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Hey it’s Cues - this is our monthly-ish newsletter about our sliver of Bed-Stuy and its stuff.

EVENTS: We have events coming up! Come thru.

MEET YOUR NEIGHBORS: Paula

**"**My journey pursuing legal status in the US took over 10 years, and thousands and thousands of dollars. During this time spent waiting and pursuing each next step, I became deeply interested in telling stories about the immigrants that I met..."

ICYMI: In Case You Missed It

Just 20 delectable selectables from the store. Go on.

STORYTIME: Mike the Moneyman

Mike the Moneyman was a misnomer. He was called the Moneyman because he was no good at it.

He could spot a counterfeit bill “from a mile away”. Like how he would trade a two dollar bill to someone for a one because “who the hell is Thomas Jefferson”. Or he could do quick math in his head such as paying the $200 when he landed on income-tax in Monopoly because “10% was more”.

He really shined with his slots scheme. Mike the Moneyman combed the floors of the race track looking for tossed winners. He would spend hours upon hours to find a few three-buck tickets. He would cash them in and play the slots. Time was indeed money. But Mike almost never won. Since he was spending other people’s money, he’d never lost either. To him, he was ahead.

The last and only time he hit it big on his slots scheme, he won three hundred dollars at Resorts. “I’m rich! Time to treat myself.” Mike the Moneyman could think of only one thing, “I’ll go play slots at Foxwoods”.

To save money on the trip, Mike rented a car from the guy who everyone knows never submits the liability coverage payments. Mike the Moneyman promised him a cut of the winnings instead of cash. Two hours in, around Shelton, Connecticut, the hood started to smoke.

“It’ll be three-hundred and it’ll take a day”, said the only mechanic in town. The mechanic doesn’t take payment in future slot earnings. Mike the Moneyman handed over his Resorts winnings and left to go find a place for the night.

Mike the Moneyman walked about two football fields, eyeing the ground. No one’s horse betting in Shelton. Mike saw a sign which read, “Board for apples”. Behind the sign was a long stretch of gravel leading to a farm. At the end of the path was a man standing in the door frame with a glowing look on his face.

“What is this place?”, asked Mike.