Mister Community Guy

Oh, I've been all kinds of community this week. I spent all Saturday in the parking lot of our neighborhood's new grocery store, introducing acts as the Master of Ceremonies for the show that celebrated their Grand Opening. At one point, people were ignoring the music and milling about the front of the store. I announced that I would give a crisp, five dollar bill to the first five people who came and sat in the front row to watch the next act. Four people came running. One of them was fourteen, and he demanded his money up front. Sheepishly, I played up the moment as I drew five of my few remaining dollars out of my wallet and handed them over. It was a nice bit, and good for a laugh. Much to my chagrin, three more people came up to me after I had introduced the next band and retreated to the side of the stage. Each of these people were in their fifties or older, but they came after me in a humorless way that said, "I'm not kidding, MC boy - fork over my five bucks."
I ended up having to borrow money from my mother-in-law to pay off the last gentleman, who seemed particularly put off by the notion that I might joke about such a thing. Bottom line: The seats were filled, I was out fifteen dollars, and I owe my mother-in-law five dollars. Did I mention that I did this gig out of the goodness of my heart, and I didn't even get a souvenir t-shirt? Did I mention that I'm a public school teacher in my real life, and five dollars has deep an resonant meaning to me still? Did I mention that I was just joking?
Here is what they don't know: It was worth twenty dollars for me to see people dancing in the parking lot in my neighborhood. It was worth twenty dollars to hear a group of local musicians play their hearts out for a periodically indifferent crowd. It was worth twenty dollars to see my community come together out there in the sun. And I'd also like to thank that fifth person for staying in their seat. Twenty-five bucks would have drained me.