The Shiny Penny

I almost always slowed as I crossed the footbridge, because there was almost always something interesting for a boy to see in the clear, running waters of North Indian Creek.

On that day, as I remember, it was a group of the strange-looking fish we called hog suckers. They had big heads, with thick, sucker lips, bodies tapering toward the tails, like slender ice-cream cones. Their light tan bodies were marked with mottled blotches, sort of like giraffes, and for some reason they liked to line up in a slanted row, like one leg of the vee of flying geese, always facing upstream, preferring shallow waters with a sandy bottom. I’d seen them lie for more than an hour without moving.

But I didn’t stop long to watch, because it was railroad payday, and it was my turn to play the little lottery game Dad had invented for us kids.

Erwin, Tennessee, my hometown, was the center of the Clinchfield Railroad, which ran from Elkhorn Kentucky southward, snaking down through the hills of Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina, following the gorge of the Nolichucky River for many miles, passing into and out of more than 50 tunnels bored through the hills, then settling onto flatter land as it crossed into South Carolina, where Spartanburg was the southern terminal.

Ours was a railroad family, like most in our town. My three older brothers had started working as firemen, shoveling coal through the huge steel doors, onto the long fires that produced the steam to power the locomotives. And they had each, in turn, been promoted to railroad engineer. My dad was a conductor; a good one, proud of his work. 

The railroad paid twice a month—on the 5th and the 20th. And those were the days we played Dad’s teasing game. He would bring his check home, endorse it, then (sometimes after making us wait a while, pretending he’d forgotten) hand it to the one of us kids whose turn it was to take it to the bank and cash it. The thing that made the game so interesting was that whoever cashed the check got to keep the odd change—which could range from nothing (if the pay happened to be in even dollars) all the way up to ninety-nine cents.

That may not sound like high stakes today, but for us, back then, it was. A ticket to the Saturday double-feature movie was nine cents—and that extra penny could buy you any of three kinds of candy from the theater concession stand—Bachelor buttons (a strip of paper with two rows of candy dots attached), Kits (a package of five little caramel-like squares), or Sugar Wafers (disk-like candies in a paper cylinder, a little like a roll of coins). A bag of hot buttered popcorn was a nickel, a box was a dime. Soft drinks were five cents. 

It was much the same at the stores. You could get a hamburger or a hot dog for five or ten cents, depending on where you bought it. A generous slice of homemade pie was ten cents (or with ice cream, fifteen). A cup of coffee, five cents.

The harmonica my older brother Bob gave me—which would sell for about $60 today—probably cost him less than a dollar.

So we were always eager to find out what numbers were to the right of the decimal point. Some of my brothers and sisters would flip the check over and read the amount right off. Others would put it face down on the table, then very slowly lift a corner, peering under until they could see the numbers.

When it was my turn, I didn’t even look. I ran all the way to the bank (except for walking across the footbridge), reached up to hand the check to Louise Grindstaff, the cashier, and waited, dry-mouthed, happy with anticipation. Louise counted out loud as she slowly placed the bills, one at a time, onto the counter. Then she stopped, as if that was all, as if the numbers to the right if the decimal had both been zeroes.

My throat tightened a little, but still I waited, because I knew that she had long since figured out that I didn’t look at the numbers before handing her the check.  So she had decided to do a little teasing of her own. She would hand me all the bills, then look past me, as if waiting for the next customer. The first time she did this, she let me walk away a few steps, disappointed. Then she called out for me to come back, that she had forgotten to give me the change. Her hesitation became a regular part of the game, and even if it added a few seconds of minor agony, I had come to enjoy it, too.

On that day, she made me wait a little longer than usual, but I knew—for almost certain—that she had more money for me. And she did. After forgetting and suddenly remembering—she counted out the coins, stopping after each one, as if it would be the last, then going on. I don’t remember exactly what the whole-dollar amount was, but my payoff was seventy-eight cents. A big win. I remember that I left the bank with both hands in the pockets of my worn denim shorts—the fingers of my left hand wrapped around a hefty roll of bills, my other hand jangling the coins that I had slid into my right pocket.

