chaplin
12-03-2007, 09:17 PM
Let’s be honest and speak frankly: he was an old, lonely man and nobody, nobody could be drawn far enough out of their self to care one bit about his fate or existence. But let’s continue in that vein of candor and add that this old, lonely man would have spurned any sort of compassionate contact from some stranger with a pitying half-grin on his face. He had moved past all of that: he had his coins.
For 47 years, five days a week (do the math yourself) he had cleaned and polished a diminutive, minor hospital for a modest, workingman’s wage. Forty-seven years ago it had been merely a temporary situation, a bridge to a more sumptuous mode of life, but, not at all contemptibly, he gradually found himself preferring this predictable, smoother existence than to that fantasy one that, no doubt, was riddled with hills, traps, and troubles. So he stayed on, and all worldly ambition gradually detached itself from him and drifted away, to where nobody can guess, now as gone as his youth.
But for a human to sustain its love of self-preservation, it must have something to live for other than distant, abstract life itself. For him it was his coins.
Coins. So pleasing in every way. They shine, they sparkle, they scintillate, they outlast their makers, they root oneself in the current of time…That is why he spent his money (whatever little that was left over) on those little silver and gold circles.
His collection (numerous, but monetarily modest) was the sole adornment in his snug two-room flat. They were on his shelves and in his cupboards; on the table and lining the windowsill; their tiny, frozen faces looked up dutifully at their master and never, ever changed.
O, if only he were constructed as durably as them! But, alas, age affected him in ways that his coins would never experience. His skin became spotted with little dun-colored dots; wrinkles carved random creases across his face; his back, gradually succumbing to gravity, stooped and ached under its load; and all of these acted upon and influenced each other, creating a burden inside of him that made him shrink from each day of work. And, finally, one morning, it just had grown too heavy, had latched onto him too tightly, and he stopped going.
What was he to do now? No job meant no money and no money equaled no life; that was the simple reality. Food and shelter had to be maintained every day. He was slow to acquiesce to this fact and silently fought it as long as his savings would hold out; but one day, as he’d known they would, all his means were gone and he was left with nothing. Nothing except, of course, his coins.
Okay, he finally thought one hungry day, I’ll sell off all my duplicates, that will last me a while. So, from his desk drawer, he removed a telephone directory (one of the only new objects in the place) and located the number for an appropriate business.
It took a while to explain his situation and to get them to agree to come to him, but it was settled presently and, hanging up the phone, he lay back onto his bed with a creaking groan.
---------------
The next day, only a handful of minutes later than had been scheduled, a knock sounded on his door. He called out that he was coming and began lifting and hefting himself out of the bed that reluctantly released him.
“Hello, Mr. Lepman? Good, I’m Harold Harvey from The Collector’s Corner.”
Yes, come in, come in, he motioned. “I’ll show you the items I’m interested in giving to you.” Mr. Harvey stopped and hesitated, “You do mean selling to me?” Yes, yes, of course, my mistake.
He then led his guest to a nearby desk where lay two dozen or so coins of all hues and shapes. They were neatly arranged in columns like assembled soldiers: still, orderly and servile. Lepman picked up the one farthest to the left and began speaking, half-turned to Mr. Harvey.
“Now this is a 1934…” For the next several minutes he gave the name and history of each coin, all housed carefully in their own protective case. Mr. Harvey nodded when Lepman glanced up at him and followed his hands when they pointed, but, towards the end, found it hard to conceal his impatience. Finally, when Lepman gave a concluding summary of all the coins-replacing the last one on the desk- Mr. Harvey amiably nodded and said, slightly smiling, “Very good, Mr. Lepman. I think that I will take these two rows” his finger glided twice over the desk “and also this one, and this one” and made two sharp, staccato stabs.
Lepman nodded, blank-faced and stolid, and scooped up those Mr. Harvey had selected. Just as Lepman was about to hand the handful of coins over, Mr. Harvey stopped him and glanced back at the desk, “You know Mr. Lepman, I actually would like to buy all of them, of course if the price fits within my budget.”
Lepman-his hand, still clutching the bundle of coins, froze in mid-gesture-looked up at him, “Well, yes, these are my duplicates, so I could let them go for less.” Lowering his hand, he glanced down at the desk, all the while calculating, then sharply named a figure. Mr. Harvey burst inside-what luck-but outwardly did not flinch at all. His slightly unctuous smile was as constant as a horizon as he nodded in assent, “Agreed.”
Lepman reached with his free hand for the remaining coins but Mr. Harvey stopped him, sliding them in one pile off the desk into his cupped palm. “I’ll get them Mr. Lepman, no reason to trouble yourself.” Mr. Harvey tossed all the coins into his briefcase, closed it, then dexterously counted out a stack of bills, handing them to Lepman. “Here you are, and if you have anything in the future just give me a call.”
