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A Woman, With Money In Her Mouth (Story in progress?) Copyright November 21, 2025

I had a dream. I awoke from it, for some reason, and I don't remember much.
A woman. Face. Dark hair down to her shoulders. Bare shoulders.
I want to look lower but my eyes are drawn back to her face, closer then, and I see... she has money... in her mouth!
They are greenbacks, American dollar bills. I can't see the denomination, just the color, and that it's kind of a 'wad', more than one bill, folded into a quarter of the size of American currency.
And she's got it clenched in her teeth. What the hell?
Now, I'm lying awake, staring at the darkness outside the window, wondering what the dream meant, if dreams mean anything.
Dreams start about ten minutes after you fall asleep... lose consciousness. Dreams run in ninety minute cycles, throughout the night, the sleep period. Rapid Eye Movement (REM) is observed, the eyes darting about under the eyelids during dreaming.
But... this woman... attractive face. Seemed to be smiling; benign. And money... in her mouth.
I fall asleep. I wake up to the alarm! It's Wednesday. Work. Hump day!
Looking forward to the weekend. Nothing special planned. Just not having to go to work.
Lunch. The Jim Dandy Drive-In has a Big Mo and Coke for 99 cents. Small burger; small cup. When I open my wallet to pay the car hop, greenbacks, I remember the dream. A woman... with money in her mouth.
No dreams, or no awareness of my dreams, Wednesday night, or Thursday night.
Friday. I leave from work , talk to Tom Barlowe as we go down the back stair, out into the parking lot.
Tom calls me Harley. That's not my name. I asked him why once. He told me, "Because you're built like a Harley! American Iron!"
That made no sense to me but I didn't think it was worth asking him what the hell he was talking about. He's called me Harley ever since.
He said to meet him at Cubby's Hole about 8:00.
Tom tells good jokes, always makes people laugh. He's good at meeting women, and always, always, always has a joint to smoke.
We get together and play guitar sometimes; irregular. Fun. Just a hobby. He's a cover song player. I'm a songwriter.
So, tonight we're at Cubby's Hole, a bar and restaurant. They have a band, three-piece, cover songs. Pretty good. Got people dancing. "Mustang Sally!"
She's there! On the dance floor; the woman... from the dream.
Short dark hair, to her shoulders. Bare shoulders, halter top, green, like money. It's colder 'n hell outside. Why is she dressed like that? One of the other girls is wearing six inch spike heels, open toe shoes. Colder 'n hell outside.
Her friends are noisy. She's dancing with three other girls.
One's in a baseball uniform. Maybe softball. Grass stains; dirt. It ain't the season.
They lean in to say things to each other, laugh boisterously, keep dancing.
One is kind of big and doesn't seem as rowdy as the other two.
The woman... no money in her mouth... laughs, more quietly, dances, seems to... I don't know... treat the others with... affection. Lets them be what they are in the moment. They... respond to her attention.
The band ends the song. The girls applaud and head back to their table. They're the only table full of women in the place. Other women are with men.
I watch. I'm not good at just approaching strange women. But I have Tom. I point him in that direction. Tom doesn't ask questions. Just picks up his beer, his napkin off the bar, and his phone, and heads over there. I follow, hanging back a little. If he bombs I'll swear I never saw him before! LOL
No. Tom will open the door, and if I'm quick enough to go in I might beat him to the girl... the woman, and see if she really has money in her mouth.
As advertised, Tom speaks to the group. I don't know what he says but they laugh. I sip my margarita, tip the salt off the rim with my tongue. I position myself where I'm facing her. She laughs with the others, glances past Tom to me. The others are trying to one-up Tom's comment. She doesn't. They're boisterous. Our eyes meet. Second time.
I think to nod my head. I don't. I think to lift my glass, a silent toast to her. I don't do it. I don't know if I even smiled. It... doesn't occur to me to smile at people. I realized that about myself some time back.
She looks away. Looks at Tom, smiling all the while, glancing at her friends, visibly laughing though I don't hear her.
Tom turns, gestures to me, says, "This is Harley!"
I step closer. Our eyes meet again. I'm bolder, ask, "May I sit?", gesturing to the only empty chair at their table, between her and the big girl. She gestures with her right hand, palm up, meaning I can, I think. I do.
Tom doesn't ask, grabs a chair from another table and pulls it up with the back to the table, straddles it, talks, keeps them laughing.
The band starts an Eagles song.
The big girl says, "Let's dance!" The other two get up. The big girl gets up, and Tom does too. The woman... stays seated, watches them go. I'm very... uncomfortable.
"Would you like to dance?" I ask.
"Not right now," she says. "But I do like this song. The Eagles had great songs. And they enunciate well. You get the words the first time you hear their songs!"
I agree. I don't say so. I'm a little... stunned I guess... at her analysis of The Eagles' songs.
"Your friend says your name is Harley? Like the motorcycle?" she asks.
"That's what he calls me," I explain. "Nobody else does. I'm Gary E. Andrews."
She reaches her hand to shake, "I'm Donalinda."
'Doh-nah-lin-dah', I pronounce in my mind. Did I hear her right? Donalinda? I never heard that name before.
"That's a name you don't hear every day," I say.
"Actually," she says, "I do." She's grinning broadly, beautifully. I get what she's saying. I think I'm a little red-faced. I feel it.
I sip my margarita, taste the salt. She has a large glass of dark liquid, with a paper straw, soda pop I think.
