I'm Not the Unreasonable One Here

I go to a friend’s apartment and ask if I may have any loose change I find. Not the coins in the souvenir beer stein on the dresser. Not the buffalo head nickel in the "collection" (two coins in all, in a blue cardboard tri-fold presentation folders). Not even the 47 cents I’m liable to find sunk between the cushions of the sofa.

All I want is the money in the saucer by the computer, the handful of nickels and pennies in the bottom of the suitcase, the dime languishing under the bed, the few coins that fell behind the bookcase or rolled beneath the stereo, whatever span into the corners where the socks are wadded.

If you can’t grant me that, what are we really talking about right now?