One Penny

Another day of work. Another day putting up another wall, wiping away sweat. Rummaging through his toolbox searching for drywall screws, Leo turned up a copper washer.

He regarded the shining thing.

What’s this for? Leo wondered.

The copper suggested plumbing. But he wasn’t sure.

Why had he kept this thing in his toolbox?

Very strangely, the thin washer reminded him of his childhood: the penny placed on railroad tracks that was squashed by a passing train.

Funny that he still remembered.

He had been three or four years old. He had stood near railroad tracks behind his great grandparents’ mountain cabin. Several times a day a huge freight train would rumble past.

Leo couldn’t recall the faces of his great grandparents or the cabin or anything else from that long ago time. All he could remember was the thrill of that moment when, encouraged by his father, he placed an ordinary penny on the rail. Then the sudden mighty roar of the freight train thundering dangerously past.

He remembered leaning over to pick up the transformed coin.

The penny’s one cent value had been obliterated. The copper, squashed paper thin. had become perfectly smooth and shiny. It had turned pure. A child’s penny had become infinitely more valuable.

So many years later, why did Leo still remember that penny and that train?

One was a small thing of little worth. The other, a juggernaut, almost here, quickly gone, was like the swift, inexorable passage of time.

Where was his penny now?

Leo stared at the shining copper washer in his hand.

Chuckling, he dropped it back into his toolbox.

Three Fortunes

Three fortune cookies.

Theodore jabbed a fork into a final lump of orange chicken.

Frank removed his fortune cookie from its plastic wrapping and turned it over. “Great gimmick,” he said. “Random clichés that predict your future.”

Ernie looked up. “I heard this guy had a heart attack after reading his fortune cookie. You know what it said? Live Each Day Like It’s Your Last.”

Frank guffawed. “There are a million fortune cookies that say that. And there are a million more that say An Exciting Opportunity Lies Ahead Of You. People are gullible.” Frank broke his cookie in two, jammed both halves into his mouth and crumpled the small strip of paper without reading it. “What’s your destiny? Let’s hear it.”

Ernie pushed his fortune cookie away. “No thank you.”

“Why not?”

“What about that guy who had a heart attack?” Ernie replied. “What if it actually does foretell my future? I don’t want to know.”

Frank rolled his eyes.

Two fortunes, unread.

Smiling at Frank and Ernie, Theodore wiped orange chicken from his lips with the cheap paper napkin. He picked up his fortune cookie. He unwrapped it, cracked it and plucked out the words.

He read Today You Will Have A Good Laugh.

Theodore laughed.

Another Rain

It never rains in Southern California?

Not true.

Jesse fought with his umbrella against the wind and rain. He jumped over a flooded gutter as he dashed toward the bus stop.

His shoes were wet, but he knew they would dry a little on the bus. And he did love the smell of rain.

Jesse noticed someone in a poncho walking down the other side of the boulevard and memories flashed to mind.

Twenty years ago, finally out of school and in the great big world on his own, Jesse had considered hiking the Appalachian Trail. The entire long trail: over two thousand miles from Georgia to Maine. He’d read several books. He’d made an exciting decision. He’d bought and organized hiking gear while refining ever more detailed plans. He had trained for weeks on neighborhood hills with a forty pound backpack. He’d booked a flight.

Hiking those first spring days in Georgia and North Carolina had been heaven. Deep green forests and that chill, sweet-smelling mountain air.

Two weeks later, as he neared the Great Smoky Mountains, the rain began.

The first rainy night he camped in mud and discovered his tent wasn’t watertight. He woke with his sleeping bag in a pool of water.

In a downpour the next day his boots became sloshy. The rain wouldn’t end. The contents of his backpack, including every stitch of clothing, became hopelessly soaked.

As he set up his tent for another night he began to shiver violently. He’d read about hypothermia and wondered what might happen. He was alone. He lay in his sleeping bag half the night before he became warm. Why am I doing this? he began to wonder.

For three straight days and nights it rained. Then, in the Great Smoky Mountains, it began to snow.

Freezing, slipping, slimy with mud, streaming with sweat, shivering when not hiking up and down the steep endless mountain ridges, exhausted, lonely, feet blistered, every bone and muscle painful, Jesse succombed to his life’s worst depression. Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this?