The Eagles song ends and they play K. C. and the Sunshine Band, "Do A Little Dance"!
"Okay!" she says, "Now let's dance!" Beatiful grin! She rises, nods, looking me in the eye, like she's asking if I'm agreeable to that. I am. We get up. The big girl and one of the others are coming back. There's some conversation, Donalinda trying to get them to come back and dance, them declining. Tom and the other girl are still dancing.
We dance. I don't stare at her, but I'm aware of her, her dancing, subtle, good moves.
Her green top, blue jeans... she looks good, healthy, round in all the right places. I try to calm myself, to relax, not be so... on edge. I'm unsuccessful, still feel self-conscious about meeting her. I remember the woman in the dream. She's... very similar, the face, the shoulders, the hair. No money in the mouth. I think to tell her about the dream. Not now. Too noisy. Maybe later, in some quieter moment. I second guess myself, wonder if it's too weird, the money in the mouth part, even matching her up with the dream image. Yeah. That's too... something.
The song ends. They go into a slow dance. I look at her. She looks at me. She nods, like before, lifts her arms to me. I put my right hand on her waist, take her other hand in mine, first up, then pull her hand down and reposition our grip down at our sides. She's graceful about it, goes with it, smiles. We... move together, easily. She moves a little closer. My hand goes naturally around to her back. I feel the bare skin.
"Are you from Portsmouth?" she asks.
"Yes," I say. "Are you?"
"Yes," she says.
We dance.
"Have you lived here all your life?" she asks.
"Yes," I tell her. I spent some time working away from here, and I was in the Air Force for four years. But, mostly, all my life, here.
I don't tell her all that. I can tell she's just making conversation.
There are other questions, where I went to school, where I work, what we do there. And the song ends.
"Thank you!" she says. I don't know if its perfunctory gratitude, courtesy, or... I seem to feel she meant it. She enjoyed the dance.
I'm analyzing everything. No wonder I'm a nervous wreck. We return to the table. The big girl and one other are getting up, finishing their drinks standing, explaining that they're leaving. Tom and the other girl seem to be hitting it off. Good!
Donalinda says, "I'm gonna go too." She stands, lifts her coat from the back of her chair. I stand, assist her putting it on.
"I'll walk out with you, if that's okay," I say.
She says, "Yes. Thank you."
Tom's busy, doesn't ask any questions. We drove separately, just for this reason. I like to be able to go when I'm ready to go, not have to wait until someone else is ready.
We walk through the crowd. She speaks to a couple people, tells one guy, "Behave yourself tonight! I don't want to read about you in the paper tomorrow!"
He laughs, the girl standing with him laughs. They laugh, say 'Bye'.
Out on the sidewalk she turns to the right. I go that way. It's chilly. She buttons up her coat.
"Aren't you cold?" she asks.
"I am," I say. "I have a coat in the car. I think I'll put it on and go for a walk. That was my second Margarita. I need a little time before I drive."
"Oh!" she says, looks off down Chillicothe Street. "I... I didn't drink. But... I think I'd like to go for a walk."
"Oh!" I say, "Please! Join me. I enjoy the buildings at night. You see things you ignore in the daytime."
I walk toward my car. She follows. I pull on my Navy Peacoat, a double breasted wool, super warm in the cold of winter. Much better.
"Is that a hoodie?" she asks, meaning one laying on my front seat. "Can I wear that?"
"Yes!" I declare, a bit too eagerly. My clothes on her body! It's... I don't know... something.
"I had on a sweater, but Denice spilled my drink on it," she explains. "I had this top in the car but it is too cold for summer clothes! Even under this coat!"
I pull out the hoodie. She peels off the coat, hands it to me, quickly dons the hoodie, zips it up to her throat. I help her back into her coat. Our hands touch as we both reach to pull the hoodie out in the back. She ducks her head down into the collar, just... snugging into the warmer condition.
We cross Seventh Street, down Chillicothe. We window shop a boutique there, two-dollar bracelets, turquoise colored beads.
A small crowd, six people... Oop!... seven, come out of a restaurant as we turn to go on. We stop. Let them come out, go ahead of us. We cross Sixth Street and she angles across Chillicothe Street to the Roy Rogers Esplanade. The cowboy actor and singer lived here as a boy, and the Esplanade was named for him.
I take her up the sidewalk by the old storefronts there, pointing out the names spelled out in tiles in the foyers, names of stores long gone, replaced by other companies now, insurance, health spa, photography.
We stop by the new addition to the Southern Ohio Museum and Cultural Center, look at the girders, wonder what the walls will look like. She turns, leads me on up Gallia Street.
There, by an open parking space, she stops, turns toward the street, and steps off the curb. I start to follow but she stops, bends over.
I see what she bends to pick up, what I thought was an oil can, the green ones, that brand.
It's not. It's a large, zippered 'container', like a purse. It is. She comes back, stands in the gutter by the sidewalk, in front of me, and unzips it. Cell phone, on one side, and on the other side, under little straps at each corner of a space, four bundles... of money; green money.
"Holy..." she hesitates, an 'sh' already said, goes on, substitutes, "Moly!". "We have to get this back to whoever lost it!" She points at the individual 'bundles of money. "That's the gas bill, the rent, food! Someone is really hurting when they realize they lost it. That's a good phone!"
