A Penny's Worth

 

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  A Penny's Worth

  by

  Paul Comstock

  https://www.paulallancomstock.com

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  A Penny's Worth

  Copyright © 2007 by Paul Comstock

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  A Penny's Worth

   

   

  Life sucked. It always had. That wasn't a new revelation for Pete Samson, nor one he found enlightening. It definitely hadn't kept him from running his SUV into the telephone pole down the alleyway he'd just stumbled out of, either. Finding the convenient bus stop bench to rest on was the only break he'd had in a good long time. He laughed, because his only other option would have been to cry, but he cut it off quickly as pain seared through his aching, bleeding head.

  "Hey buddy, here ya' go," a slurred voice said behind him. "You need it more'n me. Maybe it's lucky."

  A hand appeared over a crumpled and dirty paper cup sitting next to Pete on the bench. An impossibly bright, shiny penny fell in slow motion toward the cup from the opened hand reflecting the light from overhead in bright flashes of coppery brilliance as it turned. Pete could hear the dull thuds as the single penny bounced and rattled against the cup's soft, waxy sides when it fell inside.

  Pete glanced over his shoulder, seeing a rough looking bum with two-day stubble in brownish stained clothes. The unwashed and sickly sweet smell coming from the bum almost made Pete vomit, or was it the headache making him nauseous? He couldn't tell for sure.

  The bum laughed, and Pete turned to look his way. Pete watched through bleary and pain-filled eyes as the man staggered away. A bum should know better, he thought. Silently he cursed and wished the bum could suffer some of his pain. Almost as if in answer, the bum put his hands to his head and groaned.

  Bemused and distracted, Pete stared down into the simple paper cup. Now it held two impossibly bright pennies. There shouldn't be two, he thought. Only moments before there was only one, wasn't there? Had the bum put more than one into the cup, or was the other penny already there? Pete's eyes wavered and his sight blurred as the bright reflections from the streetlights bounced off the pennies. His two cents worth. Quite the joke, but only one of many life liked to pull on him. Grasping the cup firmly in his hand, he willed himself to focus, to see things clearly. Swearing, he wished he could see better.

  Tinkling and jingling emerged from the cup. Something bounced against its sides, surprising him. He loosened his grip, letting the cup slide part way through his hands before gripping again. Frowning, he looked back into the cup, expecting the two pennies he'd seen earlier, but now there were four. Four?

  Was it a concussion? Brain damage? Maybe both? His head certainly hurt enough. Pete laughed again, even though the effort increased his pain. He poured the pennies out into his hand and shoved them into his pocket. Who knew? Maybe they were lucky. If nothing else, he might need the money soon.

  So what now? The gash on his forehead bled in a steady stream onto his now wrinkled black suit and blood-stained shirt that was once white as he considered. It spread in swirls and patterns onto the bench, mesmerizing him with its dance. Pete leaned forward, putting his aching head in his hands, wishing his headache would go away and the blood flow would stop.

  The piercing whine of a quickly approaching siren gained his attention as the fog of pain ebbed. The screeching of tires penetrated the ever-increasing blare of the siren. He looked up. The flashing lights of a police car strobed across his sight, the pain returning in waves along with each flash.

  Flash... Pain... Flash... Pain... Flash...

  Between brief glimpses, Pete could make out two policemen in the cruiser. The one in the driver's seat got out, while the other worked the radio. The first officer tilted his head and frowned. "Sir, are you the guy that called about the accident?"

  He hadn't, but someone must have. The difference seemed hardly worth mentioning. "Yeah," Pete managed to squeak out.

  "You don't look so good," the policeman said, coming forward, looking closer at him. "Sam," he yelled back. "Better call an ambulance. This guy's pretty banged up."

  "Will do, Dan."

  "No," Pete said, as loudly and clearly as he could. Hospitals cost money, and he soon wouldn't even be able to afford the co-pay from his insurance, as long as that lasted. A guy with no job couldn't pay for anything.

  "Are you sure?" Dan asked.

  "Yes." Pete wanted to say more, but the pain kept him from it.

