fresh both.” said Dr. Schlaff. He paid Boss Boufis the predetermined agreed amount of $500, landing Boufis a $250 pocket profit. “Should my men drop him off at your office?” asked a giggly Boufis. “No need, with your permission I’ll collect my quota from him here and now, the fresher the better.” responded Schlaff. Boufis was in no position to argue after the payment he just received. He rounded up his goons back into his club, and just like that Pedro and Schlaff were left alone in the damp, shadow-infested alley. Schlaff wrapped half a roll of duct tape around the resistant Pedro’s mouth, to keep this as silent as humanly possible.
Pedro had never been more frightened, but a glimpse of hope shined through the shadows when Schlaff walked off around the building, but that glimpse of hope died along with Pedro in that concrete alley when Schlaff returned with a cooler, and a stainless steel scalpel.

The next day Sam was released from the county jail, providing he pay his $15 DUI ticket. He wasn’t mad, but a little bit curious to why that Mexican guy who he called didn’t show up yesterday. He called his boss for a pick up, and his boss promised that this Pedro guy was pathetic enough to do anything in hope of earning a few bucks.
Pedro’s landlord was a little bit more mad however when his rent didn’t show up. He assumed that the quiet tenet finally got deported. The landlord waited a week, then without a fuss went in and collected Pedro’s belongings. He donated the tattered clothing to the salvation army, but he kept the rest; a few dishes, a musty old couch, and a nine-inch black and white TV with shoddy bunny ears. When he hooked up the TV that night, he noticed that the channel it was on happed to be playing the season finale of some crappy soap opera, the same one that Pedro was very much looking forward to watching, second only to seeing his wife.

Fifty-two years later:
One Mister Jose San Garcian received a check for the amount of $68. Jose hadn’t the slightest clue what the check was for, because it had no subject or return address. But right on the front of it was the address of the house he lived in, and his mom lived in before him, so it must be right. He shrugged it off as a fortunate accident, probably involving a mistaken address for Christmas charity, and promptly blew the small sum to support his pill-popping habits under the nose of his wife and kids.

Two months earlier than the fifty-two years later:
A tourist was traveling through the Mojave Desert, coming way up from Iowa towards Las Vegas for some well-deserved R&R, when he noticed a bright blue bag on the side of the road caught in some dead bushes. The tourist got out because he had to pee anyways and examined the bag. Inside he found a broken jar, he correctly guessed that someone fell backwards on it at one point. He also found $68 and a faded envelope with a cool vintage stamp, but even weirder was that it was addressed to somewhere in Mexico. The tourist was thrilled at first because this was some good rebuff money for when he hits the slots, but then had a change of mind. He decided that it was his chance to try and get on Lady Luck’s good side, and made up his mind to mail it to the address on the envelope. He even was thoughtful enough to write it out on a brand new envelope, but failed to put the return address or who it was from.

Over the fifty-two years that passed, the store of value of a dollar dropped, and the money which was once enough to pay for a family to live off of and one day move to another country, was barely enough to buy some sleeping pills and a bottle of hard-lemonade for a deadbeat orphan.