Editor’s note: We came across the story below while research this month’s 100 Years Ago Column and provide it to our Mount students with the challenge craft a creative story around it. We hope you enjoy the result.

May yet drop two-dollar bills

The fact of the Treasury Department is still considering dropping the $2 bill from the denominations of paper currency and has admitted it in the preparation of new designs for silver certificates and Federal Reserve notes will bring cheer to those that look on this form of legal tender as unlucky to its possessor or as a general nuisance because of its unpopularity as a business medium.

There is no doubt of the unpopularity. The paying teller at any bank will confirm it. Anyone who invest money in games of chance, where the element of a good or bad luck is supposed to enter, will affirm that a $2 bill spells bad luck. And it further proof or needed there is the evidence contained in Treasury Department files in the form of thousands of letters of congratulations received last April when the possibility that the $2 note might be discontinued was first made known.

Another indication of its disfavor is the speed with which it circulates and becomes unfit for use. It is passed from one hand to another as fast as the exchange can be made and its life is less than six months, the shortest span of existence of other dominations of paper money.

When the $2 bill goes back to the Treasury for redemption, it bears the marks of all the ill usage which contempt for it has engineered. It is dirty, greasy, unkept - a very hobo of a bill. Frequently one corner is torn off, and when thus mutilated it cannot go to the treasury laundry for washing, ironing and a return to circulation. A new bill must be issued in its place. No one hates to part with a brand new $2 bill, or clings to it as he would a crisp fresh repeated $1 or $5 bill. In exchange for a new $2 note he will gladly take two $1 bills then bear the grime a many hands and pockets.

Treasury officials admit that, with the exception of New England, the prejudice is nationwide and prevails among all classes, except paymasters, who make up envelopes of cash and to whom the $2 bill represents a savings of time and effort in counting. But, say the men of Federal finance, they can find no adequate reason for the dislike of the bill.

If the puzzled officials were to interrogate restaurant cashiers, cigar store clerks, theater box office treasurers and the glass-guarded girls who sell tickets in movie picture theater booths, they will get light of the seeming mystery.

The $2 bill is unpopular, aside from the superstition that it is synonymous with bad luck, because it represents too many persons actual monetary loss. Likewise it is a temptation to the crime known as shortchanging.

To quote one of them – "the average person thinks a $2 bill is a $1 bill. How many times have you been counting a number of bills and your $2 bill was in the stack of $1 bills and you found yourself counting the two as a one?"

"The mistake is never made with a $5 bill. The fact of one has the five is firmly impressed on the mind, even though, like the two, it is a single bill. There’s no reason why the presence of the two should be forgotten unless that whereas a $5 bill is generally fairly clean and often new, the $2 bill is invariably dirty and worn any consequence seems to have lost some of its value.

"We associated $1 bills with constant handling and the marks of usage and the $2, because if it’s appearance, naturally falls into a like class and loses its identity.

"But irrespective of the reasons- whether it is carelessness, absentmindedness or an actual delusion -it’s a hard, cold fact is that three out of every five persons who hand a $2 bill to me for a ticket thinks they are giving me a $1 bill. This is shown by the fact that they walk away with the silver change as soon as I put it down, not waiting for the remaining $1 bill. They are always surprised when I called them back and tell them that they had forgotten some of their change.

"But there’s another angle. It’s a poor $2 bill that won’t work both ways. We don’t like to handle them anymore then do our patrons, and for the same reason. We are likely to hand one out and in making change thinking it is a $1 bill. Even where a cash register or a change making machine is employed it is a common practice for us to stick a $2 bill in the compartment reserve for the $1 bills, with the same result that we frequently short change ourselves."

"An unmitigated nuisance," is the verdict of the bank teller. "Our depositors must accept them in trade. What they can’t get rid of in the course a barter they must deposit. We have to take them. But we can’t pass them back. Depositors would hit the ceiling if we gave a $2 bill. There are only two ways for us to get rid of them. One is the make up cash payrolls for firms with many employees; the other is, returning them to the Treasury for redemption. "Fifty percent of them come to us with one corner torn off. Many or torn in two corners. They are the dirtiest of all the bills we handle and hard to count because they stick together. Some people refuse them because they think bad luck goes with them."

The bad luck superstition responsible for the mutilation of these notes is prevalent among those who invest their money in games of chance, in the sporting world, the underworld, and those who have to do with the stage.

Tearing off a corner is supposed to remove the ‘jinx.’ Professional poker players and even amateurs who follow the many and devious turns of ‘stud’ or ‘showdown; hate to have a $2 bill in a cash game. One corner is torn off as soon as the ‘jinx’ note appears on the table, and even then no player keeps it if they can avoid it. At the first opportunity he will put it into the ‘aute.’ Crapshooters will not be at such a bill on their own throw unless it is the last of their money. To fade an the opposing player with a $2 bill is considered bad luck for him.