  "Sam, cancel the ambulance. He doesn't want one," Dan said. "Sir, have you been drinking?"

  "A little." He shouldn't have been driving, but what did it matter? Then he realized that tickets and lawyers cost as much as hospitals and regretted his answer.

  "I'm going to have you blow into this," Dan said, producing a little box with a clear plastic tube coming from it. The policeman tore off a protective covering from the blowing end of the tube and pushed it at Pete's mouth.

  "Don't think I can," Pete said.

  "If you can talk, you can blow hard enough. Now blow."

  Pete took it into his mouth and blew, his head pounding even harder. A blinding flash of pain slicing through his head and his vision bluring. He certainly hoped he wasn't drunk enough to go to jail. He didn't need that.

  "Good enough," Dan said, looking at the box intently as Sam came up. Dan frowned. "What does that say?" Dan asked, holding the meter out so Sam could see it.

  Sam looked at it briefly, then answered. "Sober. Completely sober."

  What was that? Their machine said he was sober?

  "I can smell it from here," Dan said.

  "So can I, but if the meter says he's not drunk we can't charge him with anything," Sam said. "Want me to call in another unit? We could use their meter."

  Dan scowled. "No. This is our last call. If the meter says he's not drunk, who are we to argue? Anyway, it looks like he's already had a rough enough night."

  They were letting him off, it seemed. That was a lucky break. His hand wandered nervously to his pants pocket and worked the shiny pennies around. It felt like a lot more than the four he'd put in there, but that couldn't be right. He simply couldn't concentrate, that was all. Yeah, that was all...

  "Sir, where's your car?" Sam asked.

  Pete turned his head. It throbbed with each movement. "Down that alley," he said, pointing over to his right down a dimly lit side street. He didn't bother to explain that it was wrecked. What was the point? He wished it wasn't, but they'd see soon enough for themselves.

  I'll have a look," Sam said.

  "You got any ID?" Dan asked.

  "Here, for what it's worth," Pete said, handing over his wallet. The maxed-out credit cards were useless and the three dollars it held was hardly a treasure. He wished he had more, but unless something happened to change his bad luck, it looked like three dollars was all it would be.

  Dan took the billfold, opened it and whistled. "Well, you sure carry around a lot of cash."

  No time to be sarcastic, Pete thought. Nobody had respect anymore, not even the cops.

  A few minutes later, Sam came back. "Were you driving a black Ford Escape, license 456 YHR?"

  That sounded right. It was probably the only wrecked car, so that must have been right, though honestly, he didn't know his own license number. Who does?

  "Yes," Pete said.

  "It doesn't look like it's been in an accident. It's parked nice and neat right next to the curb," Sam replied.

  "I hit a pole."

  "No, no poles anywhere close to it," Sam said, scratching his head.
"What do you make of it, Dan?"

  "Must be the bump on his head. Pretty good gash. Or maybe it's not his car. Where's your keys?"

  Pulling the keys out of his coat pocket, Pete handed them over to Dan who threw them to Sam. "Check it out."

  "Right," Sam said, returning back down the street.

  What was going on here? He'd been in an accident, hadn't he? His head was pounding, and he was all bloody, that was certainly true. Maybe he had gotten mugged and his muddled mind remembered it as an accident. But why hadn't they taken his billfold? Maybe the muggers got angry that all he had was three bucks and took it out on him. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Sam came back a minute later carrying a registration form. "The keys work, and it's registered to Pete Samson," Sam answered.

  "Well, it matches his ID," Dan said, indicating the wallet.

  "So what do we have here?" Sam asked.

  "If we assume he's not drunk, and there's been no accident, I'd say a victim of a mugging. The only thing is that he's got close to a grand in his billfold, and if they mugged him, why didn't they take that?"

  A grand? A thousand dollars? How was that possible? Pete knew he only had three bucks, and the pennies in his pocket. Instinctively, he reached again into his pocket to feel them, wondering if he'd imagined them, too. His hand only managed to go in about two thirds before colliding with a bunch of coins, just how many he wasn't sure. Definitely many more than the four pennies he had put in there. Was his memory playing more tricks on him?

