A Coin's Life

Great post!

Awesome revival of this thread Typeguy!


Slurexe good job so far.


-MV

A Mexican Coin's Tale

I was born in the Mexican Mint at San Luis Potosí in 1998. I was very bright and shiny when I was young, with a brilliant gold-coloured center and a shiny steel outer rim. For the first three years of my life I guess I was like any other 5-peso piece. I got handled by hundreds of people, pushed into pockets, carried in purses and dropped into tills. Occasionally I'd meet up with some of my colleagues and we'd get bagged up and taken to a bank. There I might have a short rest before going into circulation again.

Life changed when I got to Acapulco. I was in the till at a fancy resort when this young couple - honeymooners from England - came to settle their bill at the end of their stay. The husband put me in his pocket and then they both got on a transfer bus to the airport. I got really excited as I heard the noises around me. But then this guy threw me in a plastic tray, along with his cellphone, wrist watch and keys, and I had to go through an X-ray machine. Afterwards he picked me up again and I remained in his pocket for the flight. I didn't know where I was going, but it took a long time.

When all the world settled down again I stayed snug in the man's pocket as he and his new wife got into an automobile and we drove to their house. I wondered what would happen next - was I going to end up in a coin collection? Well, he turned out his pockets and I found myself in the back of a drawer, along with some cheap biros, keyrings and a handful of other coins. I found myself sharing my accommodation with French francs, Spanish pesetas, Portuguese Escudos and a few US cents and nickels. I started talking to a 5-peseta coin. He told me he couldn't remember how long he'd been in that drawer, and he didn't know anyone who had escaped.

I must have been in that accursed drawer for several years, when one day the lady of the house pulled it right out and flung it on the floor. "Mike," she said to her husband, "you've got to clear out all this junk. We're moving house in three weeks, and you know how busy I am with the baby on the way!"

Mike obligingly started sorting through the contents of the drawer. All the coins got scooped up and put in a plastic bag. He then took us down the street to a Thrift Store, where we were posted into a box marked ‘Obsolete and Foreign Coins for Charity'.

After a few days an old man with a limp came and collected us. He took us to his home, where he poured us all out onto the carpet and sorted us out into different piles. He separated the Euros, Swiss francs and some of the other money and put the rest of us in a green canvas bag.

A few days later another guy called Rob came along to the old man's house. The old man told Rob "I've got some coins you might be interested in!" Rob had a quick look in the bag, and then I guess he handed some money over to the old man, as soon afterwards we were in a car heading for Rob's house.

When we got to the house we were tipped onto the floor again, and a very inquisitive cat came and sniffed us. Then the guy called Rob started sorting us into piles. I found myself with a couple of old-timers from my home country - those big copper 20-centavo pieces. Every so often Rob would take a pile of coins and carry them off to examine. When it was our turn, he separated me from the two old-timers and then pulled out from an album a twin brother of mine, imprisoned in a clear-sided container about 2 inches square. He got out a magnifying glass and examined me and my twin brother carefully. I guess he must have preferred my twin brother, as he returned him to the album and put me in a glass jar along with dozens of other foreign and obsolete coins.

I thought I was never going to get out of that jar! Eight long years I spent there! Very few coins ever escaped, but sometimes fresh ones would come in. Some were holed, scratched or badly cleaned. They told me that ‘Rob' had replaced them with better specimens, and they were now in the Rejects Jar. I felt so depressed and wished I could be back home in Mexico, where at least I could be appreciated as a piece of spending money.

Then, unbelievably, after eight years, the man called Rob unscrewed the lid of the jar and poured all the coins onto the carpet. I don't know why, but he picked me out! I wondered whether my twin brother had gone missing and I would have to replace him in the collection? Not so. I was placed in a small plastic bag and then into a compartment in a large holdall. Soon I was on a train, and then at an airport. I went through the X-Ray machine again and then into the airplane. It was another long flight. Was I at last on the way back to my home country?

Alas, when the plane landed I heard the announcement that we were in Los Angeles, in the USA. Rob picked up the bag and we went on a series of buses until we got to the seaside. The bag went through another X-Ray machine and finally the man called Rob took me out of the holdall and put me in a drawer. Not another drawer! Then everything started moving. I've been on planes, trains and buses before but this was different - I was now on a ship! But where was I going?

After an uncomfortable three days, the ship came to a stop. The man called Rob took me out of the drawer and put me in his pocket. He then walked off the ship, and guess what? All around I could hear the Spanish language being spoken, in an accent familiar to me. I was back in my home country!
Within an hour, other coins had joined me in the pocket. Some of them had not yet been born when I left Mexico. They told me that I was in Puerto Vallarta, and that there were now little steel 10, 20 and 50-centaco coins in circulation, as well as a lot of commemoratives. It was great having someone to talk to at last! But what I really wanted was to get back into circulation!

And then it happened - the moment I had waited all those years for! The man called Rob got on a bus - a proper, noisy local bus, not one of those air-conditioned tourist motor-coaches. He asked the driver how much the fare was to the Cruise Terminal. The driver replied "Siete pesos, por favor". I was pulled out of the pocket with two young 1-peso coins that I'd just met, and we were handed over to the driver who flung us into his farebox. I was back home at last! Within an hour I was given out in change, and then spent on a soda in a supermarket called Oxxo. It's great to be working again! I just hope I never go back to England!

Great stories, all! Keep them coming.

