“Thank you, ma’am, I greatly appreciate it.”
The jar’s boy was slumped nonchalantly against a tree, playing an old guitar and hoping to wake the spirit of the drifting musician in the passersby. Clink went the spare change as it hit the bottom of his livelihood. The song continued.

“Get me, I’m Bob Dylan,” he murmured with a smile.

The jar was christened “Tips”. Its title was scrawled in permanent marker on a piece of duct tape, secured lovingly to the side that viewed its audience. Wrinkled dollar bills that had seen the world, state quarters and a button or three resided inside, for the time being. The twang of the guitar was the soundtrack to their brief lives together.

People came and went; guitar strings snapped, and money was spent. At the end of the day, there were but two: the jar and the boy. The boy and the jar. Clink, “Thank you!”, strum, clink.

The melody goes on.

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