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Two

Sophi Toth
MSMU Class of 2027

(10/2023) Neon is meant to be conspicuous. It’s meant to be pretty, to exclaim the owner’s business and lure people to partake in it. The neon sign in this room, however, was not. It hung luridly on the wall, four shapes of the suits. Its red eyes glared down at us, our lazy god. Despite its warped gleam, the room was ensconced in shadow. The five men around the table were identical, emotionless. A smoldering red cigar, held by the card shark at the far end, hovered in midair. We were players, pawns in his game. I relaxed my face as best I could. I was not your average fish, and, though I would play, I wouldn’t lose. Cigar smoke penetrated the room, smelling sweetly of death. Besides the neon, the only light was weakly flickering from a ceiling lamp above the table.

$20,000 was riding now. I could taste the tension, the fear and dread. The card shark at the end folded, and nearly everyone else had too. It was me and one other man, who wore a two dice pendant necklace. I tried not to cough at the cigar smoke; it would cost me my control. My own cards were terrible. But I kept my eyes on him steadily. He folded and I collected my prize.

"Good going for someone as young as you," the card shark murmured. His voice was raspy, quieter than cotton touching felt, but I heard him. Everyone heard him, and he knew it.

"Got lucky," I said. Everything felt lighter. I could pay off my debts. Johnny wouldn’t have any reason to—I cut myself off. Everything would be okay now. But there was still the rent, and the bank…no, I’d taken enough risks for tonight.

The shark tapped his cigar against an ashtray and two chunks of red coal fell off.

"What’s your name, son?"

I hesitated. "Horne, sir."

"Horne." His whisper wrapped around the name, choking it.

"I see." The dark corners of the room seemed darker, red eyes of coal snakes lurking there. "Why don’t you stay one more game, Horne?"

I shouldn’t have given him my name. "No thank you, sir. I’d best be getting along."

"Come on, Horne. $20,000 is a pittance compared to the possibilities." He leaned forward and shackled me with his dark eyes. He seemed familiar. He looked as rich as any of the men on Wall Street. What would he gain if I stayed?

But I did need the money. And so far, it had been relatively easy…maybe I could make rent while at it.

"If you insist." I said, sitting back down. I was making a gamble, but the payoff was tempting. The dealer dealt us each a card, then a community. And so, it continued. My cards were okay—not the best, but not the worst. The bets were made, stakes rose to $50,000. Besides the $20,000 I had earned, I had $20,000 in my pockets. The man to my left upped the ante to $90,000, and a lesser man would have perspired. But I stayed stoic. I could always fold. But $90,000—the cars, the women, the freedom.

Finally, it was just me and the card shark. For all the marbles, keep your face still.

"Getting a little higher now." The shark grinned. "Why don’t we see some money on the table."

It wasn’t a request. I took out my rolls and counted out $20,000, added to the $20,000 I had earned. The paler green against the card table swam before my eyes.

"And the rest?"

"You’ll see the rest when you win." I said, shoving the tremble out of my voice. This was no place for weakness. I was among sharks.

I glanced down at my money again, less than half of what I needed if I lost. Right on the top of a back note strap, the first in the pack, was a two-dollar bill.

I couldn’t help it. My eyes widened. A pair of fives, even twos, I could handle, but not this. Quickly, I pulled the two-dollar note out and ripped off a corner. Was the damage done? Was I already cursed?

"Carrying around two-dollar bills?" the shark said. "Being a little risky, aren’t we?"

I wanted to say something brash, like, "Risky is my middle name."

But I was shaken, and nervous now. No matter the place, no one played with two-dollar bills. They were bad luck, never to be touched. I knew someone who had lost everything because he’d put down a two-dollar bill in craps. They tainted fate wherever they went, swayed the wheel of fortune, turned Lady Luck sour. But I couldn’t fold, not anymore. I had a straight, but the shark turned his cards over. Flush.

The silence seeped into my throat, choking me. The numbers blurred, black overtaking red. The shark smiled, taking another puff of his cigar. "That’ll be $50,000."

I couldn’t help it—my hands trembled. The two-dollar bill loomed large and wicked. "$50,000 then, but give me two weeks for it. Things are…a little slow right now."

The cigar burned. "Gentlemen, if you could leave us. Come back any time."

It was me and the shark. "Dale, we’ve given you months."

A cold feeling shivered up my spine, even worse than the added debt I now owed. "What?"

"Johnny’s a kind man, but he’s not blessed with patience."

"How—how do you know Johnny?"

He was quiet, and I remembered. An older man of Johnny’s, silent and brooding… The fear must have shown in my face. "You understand why I have to do this. It’s nothing personal."

Panic now. "Please, I can pay him back, the $50,000 too, just a few weeks—even days—"

His eyes were blank. "That’s what they all say."