Ten-dollar-an-hour laborer Tim Scott’s wish came true.
He was out for lunch when the wind turned menacing. Slips of wallet-sized paper flew from his body. Two quarters where his eyes had been took flight. Viewed from a certain angle, they resembled bass drums in a dollhouse marching band.
It was like Santa came to town. Folks grabbed what they could. A few were injured. Fatally.
Tim was stripped like a Mercedes-Benz left unattended in the South Bronx.
On the day he died, Tim Scott was made of money.
Better still?
Having shared his good fortune, he made it to Heaven.