  "It's a mystery, that's for sure," Sam said. "Look, let's get this guy to a hospital, or home, or something, and leave it up to the detectives to sort out. This is too much for me."

  Pete was thinking the same thing as his head pounded.

  "All right, but he can't drive. We'll have to give him a ride. What's the registration say for an address?"

  "325 Riverside," Sam said. "Nice neighborhood."

  "Is that your address, Mr. Samson?" Dan asked.

  "Yes."

  "Okay, if you won't go to a hospital..." Dan paused. "Are you sure about the hospital?"

  "Yeah, no hospital."

  "We'll take you home then, okay? You can come back and get your vehicle tomorrow."

  "Why not?" Pete answered, shrugging. Janet wasn't going to be there. She'd left him shortly after he'd lost his job. There really wasn't anything left for him anywhere, so home was as good a place to go as any.

  The police officers nodded, helped Pete into the back of their police car, and drove him home.

   

  ###

   

  Waking up the next morning, Pete's head pounded to the same rhythm as his heart beat, but a step or two behind. Part of it was no doubt the accident, but a good part of it was the alcohol, too. He definitely had a hangover, his mouth dry and full as if stuffed with cotton, and his tongue partially swollen. He tried to swallow, and when he did, his head hurt. One of the policemen had wanted him to go to a hospital, Pete remembered, but he had refused. Hospitals cost money. Money, he thought, and then remembered what Dan had said about a thousand dollars in his billfold.

  Excited, he fought off the hangover well enough to rummage around for the wallet. He finally located it on the floor next to the front door. Indeed, it did have a thousand dollars in it in crisp, assorted bills. New bills, from the look of them. But where had they come from? Before the accident, he only had three dollars, of that he was sure.

  It took him a minute to become aware of the jingle in his pocket, and the weight as it slapped his thigh when he moved. He stuck in his hand, pulling out the pennies. All of them were bright and shiny. He set them down on the table in front of him, making a nice sized pile. He hadn't seen this many pennies together for several years. He didn't like coins, and pennies were the most useless of them all.

  Pete picked up one and turned it over in his hand. It was dated 1982--the same year he was born. An odd coincidence, especially since the penny looked like it had been stamped at the mint just today. No penny that old looked as good as this one, of that he was sure.

  He dropped the penny and picked up a different one. It was dated 1982, too. Pete fidgeted and grimaced. What was going on here? He picked up penny after penny, and each was dated the same. They all looked new and perfect, maybe too perfect. He counted the pennies and came up with a total of sixty-four.

  Sixty-four brand new, yet old, shiny pennies, all exactly the same. It couldn't be magic. He didn't believe in magic. The world didn't work that way. At least, it never had for him. You got rewarded for what you did, not what you wished for.

  But what if it was magic? What if he could have anything he wanted just by wishing for it? Absently, Pete put his hand to his head, brownish red flakes of dried blood falling off onto the table top. He needed to get out of these rumpled and stained clothes. Now that would be a good wish to test this newfound penny magic on, he thought, and wished he had already showered and was wearing fresh, clean clothes.

  Pete waited, for what he wasn't sure. Trumpets blaring out in a crescendo, cheering and adoring fans, or maybe just what he'd wished for, but none of it occurred. He laughed. What had he expected?

  A tinkling sound caught his attention, and Pete looked down at the penny pile. That's where it came from. He watched in amazement as the pile multiplied right before his eyes. It grew quickly--pennies pushing toward the table's edge. Pete reached out to grab for one as it began to fall, but stopped short, seeing a bright, white, clean shirt sleeve. It was his shirt sleeve, but without the dried, flaking blood. He smelled good, too. He snorted in disbelief, then leaned back, trying to think.

  He was onto something. After all of the crap that life had thrown his way over the last few decades, finally here was something good, something real. He grabbed a handful of the pennies, wanting to feel their power, keep them close, keep them safe. He didn't want to let them go once he had them, either. He was afraid they might vanish. That was just the kind of luck he'd have. No, not this time.

