# SPEAKING OF MATH…(or Marine’s Don’t Wear Stilettos)

Have you ever sat down and tried to figure out where your money goes? Take the dollar, for instance; if your paycheck totaled one dollar… .

Uncle Sam would get his cut first. To keep it simple, let’s say your fed tax is 10% on every dollar. Okay, that leaves you 90 cents to buy one loaf of bread… okay, okay… a half a loaf of bread. The store manager is then required to report that as income, of which Uncle Sam gets 10%. That leaves the manager 81 cents, which he then uses to pay his cashier for ringing up that half a loaf of bread your family has already eaten by now. The cashier then has to report that 81 cents she received as income, of which Uncle Sam gets 10% of that. Which leaves her… hmmmm, let’s see – 10% of 81 equals 8.1… 81 cents minus 8.1 equals… wait… let me get my calculator……

Okay… the answer is 72.9 cents. Now, the cashier also needs bread to feed her family, so after she cashes her paycheck, she heads to the day-old bread store, where she buys one loaf of bread. (Gee, why didn’t you think of that?)

Anyway, she hightails it home with her bread, while the manager of the bread store calls the IRS and reports that 72.9 cents as income. Uncle Sammy, naturally, is more than happen when he gets the call and immediately takes his 10% off the top. That leaves the bread store manager… let’s see… oh yeh… 65.61 cents, which he uses to pay his cashier for ringing up that day-old-bread for the other cashier.

If you will notice, I have these store managers paying all of their income to their employees. Ciphering in the store’s overhead would be too much of a hassle in following this dollar. Huh? Did I just say “DOLLAR”?? Okay, so it’s down to 65.61 cents… and all of the bread has been eaten by now and flushed down the potty…

So, where were we? Oh, yeh… So, the cashier who works at the bread store pays her 10% to Uncle Sammy, too, which leaves her… ahem… 59.049 cents (gee, I’m gettin’ pretty good at this ciphering’ stuff… ).

The cashier, who is sick of smelling day-old-bread five days a week, decides to spend her paycheck on… hmmmm… let’s see… how about a pair of STILETTOES!! By the way… I think her name is Robin. Man, what a coincidence, eh?

So, Robin hops in her Thunderbird, goes to the bank to cash her paycheck and then heads to one of those fancy smancy expensive shoe stores. Unfortunately, as she is driving, the engine begins to make a sputtering sound. She looks down at the dash, which looks like the control panel on a 747 jet. After finally locating the fuel gauge, she realizes she’s out of gas… AAARRGGHH. There go those stilettos she had her heart set on.

Plumb disgusted by now, she fumbles through her purse and grabs her cell phone so she can call the motor club. The pleasant voice on the other end, after getting the information on her location, politely informs her that someone is on the way… kinda like “the check is in the mail” promise…

Anyway, so Robin’s sitting there, waiting… and waiting. With a heat index of 95, there’s no way, she tells herself, that she is going to remain in that hot car until help arrives. She decides to call up her friend Tim. But, Tim doesn’t answer. He had to run to the store to get some bread. He hates day-old bread, by the way, so he goes to the same store where you bought your half-a-loaf of bread. He plops 1.80 down on the counter and leaves with his loaf. Meanwhile, Robin is pacing up and down the sidewalk next to her useless Thunderbird, wondering where Tim is and if the fella from the motor club is ever going to show up. I can just hear the heels of her shiny red stilettos clicking impatiently against the curb… can’t you? Oh, wait a minute… that’s not her heels. That’s my fingers hitting the keys. Oops… Sorry.

Okay, I see her clearly now. Robin’s not pacing up and down the sidewalk. She’s hailing a cabby, who sees her waving frankly in his peripheral vision. So, he quickly whips over to the curb. Robin grabs the door handle, swings the door open, and slides in.

“Where to, lady?” the cabby asks, as he checks her out in his rearview mirror.

Robin gives him her home address as the cabby pulls off from the curb, blends in with the traffic, and disappears into the concrete jungle.

Meanwhile, Tim has returned home from the store. He’s standing in the kitchen eating a sandwich, wondering why Robin isn’t home from work yet. Suddenly, he remembers that it’s payday and she always stops off at the shoe store first after she gets her check cashed. Just as he’s thinking this, he sees a flash of light against the wall. It’s the reflection of the sun off the taxi cab’s window as Robin opens the door to get out. Before exiting, she glances at the meter and asks the driver, “How much?”

Robin sighs, hands him the fare, slides out of the cab, slams the door, and walks toward her door. Click, click, click, click. No, that’s not the keys, this time… That’s her red stilettos.

Tim is standing in the doorway, giving her that, “why are you coming home in a cab… what happened to your car?” look.

But before he can even get a word out, Robin says, “I’ll explain in a minute. First, I have to call the motor club.”

The polite voice at the motor club informs her that they had dispatched someone to the car’s location, but the driver was no where to be found.

“Well, that’s because you took too long and I wasn’t about to swelter any longer in that hot car in this 95-degree heat waiting for you to bring me some gas! So, I decided to catch a cab home, but thanks anyway.”

As she hung up, Tim said, “Come on; let’s go get your car before some car thieves strip it clean.”

“Thanks!” Robin said, “What would I do without you.”

“I wonder that myself sometimes.” Tim grinned, as he whipped out his keys and held the door open for her.

“I hope you got money for gas.” Robin said.

“I do.” Tim said.

“I’d have some, too,” Robin said, “but the cab fare took the last bit of money I had.”

“Does this mean you can’t pay me back?” Tim inquired.

“Not in cash at any rate;” Robin smiled, “The only thing I have on me at the moment that’s worth anything are my Stilettos.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim asked. “Marines don’t wear Stilettos!”

“Well then, I’ll have to pay you back some other way.” Robin winked.

“I’m sure you will.” Tim said with a knowing look. “I’m sure you will.”

Okay, so back to the money… What happened to the rest of it? Well, the cabby gave it to his boss who claimed it as income. Uncle Sammy got his 10 percent, which left… uh… uh…… oh heck, I don’t know. I’m still trying to picture what a Marine would look like in red Stilettos!! And wondering how Robin’s going to reimburse Tim for that gas. Hmmmm…… However she does it, I can betcha one thing. Uncle Sammy won’t get a cut…! Like my husband always says, “There’s no tax on that stuff.”

Snickering, I am
Nancy

Author’s Note: For Robin Amy Bass