Fake wealth

I can't stop laughing as I walk away from the homeless vet. My mind races with possibilities that make my fingers tap faster against my thigh. Tick-tick-tick.

One dollar equals one second of rewind. A hundred bucks buys me almost two minutes to undo any mistake. The implications hit me like a freight train.

I could walk into a casino, bet everything on red, and if black comes up do rewind. Place the bet on black instead. Guaranteed win.

I could memorize lottery numbers, horse race winners, boxing match outcomes. Hell, I know who will win the presidential title in the next 40 years. The gambling possibilities alone could make me a millionaire within weeks.

Or I could go bigger. Stock market plays. Real estate investments. With perfect timing and foreknowledge, I could build an empire that would make the cocaine cowboys look like corner dealers.

"I'm going to be so fucking rich," I whisper to myself, grinning like a maniac as I turn onto Collins Avenue.

The Art Deco hotels rise before me, their neon signs flickering to life as dusk approaches. The Fontainebleau. The Eden Roc. The Delano. In my time, these were luxury destinations charging a thousand bucks a night. Here in '78, they're still prestigious, but attainable.

I approach the Delano, its clean white façade promising comfort I haven't felt in days. A real bed. A shower. Room service. I pat my pocket where my roll of bills sits.

Then reality slaps me in the face.

The money. My 2025 cash. The hundred almost got me killed because it looked fake to 1978 eyes. All my remaining bills would have the same problem.

I pull out a twenty and examine it under a streetlight. Wrong size. Wrong design. Different portrait style. The future security features alone would mark it as counterfeit to any cashier in 1978.

"Fuck," I mutter, shoving the useless cash back in my pocket. "Can't spend it, can't exchange it."

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday. The twenty in my pocket could rewind time for twenty seconds, but it can't buy me a sandwich.

All I have is thirty-seven cents in change, period-appropriate coins that actually work as currency here, but only because nobody would look closely at the year of issue of the coin.

I keep walking, passing the hotel's entrance where a doorman in a crisp uniform eyes me suspiciously. My dirty clothes and unshaven face mark me as unwelcome in these places. Just like in 2025, but at least not hidden behind a fake smile.

My steps slow as I reach the end of the block. The neon signs of Ocean Drive reflect in puddles from the afternoon rain, painting the street in blues and pinks. I tap my fingers against my thigh. One-two-three-four.

No money that works in this time. No ID. No social security card. No birth certificate. No friends. No family.

I laugh, a sharp sound that startles a passing couple. They hurry past, giving me a wide space. Can't blame them. I probably look like a lunatic with dirty clothes, wild eyes and talking to myself.

"Assess the situation, Carlos," I mutter, dropping onto a bus stop bench. "What do you have?"

I empty my pockets. Thirty-seven cents in change. A broken Casio watch. A wad of useless future cash. A pack of gum with two pieces left. My wallet with my Florida driver's license that won't be valid for another forty-seven years.

And knowledge which companies will boom and which will bust. I know about the internet, smartphones, social media. I know about 9/11, COVID, and every major disaster in between.

Plus, I can literally rewind time.

"Not so bad," I say to myself, though my stomach growls in protest. "Just need to convert future knowledge into 1978 cash."

I need to think like a hustler. Like the kid who survived Miami's streets by his wits. What's the fastest way to turn thirty-seven cents into a meal and a bed?

Gambling comes to mind first. Poker, maybe. But I need a stake to get in the game. And I look too desperate right now, no one would let me near their card table.

Stealing is an option. I've picked pockets before. But getting caught in a time where I don't exist could be disastrous.

A police car cruises by, and I instinctively lower my head. Last thing I need is to get picked up with no ID.

"Necesito un plan," I mutter nervously.

I need immediate cash. Something simple that doesn't require ID or connections. Day labor, maybe. Construction sites. Restaurants needing dishwashers. The port that already rejected me.

My stomach growls again, louder this time. Focus gets harder when you're hungry.

I stand and start walking toward the less glamorous parts of Miami Beach. Away from the hotels and tourists, toward where the locals live. Where people might hire a guy for cash without asking questions.

The streets grow narrower, buildings more modest. Laundry hangs from balconies. Music drifts from open windows like salsa, disco, funk. The smell of frying plantains makes my mouth water.

I pass a small bodega, its windows covered in Spanish advertisements for cigarettes and cold beer. A group of men stand outside, smoking and talking. They eye me as I approach.

"Trabajo?" I ask simply. "Need work. Anything."

One of the older men looks me up and down. "¿Papeles?"

I shake my head. No papers.

He shrugs. "Mañana. Six AM. Corner of 8th and Washington. Landscaping crew might need help."

I nod my thanks and keep moving. Tomorrow doesn't help me tonight.

As darkness falls, the reality of my situation becomes clearer. I need a place to sleep. The beach is an option, but cops patrol it regularly. Parks close at sunset. I have no money for even the cheapest motel.

I stop at a hardware store window, my reflection ghosting over the display of tools. A simple flathead screwdriver sits in a clearance bin, marked twenty-five cents. My fingers tap against my thigh. One-two-three-four. Twenty-five cents I can actually spend.

"Perfect timing," I whisper, feeling the weight of the coins in my pocket.

The bell jingles as I push through the door. An old man with thick glasses barely looks up from his newspaper.

"Just the screwdriver," I say, sliding my quarters across the counter.

He takes my money without a word, eyes never leaving the racing section of his paper. No receipt, no bag, no questions. Just how I need it.

The screwdriver feels solid in my hand as I walk back into the night.

I keep moving toward the edges of the tourist district, where visitors park their rental cars in sprawling lots. My steps quicken as I spot exactly what I'm looking for, a massive parking structure serving three hotels. Hundreds of cars, minimal security.

"Home sweet home," I mutter, slipping inside.

The concrete echoes with my footsteps as I climb to the third level. Not too high to be trapped, not too low to be easily spotted. The air smells of exhaust and ocean salt. I scan the rows of vehicles, looking for the right candidate.

A blue Chevy Nova catches my eye. Thick layer of dust on the windshield. No parking ticket. Positioned away from the security lights. Someone's left it here for days, maybe weeks.

I circle it once, checking for any sign of recent use. Nothing. The screwdriver feels heavier in my pocket as I approach the driver's side door.

"Sorry, hermano," I whisper to the absent owner. "Just borrowing your backseat for the night."

I slide the screwdriver into the gap between the window and the door frame, working it with practiced movements. This method only worked on cheap and very old cars, but in the current reality it will work on all working class cars.

I check over my shoulder – nobody around – then slip inside, closing the door quietly behind me. The familiar smell of old car upholstery surrounds me. Musty leather, cigarette smoke, and something faintly sweet like old cologne.

The backseat is spacious, typical of these old American boats. I stretch out, using my arm as a pillow. It's not comfortable, but it's shelter.

My mind races despite my exhaustion. Tomorrow I need money. Real, usable 1978 money. The landscaping gig might work, but I need something bigger. Something that leverages what I know and what I can.

I check my future bills in the dim light filtering through the windows. The dates mock me: 2020, 2023, 2024. Useless here except for their time-rewinding usability.

"One problem at a time," I remind myself. "First food and clothes, then shelter, then we get rich."

I close my eyes, listening to distant traffic and the occasional footsteps of people returning to their cars. The Nova creaks as I shift position, trying to find comfort on the vinyl seat.

Tomorrow I'll figure out how to get some cash. For now, I'm just grateful for this temporary sanctuary. As sleep begins to claim me, my fingers tap against the seat. One-two-three-four.