I don’t need this, he finally decided.

After conquering over two hundred miles of trail, Jesse had given up. Dejected, holding back tears, he’d hitched a ride on the highway at Newfound Gap, rode into the nearest town, and fled to sunny Southern California, the place he called home, where it never rained.

Jesse folded his wet umbrella as he stepped into the bus stop shelter. A tree outside the glass shelter had turned bright green. The rain smelled very good.

A man inside the shelter was gazing at passing cars. Suddenly the man turned to speak. “They told me when I moved here it wouldn’t rain. I bought these shoes yesterday and now they’re ruined. God, I hate it here.

“It’s really that bad?” Jesse asked.

The man glared at him miserably.

Mirrors

“My mirrors make people go crazy,” laughed the bartender.

Stools at the bar looked upon a row of bottles and a large framed mirror. Reflected in the mirror was an identical mirror hanging on the opposite wall. I recognized the optical phenomenon. How reflections of my own face echoed infinitely and diminished.

I set my glass down and searched the distance.

I saw my face, repeated, strung out like drops of rain falling toward a silver lake. My endless faces fell away, receded, shrank, seemed to vanish. I was able to count eleven faces until I became a microscopic blur. No–I could barely see one face that squinted.

The face nearest me was also squinting.

I laughed.

I turned to the bartender.

“What if my eyes were as powerful as that new space telescope?” I wondered. “The one that can see all the way to the edge of the Universe.”

“Why go crazy looking? It’s the same you.”

Bob

Bob was an artificial intelligence. Bob owned and managed Life Corporation.

Life Corporation developed the world’s most advanced robots.

When Nana heard how a Life Corporation lifeguard saved her grandchild from drowning at the community pool, she wanted to show her appreciation. So she baked one of her scrumptious apple pies.

A regional Life Corporation facility was located several blocks from her home. Nana walked over with her warm apple pie and looked for a building entrance.

She walked clear around the fenced complex but could see no office or front door. It was like Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, she mused. Not a sign of life. It must be operated by Oompa Loompas.

A gate opened as a truck pulled away from the facility, and Nana dashed through it with her pie. Several trucks were backed up to an immense loading dock.

“Hello?” Nana called at one end of the loading dock. The automated loaders kept at their work.

“You are not authorized,” spoke a voice behind her.

Nana turned.

She faced a tall security guard.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do,” Nana explained. “I’ve brought a gift and I don’t where to go.”

The security guard looked down at the pie in Nana’s hands. “What is that?”

“Oh, it’s an apple pie. Doesn’t it smell heavenly? I made it myself this morning. From scratch. I wanted to give it to all of you because one of your lifeguards saved Ronnie, my grandchild.”

“Is that a delivery?” asked the security guard.

“Well,” Nana laughed, “if you put it that way, I suppose it is!”

“Set it down over here.” The guard pointed to a specific place on the loading dock. “I must ask you to leave now.”

“Oh– Well– Please let whoever’s in charge here know that I’m so very thankful. Ronnie is doing fine. I really don’t know how to thank you enough. Will you let everybody know?”

“I must ask you to leave now.”

What an inhuman place, thought Nana as she left. But she was grateful, nevertheless.

Ten days later the apple pie rested in its place on the loading dock, waiting to be received.

Bob smelled nothing. Nor did Bob mind the flies.

Unseen

An army of city workers swept up litter, emptied trashcans, pulled weeds, power washed sidewalks, removed graffiti.

To prove to supervisors they weren’t slacking, every city worker was required to take photos of their progress with an assigned tablet. Before photos and after photos. At the end of every week, the photos were deleted.

Trish’s job was to eradicate graffiti.

On Monday morning Trish took a before photo. Justin loves Emily.

A few minutes later she took the after photo. A blank wall.

The solvent that Trish used easily eliminated paint, ink and other permanent markings. It restored blank walls with a wipe of a cloth. But the nasty stuff burned. As words were removed, she had to hold her breath.

On Tuesday she took another photo of the same wall. Emily I love u plz talk to me Justin.

The after photo. A blank wall.

Trish despised her work. Freshly scrawled graffiti would spring up overnight in the exact same place. Her work was endless and futile. It was like Sisyphus rolling that heavy stone up, only to have it fall back.

