Lesa woke up and said, "Why do I smell like patchouli?".

On Sunday morning, Lesa woke up and said, "Why do I smell like patchouli?".

We took a moment and replayed the events of the night before. We had attended two musical performances, had run into many old friends, shook hands, and hugged. Who do we know, we wondered, that wore patchouli? We revisited the hugs and the hand shakes, could so-and -so wear patchouli? It didn't seem likely.

Lesa turned to check the time and noticed four one dollar bills on the night stand. She brought her face closer and declared, "It's the money!"

It all fell together. Cut to the night before the last. Friday night, The Dark Star Orchestra comes to the Calvin Theater in Northampton. Droves of patchouli scented hippies crowd into the old historic theater. One such reveler purchases some refreshments from the concession stand. The money is placed in the register. Later that night it is counted out and collected by the Iron Horse Entertainment Group (owners of the Calvin). A day passes. The next day, The Iron Horse Music Hall opens for business and the bar register is stocked with cash from the previous evening's windfall. A show is performed from 7:00 to 9:00. At 10:30 Lesa and I arrive at The Iron Horse for the Fancy Trash CD Release Party. Lesa purchases a drink and receives change from the register. She wakes up the next day do the wafting odor of the hippie from two nights before.

It's in the money, man! It's spreading like a virus. Lesa can't stand the smell and I take the bills from her and place them in my back pocket. Even my weak nose is insulted by the fragrance.

Later that morning, we order breakfast at the Woodstar. Three of the dollars go into their register. The fourth is deposited in the tip jar.

I wonder who has them now.

Sorry, whoever you are.