My walk back home would take me past the depot, then across several sets of tracks in the railroad yard where the yard crews switched the coal-cars around, sorting them into the right order for drop-offs and pick-ups at other stations along the route. As I started home, I heard the familiar wail of a steam whistle, and knew that Number 38, the passenger train, was pulling into the station, that it would be blocking my way. I didn’t mind, as it was only seven or eight cars long. When I got to the depot, I turned right and walked to the back of the train, crossed behind it, and turned left, back toward the middle of the train. I had taken only a few steps when I heard it—a distinct tapping sound. I looked up to see a boy—about my age, standing at the window.

He was looking down at me, from his higher position on the train. And I was looking up at him, from the dirt and gravel alongside the tracks. There was maybe 10 feet of air-space between us, but the other distance could not be measured in feet and inches.

He was—and the word fits—elegant. I’d never seen any other boy dressed the way he was, except maybe in a movie. Not that he looked fancy, or sissified. His clothes, and the way he wore them, suggested — no, more than suggested, declared outright — quality. And character. And breeding. And, I’d guess, family fortune.

That was him. Then there was me. Dusty, in frayed and well-worn denim shorts, maybe shirtless, or at best wearing a simple T-shirt. And barefoot, of course—it was summertime.

It was a marvel for me, and probably for him—each seeing someone from the other end of what some people might call the socioeconomic ladder, up close. Physically close, but only that.

So maybe the boy had reason to consider himself superior. But to his credit, he didn’t seem at all mean about it. At least that’s what I first thought, looking at his expression—kindly, even though maybe a tiny big smug.

I had my right hand half-raised, ready to wave back to him, if that’s what was called for. He held one hand about waist-level, while with the other, he beckoned me toward him.

The windows of the train were much like those in houses of those days—counterweighted casement windows that slid up and down. As I took a couple of steps forward, he slid the window up a few inches. One hand went down to the sill. Then he smiled that warm smile, gave a little push with his fingertip.

I watched as the shiny penny slid from the sill, tumbling down through the air to partially bury itself in the dust at my bare feet. I can still recall some of what I felt as I watched it fall. Embarrassment—for him as much as for myself. Resentment—for his assumptions—but that mostly faded away under his friendly smile.

And I clearly remember one other thought going through my mind—that I had two choices facing me. One was to pick up the shiny coin, hold it up, smile, say thank you, wave and walk away.

The other? Well, you can see what that was. I could pull my left hand from my pocket, fan the bills out like a hand of playing cards, and laugh as I turned and trotted away, waving the green fan aloft like a victory flag. For several long seconds, I considered.

Maybe it was no big deal. Maybe it didn’t much matter which choice I made. Yet to this day, whenever I think back, I wonder if I made the right decision, and what it would have felt like felt, then and now, if I had made the other one.

Anyway, after struggling with the two choices, I did what I guess he wanted and expected—played the role of grateful poor boy, picked up the penny, smiled, mouthed a “Thank you,” and went on my way. But I wasn’t smiling inside as I walked back toward home—walking slower now.

He probably felt that we had both been improved by the exchange. I felt we had both been lessened. The thing had deflated the day, left a sour taste in my mouth.

When I was about halfway across the footbridge, I stopped, stood staring down into the clear water. I was still holding the shiny coin in my hand, not wanting to drop it into my pocket and let it mix in with my own honest money. I held my hand out flat, palm up, and studied the coin. Then I slid my thumb under one edge, gave it a soft flip, watched it, once again, tumble down through the air, this time making a faint blip as it slit the surface and sank to the bottom.

I can’t say I felt good as I turned and walked on across the bridge. But I felt at least a little better.

Sometimes I wonder where that boy is now, what he grew up to be, and how he remembers that day—if at all.