My grandpa has always been a big collector. Not anything weird like watches or stamps or things like that. He collects coins: American quarters, Roman drachma, Chinese Wu Zhu. You name it and he probably has a bunch of ‘em stored in a polished drawer somewhere. So it wasn’t surprising at all when he left us the few pennies he’d spent years gathering. Well, everyone but me. He’d left half of his estate in the will for me but no pennies. Zilch. Nada. Having been eradicated over 33 years ago, they would be a special possession to have nowadays.
I finished putting on my sneakers, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped into the warm Florida sun. It would be a gorgeous day; not too hot and not a single cloud in the sky. I started walking.
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“Please enter your nine digit Social Security Number now.” Beep Boop. Beep Boop Beep. Boop. Beep Boop.
“What in the world are you doing?” My finger slipped at the sudden noise and accidentally hit the “7” instead of the “1”. Dammit. Why’d he have to ruin his own surprise? I looked up to see a puzzled expression on my grandpa’s face.
"Nu...Nothing” I fumbled with the phone as I tried to hang up the call. “Just chatting with a friend,” I mumbled.
“What friend asks for your social security number? He sat down on the armchair next to me. “You know most people fall for one of those scams once in their lifetime,” he said.
Oh boy. Here it comes. He started talking about the importance of being wary of strangers and not trusting random people you don't know. I tuned him out. He was trying to lecture me? He should appreciate me trying to get him some money that actually has value today. Not some flimsy coins that are older than he is.
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I'd reached the revolving doors of the hospital, and wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. It’d been a long walk; what I wouldn’t give for a cup of hot cocoa right now.
My relationship with my grandpa had begun to sour after that day twelve years ago. It’s possible he had a good point. But to be questioning my actions… probably even my value as his grandson? It was outrageous and I wouldn’t stand for it one bit.
I made my way across the lobby and looked for the information desk. It was the day after July 4th and it seemed busier than usual. An elevator dinged softly in the corner.
“Could you tell me which room Richard Mint is in please? He should be expecting me.” I slid my ID across the table.
"Thank you. Mr. Mint should be in room 2012,” came the reply.
Room 2012, that’s the 20th floor. I would have to take the stairs. I didn’t want to see him, but he had asked me to visit. Something about having some things to tell me. The old man was probably looking to make last minute amends before he died so he could be at peace or whatever.
I arrived at Floor 20 and pushed aside the blue curtain at the room’s entrance. The harsh scent of disinfectant entered my nose. An EKG machine beeped quietly in the corner.
Richard Mint sat propped up in his bed by 3 pillows. For a person who was in the last stages of battle with an aggressive cancer, he looked well. A vase of fresh flowers had been placed on the table beside him by an earlier visitor. Should I have brought him something?
“Hi grandpa,” I said meekly. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading: Hospitals overwhelmed by flurry of patients poisoned with household cleaners, read the headline.
His face broke into a huge smile. “How wonderful to see you! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come. Please, sit down.” He gestured to the stool beside the bed.
I sat.
“I know we’ve had our fair share of differences in the past.” He paused and studied my expression. “But this is a conversation I’ve wanted to have for a long time now. And... I should’ve tried harder to have it sooner.”
He paused again, looking deep in thought. He seemed to be having trouble making eye contact with me.
“There’s no easy way to put this so I’m just gonna cut straight to the chase.”
He held my gaze now.
“Marcus, all your life. You’ve lacked cents.”
I got up. The stool screeched against the linoleum, making him wince. “Goodbye Richard,” I said as I made my way to the door.
“Wait Marcus -”
I’d left the room before he could finish. What else could there be to say? I can’t believe he’d gone to all that trouble just to rub in his hatred for me one last time. I didn’t want any of his filthy pennies anyway. I’d buy my own, just to show him.
It turns out there’s a museum in San Francisco with a fairly large coin collection. Thanks to the Panama Canal, I was sailing under the Golden Gate less than a week later.
The assistant curator had his own office. A small room nuzzled in the northwest corner of the museum lined with bookshelves and display cases. A wispy-haired man, maybe around 60 years old, sat behind the mahogany desk at the center.
“Mr. Cuprum?” I knocked on the door. “I’m Marcus. I spoke with you earlier today about buying a few coins from your collection?”
“Ah yes. Please come in,” he replied warmly. We exchanged the usual pleasantries but got straight to business. “May I see an ID please?”
“Yes, of course” I said, handing him the card along with a check for $25,000. It was spending a quarter of my inheritance on useless pennies, but it was well worth it.
His eyes widened. “Twenty five grand? Surely I can’t accept this.”
“What do you mean?” I replied. What was the hold-up? It was beginning to look like all coin-collectors, not just my grandpa, resented me for some reason.
He glanced at my ID. “Florida? Why did you come all the way across the country just for a penny?” He looked at me now with concern. “I...I’m sorry. It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”
Sense. Cents.
I muttered something about a family emergency and hastily made my way out the door. I booked the first eastbound ship I could find.
I flew up the stairs to the 20th floor and burst into Room 2012 only to be greeted by an empty bed.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” a voice asked behind me.
“Yeah, do you know if a Richard Mint was moved to a different room?” He was here just a few weeks ago.
“Let me check the computer system.” Furious keyboard clacking. “Is your name Marcus?”
“Yes,” I replied
“I’m sorry, Richard Mint passed away 3 days ago. He left something for you.”
It was a small envelope. I opened it gingerly, and took out the bright orange-red circle that was inside. There was a note: I was saving my best one for you. I hope you’ll take what it means to heart.
The metal gleamed with a fiery iridescence in the afternoon sun.