When Lepman shut the door behind Mr. Harvey he sighed, moving towards his bed, and tried to subdue a mounting melancholy in his chest.
---------------
The money from the sale of his duplicates buoyed Lepman for about a month and a half. After the last of it had disappeared with the rent he felt that sense of dread noiselessly stretching inside him again. Once more, after a period of inward debate and admonition, he found Mr. Harvey’s number and dialed it.
He took a long time deciding which of his collection to part with, and again Mr. Harvey grew restive watching the old man go back and forth at every coin, but he managed to control himself: this was a great find, just play it even and he would come away with a very profitable deal.
Lepman finally decided on about three dozen and relinquished them into the hands of Mr. Harvey. Mr. Harvey thanked him, made sure to smile, widely, and laid his money down on the desk.
---------------
Now that he had done it twice it was inevitable: he would have to sell off his entire collection to this smarmy Mr. Harvey.
For the next several months Lepman made periodic calls to The Collector’s Corner and begrudgingly summoned Mr. Harvey to his flat. Each time Mr. Harvey said farewell with his briefcase full of Lepman’s life, carting them away as if they were only chunks of metal.
One day though a change came (O glorious change): Lepman, while waiting for Mr. Harvey to arrive, suddenly felt something turn over inside him, and then he knew it with absolute certainty; yes, he knew it, he would die, and soon. This news struck him very matter-of-factly and he obeyed its call not without some pleasure.
When Mr. Harvey rapped on his door this time Lepman jumped to it with all the alacrity left in his aging body and resolutely slit it open. As usual, Mr. Harvey greeted him with a very controlled, specific, cordial smile, but it quickly faded away as Lepman began explaining himself through the narrow aperture between them.
“I just don’t understand Mr. Lepman, why have you changed your mind? You just called me and said you had some pieces to sell.”
“I know I did, but I’ve decided not to.”
“Decided not to in the twenty minutes that it took me to come here?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Harvey, seeing his lode slipping from him, clutched and grasped at words but could formulate nothing. Lepman apologized and began closing the door. Mr. Harvey lifted his hands in a final protest but Lepman, apologizing once more, shut the door on them.
Lepman then turned and faced his bed. This shall be the last time, he thought, yes, the last. Before lying down he gathered together the last remnants of his now meager collection. Seated on the edge of the bed, he began to examine them one by one. He thought of the origin of each, turning the coin over in his fingers, then laid it down on his lap, repeating this process until he had gone over every one. Then, looking down at them, loose and jumbled on his withered legs, he swept them onto the floor in one rapid gesture, leaned back onto the bed, stretched his legs, turned onto his side, and died.
For 47 years, five days a week (do the math yourself) he had cleaned and polished a diminutive, minor hospital for a modest, workingman’s wage. Forty-seven years ago it had been merely a temporary situation, a bridge to a more sumptuous mode of life, but, not at all contemptibly, he gradually found himself preferring this predictable, smoother existence than to that fantasy one that, no doubt, was riddled with hills, traps, and troubles. So he stayed on, and all worldly ambition gradually detached itself from him and drifted away, to where nobody can guess, now as gone as his youth.
But for a human to sustain its love of self-preservation, it must have something to live for other than distant, abstract life itself. For him it was his coins.
Coins. So pleasing in every way. They shine, they sparkle, they scintillate, they outlast their makers, they root oneself in the current of time…That is why he spent his money (whatever little that was left over) on those little silver and gold circles.
His collection (numerous, but monetarily modest) was the sole adornment in his snug two-room flat. They were on his shelves and in his cupboards; on the table and lining the windowsill; their tiny, frozen faces looked up dutifully at their master and never, ever changed.
O, if only he were constructed as durably as them! But, alas, age affected him in ways that his coins would never experience. His skin became spotted with little dun-colored dots; wrinkles carved random creases across his face; his back, gradually succumbing to gravity, stooped and ached under its load; and all of these acted upon and influenced each other, creating a burden inside of him that made him shrink from each day of work. And, finally, one morning, it just had grown too heavy, had latched onto him too tightly, and he stopped going.
What was he to do now? No job meant no money and no money equaled no life; that was the simple reality. Food and shelter had to be maintained every day. He was slow to acquiesce to this fact and silently fought it as long as his savings would hold out; but one day, as he’d known they would, all his means were gone and he was left with nothing. Nothing except, of course, his coins.
Okay, he finally thought one hungry day, I’ll sell off all my duplicates, that will last me a while. So, from his desk drawer, he removed a telephone directory (one of the only new objects in the place) and located the number for an appropriate business.
It took a while to explain his situation and to get them to agree to come to him, but it was settled presently and, hanging up the phone, he lay back onto his bed with a creaking groan.
---------------
The next day, only a handful of minutes later than had been scheduled, a knock sounded on his door. He called out that he was coming and began lifting and hefting himself out of the bed that reluctantly released him.
