Uncommon Cents

by Michael C. Keith:

For good ye are and bad, and like to coins,

Some true, some light . . . 

–Lord Tennyson

Eleven year-old Sammy Medford had established a rule about picking up lost pennies from the ground. If it were tails up, he would ignore it. In his mind doing that would keep him from bad fortune. On the other hand, a penny that was heads up demanded he retrieve it, since he believed it possessed good luck. The only time he violated the latter tenet was when he came across an orphaned penny that was partially covered with something that looked suspiciously like dog poo. He would later curse his squeamishness, since not fetching the soiled piece of copper would have unusual consequences.

Not twenty minutes after leaving the smudged penny on the sidewalk, Sammy discovered a hole in his jean’s pocket that had contained the change his mother had given him to buy a loaf of bread. He immediately retraced his footsteps in the desperate hope of finding the coins, but luck was not with him. When he returned home to inform his mother of what had happened, she was less than pleased.

“How could you lose all that silver, for heaven’s sake?” she inquired sternly.

“I have a hole in my pocket that I didn’t know I had,” answered Sammy.

“Which pocket? Let me see.”

“It’s in this one,” said Sammy turning it inside out only to discover that there was no hole in it.

“What about the other pocket?”

 To Sammy’s chagrin it, too, had no hole.

“But there was one, mom, I swear!”

“Enough, Samuel. I’m tired of your silly excuses,” chided Mrs. Medford. “We need bread, so here’s a five-dollar bill. It’s all I have. I’ll tuck it in your pocket to make sure there’s no tear in it. You’d better not lose this money.”

“I won’t,” muttered Sammy, puzzled by the curious disappearance of the hole in his pocket.

On his return trip to the store, Sammy spotted the soiled penny he had previously ignored and in frustration stomped on it.

“You made me lose all the money!”

As he stepped away he noticed the penny was gone. It must be stuck to my shoe, reasoned Sammy, but when he looked, it wasn’t there. He scanned the area around where the penny had been, but it was not to be found. More than a little perplexed, he continued on to the store where he grabbed a loaf of wheat bread and took it to the cashier.

“That will be two-dollars and thirty-nine cents, sonny,” said the store clerk.

Sammy’s heart jumped when he discovered the bill was missing from the pocket in which his mother had so carefully placed it. The cashier repeated the amount as Sammy searched all of his pockets frantically.

“I’m sorry. I can’t find my money, sir.”

“Well you better go home and get some. It’s not free, you know,” replied the store cashier.

On his way out of the store, Sammy felt a small round object in the pocket that had held the five-dollar bill. When he removed it, he could not believe what he held.

It’s the dirty penny, he thought stunned. But how could it get in my pocket and where’s the five-dollar bill?

Reluctant to return home and baffled by the inexplicable events he had just experienced, Sammy sat forlorn in a bus stop kiosk across the street from the convenience store. There he wiped the penny clean of what he had taken as dog poop but now realized was just dirt.

“Did you do this?” he mumbled, holding the penny closer to check its date.

Sammy was surprised to find it was his birth year. Yet still angry over what he attributed was bad luck caused by the one-cent piece, he chucked it across the street and watched as it rolled into a storm drain.

What should I do? he wondered. I can’t go home because mom will freak out. He remained in the enclosure for a while longer and then set off for his best friend’s house thinking he might be able to hide out there until he came up with a plan to deal with his dilemma.

By the time he reached his destination it was dinnertime, and Sammy knew his friend’s mother did not allow her son to have visitors at that hour. Despite this he tossed a stone at his friend’s bedroom window hoping to get his attention. After three unsuccessful attempts to rouse him, Sammy chucked a larger stone in the direction of the window, but he lost control of it and it struck and smashed the large picture window directly beneath his friend’s room. Glass flew everywhere, and Sammy took cover to keep from being detected. To his relief, no one responded to the mishap, and he concluded that no one was home.

After remaining concealed for several more minutes to make certain he wasn’t discovered, he ran from the scene hoping neighbors had not caught a glimpse of him. This is the worst day of my life, he lamented, and then he felt something in his pocket.

“Oh, no!”

Sammy ran to the nearby river and tossed the insidious penny into it. He stood at the river’s edge for the better part of an hour wondering if the coin bearing his birth year would wash ashore. When he felt confident that it lay at the bottom of the muddy water, he took his leave, wandering toward his house. On his way, he crossed the street to avoid the intimidating Doberman Pincer that had charged at him on two previous occasions. Thankfully it was held at bay by an invisible fence.

