Benny Rogers was known throughout the small town of Ashford for his love of trains and his peculiar hobby of collecting random and seemingly useless items. There wasn’t much else to do besides hitting the arcade or going to the movies. Benny didn’t mind, though. He’d always had an appreciation for the smaller details and finer things. So what if the kids called him Greedzilla or Penny Robbers? He’d be rich one day, and they’d still be kicking dirt clods behind the Piggly Wiggly.
A bit husky, Benny only wore sweatpants and pocket t-shirts, often stained. His penchant for picking through junk left his pockets bulging and full, and his pack rat’s eyes never stilled. His pimpled face showed his fifteen years clearly, even if his demeanor made him seem much younger.
He approached the flea market five minutes before it officially opened, as he did every Sunday afternoon. With a freakish memory for things, he was looking for hidden treasures.
“Hello, Mrs. Greene,” Benny said. He’d already identified his target, but he made a little show of poking around. “I see you have Suzie’s old Barbie Walkie-Talkie there for a dollar. Is the matching one here, too?”
Mrs. Greene, looking a little haggard, examined her other laundry baskets full of old household items, toys, books, and kitchen equipment. “I suppose not, but I can look when I get home.” Mrs. Greene was the mother of this year’s valedictorian, Suzie Greene, class of 1982. Suzie was one of the few to go to college in this little pockmark of a town. The donation cup marked “For Suzie” had more than a few dollars, so maybe she deserved to be proud.
Benny had only ever known about one walkie-talkie. Suzie had brought it to school years ago to show her girlfriends the gold charm bracelet she kept hidden inside. Mrs. Greene probably didn’t know this, so Benny made his offer. “Seeing as there’s only one, how about half price, fifty cents?”
“I’m not sure what you’ll do with a single one, but deal.”
“Talk to Santa Claus,” Benny joked as he handed her two quarters, careful not to rattle or shake the toy and tip her off that something might be inside. “I’m good with fixing junk.” He lied, adding a dime to the donation cup. If the charm bracelet was inside, he’d made one hell of a trade. Briefly, he wondered what Suzie would think of this, but a deal is a deal, right?
Suzie’s mom had been here weekly for the last month, selling almost everything from her house a little at a time. Nothing else caught his eye, so he skulked home with his prize.
If it weren’t for collectors like him, how many valuable things would end up in the dump? How many Micky Mantle rookie cards had been flicked to bits in the spokes of a bicycle? How many tin soldiers melted for scrap? Suzie’s charm bracelet had a gold 1910 Victorian carnelian charm, a gift given to her grandfather over seventy years ago and passed down. Benny had always coveted it.
He put the toy to his ear and shook it but didn’t hear anything rattle. That didn’t mean it was empty. Benny smiled as he put the walkie-talkie in his father’s bench vice. Lacking the finesse to pry the plastic parts apart, he turned the crank, crushing the toy.
The walkie-talkie might have been a collectible in fifty years, in its original packaging, but Benny didn’t want to wait. He was raiding the treasures from the previous generation, not saving them for the next. Benny was free from the grips of nostalgia, free to pursue profit in his trades above all else. To exploit that weakness, no personal attachment getting in his way. Attachment was how you got snookered, why you’d pay more for something worth less.
Shards of pink plastic littered his workbench, and a single penny stuck to the broken speaker coil. Benny scowled, then furrowed his brow. The charm bracelet wasn’t here, but pennies shouldn’t be magnetic. He picked up the oddly weighty coin. It was from 1943. Benny knew they’d switched to using steel due to the copper shortage during the war and that people hated these coins; they left rust spots on your clothes if they got wet, and it wasn’t worth more than face value. Despite all this, he liked how it felt in his pocket.
He’d gambled and lost. The charm bracelet wasn’t there. Pulling the lever on the metaphorical slot machine had still been a thrill. Such was the nature of junk buying.
Over the next few weeks, Benny couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been buying and sorting buckets of loose coins from the bank, looking for hidden gems. Besides the usual collection of solid silver dimes, quarters, and Buffalo nickels, he’d turned up an 1858 Flying Eagle. The 1856 Eagle might have been worth a thousand dollars, but this circulated one was a good fifteen bucks at the coin show.
Lately, he’d been idly rubbing the steel penny in his pocket for luck, now more of a ritual. It had been paying off. He dared to think that one of these days, he might find a misprint.
He didn’t just scour buckets of old coins. He also frequented estate sales. He scored a Tiffany lampshade, a radium clock, and eighteen rare baseball cards. He was the most excited about the old letters, not for their content but for the potentially rare stamps they bore. He wasn’t above a little dumpster diving either and rummaged an Atari circuit board from the trash behind the new arcade. A hoard for Greedzilla.