My next attempt:

A Coin Misunderstood

As I'm writing this, I am enclosed in a PVC-laden flip in a cluttered apartment that smells of cheap cigarettes and old pizza. Apparently, I have been sold on ebay ... again. My current owner, I think his name is Greg, won me only a few months ago. But now, I and the rest of his hodge-podge collection are all scattered out on his kitchen table awaiting shipment. Judging from his empty fridge, I think we are being sold for beer money.

It wasn't always like this. There was a time very early in my life when I was a glistening, golden gem, commanding attention anywhere I was displayed. I still don't completely understand what I did wrong to change the humans' perception of me.

I was among the very first of my kind to be minted. We were shipped out from Philadelphia and traveled by train to all corners of these United States. My legion and I arrived in St. Louis and we were promptly delivered to the First National Bank. I was among a large number that were tendered to a man with a rather devious look in his eyes and a handlebar mustache. Cliché, I agree, but I am only recounting the facts.

Instead of spending us directly, this gent hauled us back to his room at a boarding house a few blocks from the bank. Therein, he proceeded to take each of us individually and apply some sort of golden coating. He was quite adept at this, and it was evident that this was not his first attempt. After he was finished and we had dried, he examined us with a positively wicked satisfaction before packing us away and heading out.

We traveled with him from town to town, and each time more and more of us were spent. He had used my friends to buy his way onto the Belle of Missouri, a paddlewheel steamboat filled with gamblers and snake oil salesmen. "Mr. Moneybags," as the crew had begun to call him, would disembark at each port of call on his way down the Mississippi and return with trunks filled with fine things he had purchased. How, I wondered, was he profiting so much from his rather meager withdrawal from the bank back in St. Louis?

My turn came a few miles downriver from Memphis. He had a handful of us in his vest pocket as he ordered up a list of indulgences at the finest store in town. After the store clerk gave him his total of $33, he produced seven of us, including myself, and handed to him.

"What are these, now? I haven't seen any of these before."

"Oh, good sir, have you not yet seen these, the new five dollar gold pieces? Why, aren't they lovely," replied Mr. Moneybags.

"Well, yes, they are. These are five dollars, you say? They feel a bit light," the clerk countered.

"My good man, am I to understand that you are calling into question the legitimacy of my gold? If that is the case, I will be forced to report this outrage to your superior."

"Oh, no sir! No need for that at all. Please, accept my apology, and I will package all of this up for you. Here is your change," said the clerk as he withdrew two Morgan dollars from the register.

That was the last I saw of Mr. Moneybags. I remained at the store for only a few days until a Mr. Smitherman, who I would later learn was the president of the local bank, came in to purchase several items. After paying with a $50 Gold Certificate, the clerk counted back his change.

"What's this," the banker said, his hand filled with several coins including myself.

"Oh, those are the new five dollar coins. A gentleman brought them in the other day."

"My dear fellow, it appears that you've been had! These are but humble nickels, washed in gold paint! You owe me quite a bit of change yet."

A look of terror washed over the poor clerk's face, and he appeared to age several years in front of our eyes. I didn't understand why my color mattered so much to these humans, but apparently it was an issue of great importance.

The other six of my friends who were taken by the clerk were turned in to the local sheriff by the store owner later that afternoon. However, the clerk somehow managed to keep me, knowing that the loss taken by the store would be coming out of his pay. A few days later, the clerk passed me off in a neighboring town as a five dollar coin, and successfully recouped some of his losses.

For the remainder of my years, after the spring of 1883, I have been treated more as a curiosity and an emblem of greed more than just a plain old Liberty nickel, which is all I was ever meant to be. I would later be called a "Racketeer Nickel," a phenomenon which was short-lived since the mint redesigned my reverse to indicate my denomination, undeniably, as five cents.

So there you have it, my story. As I look across the table at my packing slip, it appears that I've been sold, poetically, for exactly five dollars. Mr. Moneybags would be so pleased ...

Title: Rediscovered

I was mailed along with a letter to a woman in Missouri around 1963. She opened the envelope and read the letter; the next thing I remember is being in a book of some sort with other letters and papers.

Hello. Hello, is any one there? I am NOT just another piece of paper I am a US bank note for crying out loud. I want out of here! Sigh, I am going to be here for a while it seems.

I lost track of time waiting and waiting to be found and spent for something, anything. The book moved around every now and then, but I remain hidden from sight. One day, I felt the book move finally someone would find me. Alas my hopes were soon dashed as other books and papers piled on top burying us.

What year is it I pondered? Will I ever see the light of day again? Then, one day I felt the box move and the sound of a woman's voice. I heard her say, "I have this box of papers from Carla's I thought you might want to look through." Could this be it? Have my prayers been answered?

At first, I didn't believe it was happening until the weight of the other books started disappearing. Then, I felt the book being lifted up and placed on a table. A young man paged through the book rather quickly but stopped on the page I was in. I could tell he was excited to see me however I was even happier to see him.

He carefully removed us (the letter and myself) from the page. He briefly looked at the letter before putting it back but me he kept out. I spied a calendar on the wall it was turned to May 2014. 51 years I had been stored away! I remain crisp as the day I was placed there.

My new caretaker smiles when he looks at me. I am glad he rediscovered me.

The stories have all been great...especially loving the paper story~!!

A defining characteristic of a Shakespearen drama is that literally every character lies dead on the stage at the end, often due to extremely violent and bloody means. There is absolutely nothing new about a tale which ends in mutual destruction and death, and there is certainly nothing wrong with it. In fact, I'd say you're in pretty good company with Shakespeare!