She zips it back. She goes back to the side with the phone, pulls out a driver's license. "We need to take this to this address. Do you mind? I'd appreciate it if you'd go with me."
"Sure," I tell her. We turn, retrace out steps back to her car on Seventh Street. She drives, talks about having lost money before and how it hurts.
"Years pass," she says, "and remembering still hurts. I'll be driving down the street and wince at the memory!"
She laughs. I like her way of expressing herself. I like her laugh.
We arrive at the address on the license. I don't see the exact address but do see a number close to it. It's dark. Big trees. Up by Greenlawn cemetery. She parks. We get out, go looking.
"It'll be on this side of the street," she says, adds, "Even numbers." She goes up the street, sees a house number, comes back, turns me, her hand on my shoulder, back down past her car.
"Here it is," I tell her. I see the numbers on the concrete steps up to the yard. A television blares from inside. Lights on, upstairs, down. There's a big tree there. The sidewalk is hooved up by the roots.
We climb the steps, up the sidewalk through the yard, more steps to the porch, but she stops on the top step.
A man is yelling!
"Goddamn you!" he screams. "That's all the money we've got! You get your big ass back out there and find it!"
She turns, our faces close, puts her left hand on my chest, gestures twice back out toward the sidewalk, jerks her head up to indicate we should go back down. I turn. She puts her hand on my arm to steady herself. At the sidewalk she turns and takes a couple steps up in front of the house, stops, turns toward me.
"I think the owner will be coming out soon," she tells me. "I'd rather wait out here than meet her on the porch."
There's more yelling, his voice, a woman's voice, hers quieter, plaintive. The television blares.
Then... shots! Two. Bap! Bap!
I think they're shots.
I turn, put my hand on her right shoulder, turn her up the dark sidewalk. She stumbles, reaches for my arm. We go up the sidewalk, get to her car. We go to our respective doors. Mine's locked! She gets in, unlocks it. I'm looking back toward the house. Light from inside suddenly lights up across the sidewalk through the yard, lights up the big tree.
I hear the door unlock, bend down to get in. I want to look back to see who came out, but the tree trunks... the darkness.
She pulls out onto the brick street... drives slowly up... turns right. She speeds up on the side street, makes another left, back to the highway.
"What in the hell did we stumble into?" she finally says.
"Sadness," I answer, for some reason. "Sadness struck the house."
She drives on. Finally, asks, "What should we do?"
"Police Department?" I ask.
She doesn't speak.
"We can tell them what happened, leave it in their hands."
She's driving, looking a little shocked, and misses the turn down toward where the Police Department is.
I think she realizes it, says, "Oh sh... shoot!" She's headed to the West Side, across the Scioto River. For some reason I'm comfortable with that. I need a little time to process this.
She goes on, finds her way to come back to town.
"Those were shots! Weren't they?" she says.
"I think so," I agree. "Let's go to the Police Station and turn it over to them. They can go check it out."
We go. But there's no unlocked door. We knock. Nobody comes. We go around to the other side of the building, knock again. Nobody's there.
Back in the car she says, "What do we do now?"
"Maybe flag down a cop on the street, if we see one."
"Or call 9-1-1," she offers. I feel stupid for not thinking of that.
"Yeah," I mutter. I really want 'out' of this... situation. I don't want to talk to cops, to tell what I know, to be involved in someone else's drama... maybe tragedy.
She's driving, turns back down Gallia, where we found the purse. There, on the sidewalk, are two women, looking under cars, moving frantically, in my opinion.
"I'll bet that's her!" she says. She pulls up, stops where there's not parking space. "I'm just going to walk up there and see if she recognizes the purse. What do you think?"
I'm still in get-me-the-hell-outta-here mode, but I nod, open my door. We get out. She comes around the car, and, as we start to walk back where the women are, she takes my hand. I try to be nonchalant about that. It does relax me a bit, takes me... emotionally... in a preferred direction.
We get close and I hear one woman say to the other, "...all the money I've got!"
Donalinda raises the purse up in her right hand as we get closer, and the woman looks up, kind of jumps toward us!
"That's..." is all she says, reaching for it.
"The phone's in there. The money's intact!" Donalinda tells her. I look at her face. She's smiling, acting like this is all very natural. I try to think of a look to put on my face but just feel like I'm faking a smile.
The woman whips around, turns her back to us, to open the thing on the hood of a car. I look at the other woman. Her face is distressed as she watches the woman, looks at us, at the woman, back at us.
I tug at Donalinda's arm, try to lead her away. She doesn't turn with me.
"We found it here a little while ago," she says. "I figured whoever lost it would be back looking for it!"
The woman zips it up, says, 'Thank you.' and turns away, up the sidewalk. The other woman says nothing, looks at me, turns and follows. They walk fast, back up the street. Now Donalinda turns and we walk back. I hear a car back there start. The engine revs, like maybe she had her foot on the gas pedal without realizing it. It pulls out, and comes by us, faster than it needs to. I see the woman on the passenger side looking at us. I tug at Donalinda's arm to not get to her car before theirs has turned past the Esplanade. I'd rather we knew them, their car, but they didn't know us and ours. So far, so good.
STORY IN PROGRESS.