“Hello, Mr. Lepman? Good, I’m Harold Harvey from The Collector’s Corner.”
Yes, come in, come in, he motioned. “I’ll show you the items I’m interested in giving to you.” Mr. Harvey stopped and hesitated, “You do mean selling to me?” Yes, yes, of course, my mistake.
He then led his guest to a nearby desk where lay two dozen or so coins of all hues and shapes. They were neatly arranged in columns like assembled soldiers: still, orderly and servile. Lepman picked up the one farthest to the left and began speaking, half-turned to Mr. Harvey.
“Now this is a 1934…” For the next several minutes he gave the name and history of each coin, all housed carefully in their own protective case. Mr. Harvey nodded when Lepman glanced up at him and followed his hands when they pointed, but, towards the end, found it hard to conceal his impatience. Finally, when Lepman gave a concluding summary of all the coins-replacing the last one on the desk- Mr. Harvey amiably nodded and said, slightly smiling, “Very good, Mr. Lepman. I think that I will take these two rows” his finger glided twice over the desk “and also this one, and this one” and made two sharp, staccato stabs.
Lepman nodded, blank-faced and stolid, and scooped up those Mr. Harvey had selected. Just as Lepman was about to hand the handful of coins over, Mr. Harvey stopped him and glanced back at the desk, “You know Mr. Lepman, I actually would like to buy all of them, of course if the price fits within my budget.”
Lepman-his hand, still clutching the bundle of coins, froze in mid-gesture-looked up at him, “Well, yes, these are my duplicates, so I could let them go for less.” Lowering his hand, he glanced down at the desk, all the while calculating, then sharply named a figure. Mr. Harvey burst inside-what luck-but outwardly did not flinch at all. His slightly unctuous smile was as constant as a horizon as he nodded in assent, “Agreed.”
Lepman reached with his free hand for the remaining coins but Mr. Harvey stopped him, sliding them in one pile off the desk into his cupped palm. “I’ll get them Mr. Lepman, no reason to trouble yourself.” Mr. Harvey tossed all the coins into his briefcase, closed it, then dexterously counted out a stack of bills, handing them to Lepman. “Here you are, and if you have anything in the future just give me a call.”
When Lepman shut the door behind Mr. Harvey he sighed, moving towards his bed, and tried to subdue a mounting melancholy in his chest.
---------------
The money from the sale of his duplicates buoyed Lepman for about a month and a half. After the last of it had disappeared with the rent he felt that sense of dread noiselessly stretching inside him again. Once more, after a period of inward debate and admonition, he found Mr. Harvey’s number and dialed it.
He took a long time deciding which of his collection to part with, and again Mr. Harvey grew restive watching the old man go back and forth at every coin, but he managed to control himself: this was a great find, just play it even and he would come away with a very profitable deal.
Lepman finally decided on about three dozen and relinquished them into the hands of Mr. Harvey. Mr. Harvey thanked him, made sure to smile, widely, and laid his money down on the desk.
---------------
Now that he had done it twice it was inevitable: he would have to sell off his entire collection to this smarmy Mr. Harvey.
For the next several months Lepman made periodic calls to The Collector’s Corner and begrudgingly summoned Mr. Harvey to his flat. Each time Mr. Harvey said farewell with his briefcase full of Lepman’s life, carting them away as if they were only chunks of metal.
One day though a change came (O glorious change): Lepman, while waiting for Mr. Harvey to arrive, suddenly felt something turn over inside him, and then he knew it with absolute certainty; yes, he knew it, he would die, and soon. This news struck him very matter-of-factly and he obeyed its call not without some pleasure.
When Mr. Harvey rapped on his door this time Lepman jumped to it with all the alacrity left in his aging body and resolutely slit it open. As usual, Mr. Harvey greeted him with a very controlled, specific, cordial smile, but it quickly faded away as Lepman began explaining himself through the narrow aperture between them.
“I just don’t understand Mr. Lepman, why have you changed your mind? You just called me and said you had some pieces to sell.”
“I know I did, but I’ve decided not to.”
“Decided not to in the twenty minutes that it took me to come here?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Harvey, seeing his lode slipping from him, clutched and grasped at words but could formulate nothing. Lepman apologized and began closing the door. Mr. Harvey lifted his hands in a final protest but Lepman, apologizing once more, shut the door on them.
Lepman then turned and faced his bed. This shall be the last time, he thought, yes, the last. Before lying down he gathered together the last remnants of his now meager collection. Seated on the edge of the bed, he began to examine them one by one. He thought of the origin of each, turning the coin over in his fingers, then laid it down on his lap, repeating this process until he had gone over every one. Then, looking down at them, loose and jumbled on his withered legs, he swept them onto the floor in one rapid gesture, leaned back onto the bed, stretched his legs, turned onto his side, and died.