  He got up and went to the kitchen to find something appropriate to hold them, some kind of a container with a lid. Opening and slamming cabinets, he searched as thoroughly as he could, but fond nothing. Then his eyes fell upon the garage, and he smiled.

  Janet always kept a few empty plastic storage containers around for the unexpected, and this was definitely unexpected. He got one and hauled it inside. Picking up the pennies a few handfuls at a time, slowed by the need to check them every now and again, he dumped them into the container. They looked small and insignificant spread out at its bottom.

  Pete shook his head. It ached, and he wanted nothing more to do with pennies right now. He realized he was tired. He'd been going for days with almost no sleep--and drunk most of that time--so perhaps this was all a dream, or maybe he'd lost his mind. Regardless, what he really needed was sleep and time to recover, time to think it through. He managed to drag himself up the stairs and into bed, then fell sound asleep.

   

  ###

   

  The bright morning sun streamed through Pete's bedroom window, washing a bright path across his king-sized bed. A bed he found much too large now that Janet wasn't here, but had found too small when she was. It was a matter of perspective, he thought. He missed her. Once he got all of the wishes and things together from the penny luck, he would work things out. He promised himself that much.

  Getting up and stretching, he looked out onto his back yard. The view, once splendid and relaxing, was marred by the torn-up ground around the unfinished addition. An addition, Pete reminded himself, that had been his idea, and his mistake. Oh, Janet hadn't minded the idea of a bigger house, but she wasn't as patient as Pete. It was one of the reasons she had left.

  Pete pursed his lips. The addition was unfinished business, and that was a good place to start. He wished it was complete, then blinked as the yard became bleary. As if it had always been there, the image sharpened and the addition appeared just as he had imagin
ed it, perfect in every detail. He smiled. It was easy, and he deserved it, didn't he? Not only this, but much more.

  He sat down on the edge of his bed and started wishing. The big things first. A new car, his old job back, a speedboat, and more. Through it all, Pete grinned. His dreams were coming true. Then a bad feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. Nothing ever worked out for him. What had he forgotten? Then it came to him, and he jumped up and ran down the stairs two at a time.

  A bright and shiny pile of pennies greeted him from the center of the living room floor, overflowing and burying the storage container they had been left in. The force of the new pennies was so great, that they had pushed the furniture up against the walls. From the looks of the mess, he wondered how he hadn't heard anything from upstairs.

  Pete shook his head, wondering what to do with all the pennies now. The containers seemed to work well enough, but he had to have a lot if he wanted room for them to expand. Thirty of them should do the trick, but he didn't have that many. If only he did. Tinkle, one of the pennies fell off the top of the pile. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, four more.

  "No," Pete yelled, realizing he'd just made another wish. The sound became a roar as the penny pile expanded at an unbelievable pace. Pete backed away from it, tripping over something unseen behind him.

  The penny roar continued for a few more minutes, only diminishing somewhat by the creaking and groaning of the house floorboards as they adjusted to the weight. Pete had to cover his ears, the sound piercingly loud.

  Eventually the penny roar stopped, and he took his hands away from his ears. He turned and laughed, realizing that what he had tripped over was the storage containers he'd wished for. Then he stopped laughing and sighed, picking up one of the new containers. Getting on his hands and knees, he started scooping up the pennies. It was going to take a very long time.

   

  ###

   

  Hours later, with stacks of storage containers sitting here and there, Pete finally finished. He crumpled heavily into the armchair, his mind sinking into a kind of daydream, not concentrating on anything. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He hadn't eaten breakfast, and had missed lunch, too. It sure would be nice to have a big ham sandwich and beer. His mouth watered for it.

  The tinkle returned, but this time muffled. Pete cursed. He didn't mean to wish for the sandwich and beer, but he had, and now it was too late. The pennies were multiplying again. He knew because he could hear the tinkles as the pennies bounced and echoed off the plastic container walls. The only good thing was that they weren't going all over his living room, but it could get to be a problem. There had to be some way to reduce the number of pennies.