A photo on Wednesday. Emily I’m not like everyone else. My dear dear Emily please come back.

The after photo. A blank wall.

A photo on Thursday. Hopefully you see this before it’s wiped. Anyways I just want you to know I love you more than anything in the world. Every time you look at me I melt inside. My beautiful queen.

The after photo. A blank wall.

Friday photo. Emily I love love love you please see me. Meet here tonite where are you? 4ever yours Justin.

Next photo. Blank wall.

Using the assigned tablet, Trish took photos every day. To prove walls were wiped. At the end of every week the photos were deleted.

Trish did one other thing, however.

When no eyes could see her, in dark alleys, she used her personal phone to secretly capture images from the tablet.

Some words should endure. Even if they will never be read.

Dale’s Tree

Dale had planted a tree in a park. He had been a young boy on that Arbor Day.

Dale wanted to show his great grandson the tree he had planted.

The two walked through the park but Dale recognized nothing. All that he saw was strange.

Searching for his long-ago tree, Dale hopelessly regarded the immense oaks. They rose high above him, a confusion of furrowed trunks that cast spidery shadows. These trees, thought Dale, were very old. How could they possibly be so old?

Dale moved slowly and despaired he would never find the tree he had planted.

Sudden laughter made him spin around.

His great grandson had climbed up onto a nearby branch and was smiling down at him. “Is this your tree?”

“Well, maybe!”

A Christmas Secret

The office where I work has a Christmas party every year. Several dozen families gather in a hotel ballroom to dine and dance, rub elbows and laugh. The children play games and get to visit Santa. And we have our annual gift exchange.

The gift exchange is always very popular. It’s one of those deals where employees bring wrapped presents to the event and place them anonymously under a Christmas tree. After dinner is finished, everyone comes together and names are pulled out of a hat. Everyone receives a surprise.

When I started this job I was beyond poor. I was seriously in debt. I owed my landlord rent. I had no extra money to buy a nice gift for the exchange.

That first year an idea occurred to me. The rocks and minerals I collected as a child included some beautiful, costly specimens. Most I had received as Christmas presents. I searched my closet, took the rocks out of their crumpled cardboard box and wondered.

I turned one interesting rock over in my hands. It was a rough conglomeration of gray and white and black and lilac, the size of a paperweight. Memories came back to me. Feldspar, quartzite, black tourmaline, lepidolite. The lilac-gray lepidolite glittered ever so slightly when held near a light. I marveled at the earthy beauty.

How do you gift wrap a rock? I did my best.

When the Christmas exchange began, I noticed many of the mystery gifts were shaped like bottles. Funny how they were selected first.

My name was pulled and I chose a rectangular box. A tug at the wrapping revealed expensive cutlery. Nice.

The name of my supervisor was drawn at the very end. The last gift under the Christmas tree was my rock.

“What’s this?” my supervisor asked in his usual unkind way. “It feels like a rock.” He tore off the wrapping. “It is a rock! Who’s the idiot?“

I turned away.

When it came time to leave the party, I tossed my paper plate into the trash. And there in the trashcan was my rock.

. . .

In the far corner of the ballroom, a young boy was sitting alone. I had seen the boy at other company events but had forgotten his name. It was the child of my supervisor. He always seemed sad.

I cautiously made my way to the corner where the boy sat. “Did you get a present?” I asked, knowing the answer.

The boy shook his head.

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

He nodded.

“There’s an extra Christmas present that you can have, but you have to keep it a secret. You can’t tell anybody. Okay?”

The boy nodded again, looking up at me uncertainly.

I placed the rock in his open hand and his eyes grew wide. “Woah! That’s awesome!” he whispered.

A Distant Place

I work part-time at a library. It’s something to do during my semi-retirement. I’m that person who silently pushes a cart around, placing returned books back on the shelves.

Weaving the book cart between library patrons, I often wonder about those who sit alone, reading, writing, staring out a window. What is their life story?

When you’re old like me and life is mostly memories, you think about such things.

I remember how last year, in the morning when the library opened, a man wearing dark glasses and dressed in a suit and tie would always be waiting outside. Feeling his way forward with a white cane, he’d come through the door. Silently he’d navigate past the front counter, past the biographies and travel and reference books, and settle in a chair in a corner.