Well they like money , So there ya go . American women the price tag is a bit higher than Asian women. Ya got ask him what's the sales price out the door. Divide that with the first divorce you'll get with an American women . I found a 3rd world women is a better bargain . But if they get westernized . You're back to square one . It's a vicious circle. Younger women faster horses and all that. The third time is a charm is a myth. Its the forth. In music terms American women are about the same cost as a $100,000 Olsen guitar . Like guitars and women , they're all different. One plays smooth the other a nightmare. Catch and release between divorces . Like George Carlin would say , I have a lot of great ideas

Interesting story. I'll try to make a song out of this. It might have 10 verses, I don't know.

Gary, this one wasn't easy. Feel free to shape it any way you like.

A Woman With Money in Her Mouth

Verse 1
I woke up with a picture I couldn’t shake loose
Dark hair, bare shoulders in a half-lit truth
She was smiling like she knew me, like she’d been around
Greenbacks folded tight, clenched between her sound
Didn’t know the number, didn’t know the why
Just the color of the money and the look in her eye

Verse 2
Wednesday morning, alarm clock sin
Jim Dandy lunch and a ninety-nine cent grin
When I cracked my wallet, there it was again
Green paper whisperin’ like an old friend
Some things fade when the daylight comes
Some things follow you when you’re done

Chorus
No money in her mouth this time
Just a smile I couldn’t ignore
Same shoulders from a half-lost dream
Same pull I’d felt before
Some dreams don’t let you sleep it off
They want somethin’ south
Yeah, some dreams look just like her
A woman with money in her mouth

Verse 3
Friday night, Cubby’s Hole hummin’ low
Tom calls me Harley, God only knows
Eagles on the jukebox, KC in the air
And there she was dancin’ like she belonged there
Friends laughin’ loud like summer rain
She laughed quieter, let ’em be what they came

Chorus
No money in her mouth tonight
Just laughter and a green top glow
Same face I couldn’t forget somehow
Same place my heart would go
Some things hit you when you’re wide awake
No dreamin’ allowed
Yeah, some moments cost more than sleep
A woman with money in her mouth

Bridge
I thought about tellin’ her the dream I’d seen
Folded bills, borrowed meanin’
But some things sound better left unsaid
Like why a song keeps playin’ in your head

Outro
We walked past names in old tile stone
Nighttime teachin’ a town what it’s known
If dreams are debts or somethin’ true
I don’t know what they’re tryin’ to do
But if that dream was callin’ me south
It knew her face, no doubt
Yeah, it knew her face all along
A woman with money in her mouth

Mmm...don't think this works yet

Perhaps less density and more of a focus on the who what when where why of the money in her mouth???

Really don't know...

I'm sorry, I don't have time to read the story, I barely have time to read songs.. LOL

Many years ago, I worked at a big 21 screen theater in Boston for a while...
Would find wallets and purses all the time, sweeping up between shows.
When I took them to lost-n-found, apparently I impressed the manager because I left the money in them.
He gave me a quick promotion to the moneyroom... counting all the money exchanged (the bank deposit) at the end of business hours.
Good memories, Good times

Sorry horrible hook, its degrading to women