Jasper sits at the end of the bar, as usual.
Somewhere between sixty-five and one hundred and twelve, Jasper’s health could be better: His hands shake, his balance is off, his ears ring, he says, though he is well enough to greet the regulars who stop to speak with him.
What’s his news tonight?
He’s not thinking about Ukraine or Covid but about what he calls “moral currency.”
Whatever a nurse earns, that money would pay for more, when it is cashed in, than what a banker earns because nurses would earn their wage in “moral currency.”
I love this idea, I say.
“Well, it is a tricky business, to make it work,” he says, laughing, as he orders another beer and as yet one more of the regulars puts the warm hand of welcome, and wealth, on Jasper’s back.