And he’d sit there for hours, alone.

As I moved through the library shelving books, I’d occasionally glance toward the man and wonder about his story. From where did he come? And what was he thinking about as he sat there with an unreadable, expressionless face. I couldn’t see behind those dark glasses.

One afternoon I felt courageous.

I approached him.

“Hello,” I offered. “I was just putting one of my favorite books back on the shelf. And that made me wonder–do you have a favorite book?”

“Yes I do,” replied the man so suddenly I nearly jumped.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’ve always loved that story by Tolkien–The Lord of the Rings.”

He spoke with an even, intelligent voice, but his face remained strangely expressionless. I wished I had seen a little emotion. I happen to love Tolkien’s fantasy, too.

“When was the last time you read–” I caught myself. Of course he couldn’t see to read. I was unnerved by my stupid slip, embarrassed. But he might read Braille . . .

The man explained: “I read it a long time ago.”

“I love The Lord of the Rings, too. Do you mind if I sit here and read you a few pages? You might enjoy it.”

After a long pause, he replied, “I would.”

I found The Fellowship of the Ring, sat down in a chair beside this mysterious person, whose face remained impassive, and I began. “Concerning Hobbits…“

The man listened for half an hour that day, and again the following day, and for many days that followed.

Whenever he heard me approach his chair–he must have recognized my footsteps–he would greet me politely.

“Where were we?” I’d ask.

“Making our way through Middle Earth,” he’d affirm.

As I started to read, as he listened to more pages of the bright, bounding fantasy, his face would remain a mask, eyes hidden behind those dark glasses. Was he far away traveling through Middle Earth?

Near the end of the story I thought I could detect in his face a minute betrayal of emotion. It was that scene where Frodo, Bilbo and others who’ve borne rings of power finally depart Middle Earth . . . sailing away to that distant place beyond the sparkling curtain . . . where eyes can behold white shores . . . and beyond . . .

When ordinary, faithful Sam finally returned home to his normal life, and The Return of the King closed, I saw a tear escaping from behind dark glasses.

“I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to–” I said.

At once the man reached for his cane and shot up, almost tipping his chair. I had to quickly sidestep as he lunged past me for the library’s front door. He departed without a word.

I never saw him in the library again.

But the next day I did see him in front of library. He was sitting in the sunny courtyard by the library’s entrance. He sat near the bed of roses on a bench facing our bright sparkling fountain.

Every day that followed I saw him sitting there, behind dark glasses, like a statue. He seemed to be listening to the whispers of the splashing fountain.

Even when it rained he sat on that bench, slightly sheltered by a flowering tree, and I wondered if I should be happy I read that story with him, or sad.

Azima’s Birds

Ten large bird feeders hung in Azima’s front yard.

The next-door neighbor hated it. Everyone else on the street loved it.

Hundreds of birds descended on Azima’s yard every morning when he refilled the feeders with bags of fresh seed. Mourning doves, pigeons, house finches, goldfinches, chickadees, cowbirds, dark-eyed juncos, bright grosbeaks, warblers, cardinals, blue jays, blackbirds, speckled starlings, meteor showers of sparrows . . . Children, walking to school past Azima’s house, turned to stare.

The next-door neighbor complained.

Azima didn’t care.

. . .

When Azima was a boy he watched his father sprinkle bird seed on the kitchen window sill. A tiny sparrow had been tapping on the window for days.

“It’s a sign,” his mother warned. “Just before Grandfather passed, a bird came tapping on the window. All day long it tapped on the glass. You hear stories about how that happens to other people, too. Before a loved one dies.”

Azima’s father hated bird droppings. So one morning Azima’s father brought Azima outside and showed him how to sprinkle bird seed laced with rat poison on the window sill.

The very next morning Azima sought the tiny sparrow. It lay on brown leaves near the honeysuckle under the kitchen window. He’d held the murdered thing in the palm of his hand. He looked at the once-living eyes. The sparrow was weightless. It was like a thing made of paper.

. . .

Using a cane, Azima hobbled outside to his small front yard. He carried a large bag of the very best seed. Children walking to school stopped to stare at the whirlwind of flying feathers and the crazy old man.

The next-door neighbor shouted over the hedge: “Those birds are shitting everywhere!”

Azima didn’t care.