“Shut up, you stinking dog!” bellowed Sammy from the opposite corner, and then his worst nightmare became a reality.

The dog lunged past the electronic barrier and entered the street. At the moment it did, a passing car struck it.

“Bruno!!”

The dog’s owner was Mr. Coulter, the father of the boy that had harassed him since the second grade.

Sammy stood frozen in his tracks as the dog’s master dashed to his injured pet’s side. Sammy breathed easier when he saw that the animal was not severely injured.

“Hey you, kid! Why’d you yell for my dog?” shouted the disgruntled pet owner. “You almost got him killed. What’s your name? You’re that Medford boy, right?”

Before the inquest went any further, Sammy ran away as fast as his legs would carry him and didn’t stop until he found himself in front of the town’s hardware store. There he collapsed on its outside bench to catch his breath. As he gulped for air his eyes caught site of a glimmering object next to his foot that sent chills up his spine. It was the dreaded penny that had turned his existence into a living hell. Sammy gazed at the coin for several minutes pondering his next move.

“Please leave me alone. I’m sorry I didn’t pick you up the first time I saw you. I’ll never do that again.”

An idea then occurred to him. If I put the coin into the gum machine at the hardware store’s entrance, it might be trapped in it. The plan had a bonus, too, since it would also reward him with a piece of candy. He grabbed the penny and inserted it into the dispenser, which quickly yielded a bright red gumball. He popped it into his mouth and bit down on it. An awful pain shot through his jaw, and he realized he had shattered a tooth.

The intense pain brought tears to his eyes. When he spit out the rock hard gum he noticed that it was accompanied by a piece of his rear molar. While he probed the damaged tooth with his tongue, he imagined his mother’s wrath compounding when she found out that in addition to losing the five-dollar bill he had also severely damaged a tooth.

If it stops hurting, I won’t tell her, mused Sammy. Not today anyway. And just as quickly as the stabbing pang had afflicted him, it abated. Sammy was grateful that numbness had replaced the horrible ache in his ruined tooth, but his thoughts quickly returned to his crisis, and they caused him a different kind of discomfort. As he ran his finger over the jagged remains of his tooth, a plan emerged which he hoped would resolve his terrible situation. I’ll ask the store guy for a loaf of bread and promise to come back right away with the money, contemplated Sammy. He knew his father kept his loose change in a coffee container in the garage. He would borrow enough to make his mother happy when he returned with the bread in hand. Then he would dash to the store and pay the clerk.

When he entered the convenience store, the cashier was busy bagging items purchased by an elderly woman.

“You back again?” asked the man behind the counter as his customer left.

“Yes sir. I want to ask you if I can get a loaf of bread now and give you the money when I get it from home. I’ll be back right away. My mom really needs the bread right away,” implored Sammy.

“Huh? What are you . . .? Hey, what’s that in your pocket?” inquired the clerk eyeing him suspiciously.

“Nothing. I don’t . . .” sputtered Sammy suddenly noticing a Butterfinger sticking out of his shirt pocket. “But, I didn’t . . .!”

“You were going to clip it, weren’t you?” growled the clerk, grabbing at the candy bar.

“No! Honestly, I don’t know how it got there,” protested Sammy.

As the clerk removed the candy from Sammy’s pocket a small object fell to the floor.

“It’s the penny!” exclaimed Sammy, pointing to it.

“That ain’t enough to buy the Butterfinger. I should call the police, but I’m going to call your mom instead. What’s your phone number?”

Sammy reluctantly gave the angry store clerk his home number and listened while the man told of the theft to his mother. Within fifteen minutes she arrived and there was fury in her expression.

“Figured he’d be better off having you deal with him than the cops,” said the clerk, depositing money for the candy bar in the cash register.

“Thank you for your consideration, sir. Let’s go young man. You have a lot of explaining to do,” said Mrs. Medford in a tone Sammy dreaded.

On the way home, his mother chastised him for his waywardness, occasionally whacking the back of his head with her hand. A strange sensation began to take over Sammy as his mother continued her harangue. His gloom was transformed into a feeling of deep malice.

“All you are is a bad penny, young man!” bellowed Mrs. Medford.

As they walked along, Sammy clutched the coin that had returned to his pocket.

“Do you hear me, Mister?” shouted his mother, standing in front of him and blocking his path. “You’re a bad, bad, penny!!”

After a long reflective pause, Sammy looked up at her and smiled sardonically.

Michael C. Keith is the authored of an acclaimed memoir, three story collections, and two-dozen non-fiction books. www.michaelckeith.com

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