Fifteen Dollars

The night had a price list.

Five dollars to enter. A beer cost 7.75. One short private dance cost fifteen dollars. In my notes from that period, I calculated that around thirty-five dollars could buy a very good night.

The important number was fifteen.

While I was watching the stage, women came over and offered private dances. I said no because I did not have enough money to spend that way. The decision was simple at the time, but I also knew I might remember it differently once I was back home.

Travel makes small prices feel larger because time is limited. At home, you can say, “Another day.” In another city, another day may never come. Fifteen dollars becomes not only fifteen dollars but also a question about whether you will ever be standing in that place again.

I did not spend it.

That refusal became part of the night.

Years later, I remember the numbers because they show the scale of the decision better than any explanation could. Five. 7.75. Fifteen. Thirty-five. The city had become an economic map as much as a physical one.

The experience I did not buy remained perfect because reality never had the chance to disappoint me. Perhaps it would have been forgettable. Perhaps not.

All I know is that Montreal offered one more thing that night, and my wallet answered before I did.