Ten Cents is Two Nickels

The returned change clinked in the palm of my enclosed hand. Their warm, hard metal imprinted my skin. Ten cents. What can a man do with ten cents? Ten cents. Metallic circles to clutter my disordered life. Ten cents. Two nickels. Should I put them in my pocket? No, their perturbing ring would annoyingly resound from my jeans as my legs transported me to all directions on the compass. I would get looks, strange looks. Looks of knowing boredom. Sideways looks lacking compunction, reason, and legitimacy. Looks my jittery mind refused to receive at the moment. No, not in my pocket. Not that. Never that. What can a man do with ten cents? He cannot purchase anything. Two nickels make a man feel poor-especially when all he has in his pocket is ten cents that jangle incessantly, that remind incessantly. Better to have nothing, to have the promising silence, or the simple illusion of paper money, rather than the stark finality of ten cents. I wondered how the hobos did it. Should I give it to a hobo? What's a hobo going to do with ten cents? I'd feel self-conscious slipping two nickels into a hobo's bony hand. He'd look at me strangely; his hungry eyes would say, "All you have is ten cents? What's a square man like you walking around with ten cents in your pocket anyway?" No, not to a hobo. The hobo would feel insulted. I like to think that hobos have pride, but I know that they don't. Then I remembered that I hated hobos anyway. So I reconsidered the matter, and re-rejected it. To wound a hobo's pride would be like spearing the wind. There's no substance; it's all erratic.

Oh yeah, I had forgotten Mr. Franklin. Good old Benny and his Poor Richard's Almanac. 'A penny saved is a penny earned,' was it? But what about nickels? Benjamin Franklin said nothing about nickels. All that hot air about pennies and no nickels? Preposterous. And what about quarters, dimes, silver dollars, fifty cent pieces? This certainly was a quandary. Clearly Ben was an amateur entrepreneur. His ideas of currency and the self-made man are outdated; his capitalism is dead. "Hey Ben! What's a man to do with ten cents in the light of industrialism, in the shadow of the multi-million dollar corpocracy?" Two nickels wouldn't even ripple the modern economic pool.

I sat down to think about what to do with ten cents. It was a mild, overcast day in the year 1961. The indecisive clouds reflected the patchy indecision of my mind. Ten cents. I sat there wishing for a hot, clear day with a confident sun in a stern blue sky. A blistering summer day is good hangover medication. A sort of sauna treatment to sweat the toxins out. Too bad a man can't get into a sauna for ten cents. I remembered the classic old-timer in movies proclaiming the depreciated value of a nickel, let alone ten cents. I thought about all the Victorian era novels where currency was so simple. Jean Valjean would never have stolen the infamous loaf of bread if he'd had two nickels. He wouldn't have gone to prison, wouldn't have been sentenced to hard labor, wouldn't have been labeled an ex-con if he'd had two nickels. He could've bought a loaf of bread. But I couldn't even buy a crumb. My thoughts wandered, and so did I. The nickels I still clasped in my sweating, aching hand. I felt like a magician palming coins. I conjured the coins to the darkest depths of oblivion yet there they remained, hard and menacing. I walked along talking to myself like a madman. Should I toss them onto the ugly pavement? I stared at the ground, hesitating. Then, boiling at the pitch of my indecisive paranoia, I hurled them as hard as my feeble arm would permit onto the ground. They bounced and rolled, crashing loudly. A cop passed me on his bike and gave me a suspicious look. Cops have always made me nervous. I immediately realized that I had committed an act of deviance and frantically bent to regain the lonely nickels.

"What're you doing there?" he barked, staring at my trembling hands. I was shocked silent. I stood staring, mute, the nickels shining in my open hand. "I asked you a question, hippie." He was all power and menace.

"Picking up my nickels, sir," I meekly rejoined.

"What are you doing with ten cents?" He inquired. My heart began to pound. What was I supposed to say? Not even the cop knew what ten cents could be used for. He stood waiting.

"Well, sir, I was trying to figure that out myself." I croaked, my eyes beginning to water.

"WHAT KIND OF SMART ASS COMMENT IS THAT, BOY? I'VE HALF A MIND TO TAKE YOU DOWNTOWN AND BOOK YOU AS A SUSPICIOUS PERSON!" I envisioned myself in handcuffs. I saw my mother bailing out her criminal son. I panicked.

"No sir! Please! I was only picking up my money! Please, sir, I'm too young to go to jail!" Huge teary blobs streaked down my face. I humiliated myself for two nickels. I degraded myself for ten cents. I humbled myself for useless change. Hunched before authority, I cried and cried. In the future I would look at my conduct with shame, but now I was soft and blubbering.

Suddenly, the cop was in a good mood. His voice lilted happily. The beginnings of a smile twisted the sides of his lantern jaw. "Well, you're lucky I'm in a good mood today, boy! Keep your money close, this is a dangerous city. Now move along, Citizen." I was all thanks and apologies. I grasped my two nickels in a fist so tight my knuckles turned white and walked away quickly. Snot was pouring down my nose, but ten cents can't even buy a handkerchief.

Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea. The encounter with the cop had changed me into a quivering child, and my mind had turned back toward adolescence. I recalled the times in my childhood when my friends and I had searched the vending machines for spare change. You know, in the unlikely event that someone would forget to claim their change. It rarely happened but, when we found coins, simple joy would cross our lives. Those were the piggy bank days, the days when we didn't know what money was. The days of innocent self-importance. Oh for the days of the jingling piggy bank! The easy glee, the irresponsible merriment. So much better than today.

My idea was to place the two nickels in the slot on the vending machine which dispenses change. That way I'd be rid of the circular nightmares and bring happiness to children still naive enough to dream. I imagined them finding the nickels and shouting in discovery, chubby hands triumphantly holding the silver coins high, future possibilities expanding before their young imaginations. It was all so simple. I hurriedly walked toward the nearest vending machine and slipped my ten cents in the dispenser.

Then I ran. I ran home. I felt weightless and free. What I really felt is indescribable. The way a prisoner feels when newly enveloped by the opportunistic world. Horizons expanded. I felt enthused enough to fly. Love of life sprouted in my chest. That was that. Time to celebrate.

I hopped in my car and sped downtown. I wanted my favorite bar and my favorite drink. Money was not an option. I had a wallet full of beautiful crisp green cash that made silent and peaceful crinkling noises. I smiled. No ten cents. No nickels. No coinage at all.

When I arrived at the place, there were no parking spots. This had never happened before. Still lighthearted, I swung into the street and parked there. A policeman was writing a ticket for a parked car directly in front of me. Feeling spry, I asked, "What'd he do, officer?"

Without even looking at me, the officer tiredly replied, "Parking meter's up."

Suddenly starting to feel queasy, I slowly turned and looked at the parking meter next to my car. No time left on it. Beginning to hyperventilate, I checked how much parking would cost. My vision blurred as I read the price: "Ten cents."