RIVER CITY JOURNAL: MONEY MEANS MEASLY MYSTERY MEANDERS MERCILESSLY

And if that headline doesn't make any sense, neither does the fact that someone taped some greenbacks to my computer.

When I came back to my office from lunch one day this week, there was something taped to my computer terminal that immediately caught my attention.

Money.

Not a king's ransom or an inheritance or a lottery payoff or anything like that. But enough money to get my attention. There it was, hanging by a piece of tape in front of the computer screen.

Have you ever found money and wondered whose it was, where it came from, what you should do with it? Once I was at a filling station putting gas in my car. As I headed toward the cashier, I saw a $20 bill fluttering on the ground. I picked it up and looked at the other customers, thinking one of them had dropped the money. I went to the man at the pump closest to me.

"This yours?" I asked, holding up the money.

He immediately reached for his billfold. I've discovered that is a reflex when men are asked questions about money. They reach for their wallets.

I even asked the filling station attendant if he had lost the money, or had there been any customers looking for money. In the end, another customer across the way yelled: "You found it. It's yours."

But it wasn't my money. I didn't feel right taking it.

All of these confusing feelings were mine again this week looking at the money taped to my computer.

I guess each of us at one time or another has wondered if someone was playing a practical joke. Maybe there was a hidden camera waiting to record my next move.

Not knowing anything about the money, I took it and walked out of my office. I asked several nearby folks if they knew anything about something taped to my computer. They all said no. One of them mentioned that a woman from another part of the building had been in our area while I was at lunch. I found her and asked about something taped to my computer. Nope. Not her.

I tried to think of why anyone would tape money to anything in my office. Here are my theories so far:

1. Yes, indeed, it was a practical joke, and one of these days someone will give me a photo showing what I did with the money. Maybe the picture will be in the next company newsletter.

2. The money was mine all along, and I dropped it on the floor and someone else found it and taped it to my computer. Just that morning I had checked my wallet to see how much cash I had. I have a well-deserved reputation for not carrying very much cash. When my wife and I get ready to go to the movies, she usually winds up paying, because the movie folks don't take credit cards. Yet.

3. The money was being returned to me. Perhaps I had lent it to someone and forgot about it. I'm inclined to do that. When I give someone a few bucks from my wallet -- they aren't ever likely to get a lot of money -- it's usually because they are in a spot and need help right now. While they always promise to pay back the money, I give it to them because I'm able to help. If they pay it back, fine. If not, I'm glad I can help sometimes. I've been in a pinch myself on occasion, but I'm usually too proud to ask for money.

Once, when I was in college and traveling by Greyhound bus, I arrived at the Kansas City bus station at 10 p.m. on my way to the town where the college was. I had it in my mind that I could take a taxi for $5 (the going rate back in the days of long, long ago, for the 20-mile ride). But when I got off the bus, I didn't have $5. I barely had the 90-cent bus fare to the college town, and there wasn't another bus until 6 a.m. So I spent the night on the hard benches in the bus terminal. Occasionally, I saw the familiar panhandlers asking for -- and getting -- handouts from other passengers. It occurred to me that any of those shabbily dressed, grimy men could easily raise enough money for a taxi that would take me to my warm dorm room, a hot shower and my own bed. But I couldn't turn myself into a beggar, and none of the panhandlers offered to help.

4. The money belongs to someone else, but whoever put it on my terminal thought he or she was in someone else's office. Someone else would be a rich person ready to retire in Arizona right now if mistakes like this never happened.

5. Someone put the money on my terminal knowing I would be writing this week's column and probably would mention it. As you can plainly see, if this is the answer, it worked like a charm. After discovering no ready claimant for the money, that was the first idea that popped into my mind: Well, at least I have a column for this week.

And so you've read my tale. I don't know exactly what to make of it. I'd like to close with some profound thoughts about the nature of mankind and the power of money to hold sway over our actions.

But you don't want to read that.

You want to know what I did with the money, don't you?

I have the money. It's not in my wallet. It's in a safe place. If you or the person who dropped that $20 bill at a gas station six years ago ever come to me and ask about the money, I hope I remember where the heck I thought a safe place was.

I'm prepared, however, to look you in the eye with a clear conscience and tell you that I have your money and you are welcome to it.

If I were truly benevolent, I would take the money and invest it and turn it into a pot of gold and give it to an orphanage or some nuns in Africa. Instead, I'm just keeping it simple.

Which is more than I can say for a lot of people who find money that isn't theirs.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.