The day of the coin show had arrived, and Benny had quite a haul. Nothing extraordinary, but all the little things added up, and he had his steel penny to thank for it. More finds in a month than the previous four summers combined. He had so much to trade he’d set up a little table all to himself.
An older man approached, well-dressed in an old-fashioned suit. His stance and the American flag pin were enough to identify him as a veteran. It was much too formal for this gathering of nerds, but he looked like he had money to spend. Sometimes, those old military guys sold their medals or bought other mementos, commemorative coins, that sort of thing. Benny didn’t think much of it when he approached his table.
The man eyed Benny’s trade offerings, his cool expression giving nothing away. He was either uninterested or an excellent negotiator. “I’m looking for a particular item, and I’ve been told you might have it.”
Some older guys had boxes of WWII stuff hidden under the table that ex-soldiers liked to buy sometimes. The sort of guys who made up stories about taking souvenirs during the war, then wanted to prove it to their bar buddies. However, Benny didn’t like that evil stuff despite the excellent collectible value. He knew every item had a story. How could he sleep if his treasures contained only nightmares?
“I’m sorry, what you see here is what I have.” Benny nodded toward some knife sellers with ammo cans under their table, probably containing the shadier stuff.
“Oh no, Benny.” The man clearly understood. “You have me all wrong. I’m Mr. Almsworth, Suzie Greene’s uncle. I’m looking for a specific coin. A steel penny. In fact, I’ve been told you have one in your possession.”
Benny’s hand reflexively reached for his breast pocket, the penny in its usual resting place. “I didn’t steal it. I bought it fair and square.”
“I know you did, Benny, and it’s fine. A deal is a deal, right? So I’m here to offer you another one.” Mr. Almsworth produced the gold 1910 Victorian carnelian charm from his inside pocket. “A trade. The penny for the charm. It’s what you really wanted, right? It belonged to my father.”
Benny’s mouth went dry. His grip tightened on the penny in his pocket, his lucky charm, his totem. Sentimental value is worthless. Don’t get attached. Are you really as stupid as everybody says you are? Make the deal, Benny. He’s offering you a fortune for a penny.
Robotically, eyes never leaving the sparkling gold with the blood-red enamel, Benny slid the penny toward the other man, his finger lingering maybe a tad too long before releasing the warm steel. Mr. Almsworth placed his golden trinket in front of Benny, relief flooding the older man’s face.
“Thank you, son,” he said. “It’s a lucky penny, you see, carried me through the war’s final years. Lots of enemy shots missed that shouldn’t have. But I’m sure you think that’s all just some hogwash, eh? A smart boy like you.”
“No,” Benny said, seller’s remorse already setting in. “It is lucky. But a deal’s a deal.”
“You have no idea what this means to me. Enjoy that pendant. It’s worth quite a bit for the gold alone.”
“I’m sure it is.” Benny’s voice lost all humor as if all the blood drained from him into that cursed carnelian charm. One satisfied customer, Mr. Almsworth put on his hat and walked briskly out of the coin show. Benny frowned, feeling the empty pocket and twitching. He should be happy.
Weeks of restless nights passed. His totem traded away like a zinc slug for a gumball. The carnelian charm sat on his dresser, collecting not value but dust. He hadn’t even put it in a protective case. His mind fixated on the steel penny, on getting back what he once had. He couldn’t even distract himself with buckets of coins, turning up only worthless wheat pennies or Canadian look-alikes. Dross.
One day, he’d finally had enough. He had to undo the trade. He’d offer Mr. Almsworth all his paper route money, the charm, and he’d mow his lawn for a year if he could have the lucky penny back. It wasn’t about the money anymore. He liked feeling lucky. He remembered the joy it brought him. He’d have it back.
Locating Mr. Almsworth in the Yellow Pages didn’t take long. He still lived in town. Benny frantically dialed his number, misdialing three times as he overshot the numbers on the rotary dial. Eventually, he got it.
“Hello?” Mr. Almsworth answered.
“Hi, this is Benny. I’m calling to see if I can do anything to get back that penny. I’ve felt awful since making that trade. Can we work something out?”
“I would if I could, but I no longer have it.”
“You sold it?” Benny’s voice cracked as his heart dropped.
“You don’t sell something that precious. Tell you what, meet me at the hospital in an hour, and I’ll explain everything. If you still want it back after that, we’ll work something out.”
Benny hung up. It was the longest hour of his life as he biked over to the hospital.
Mr. Almsworth was waiting in the lobby as Benny came in. The nurse on call waved them into the intensive care ward, Mr. Almsworth leading the way. He spoke as they walked. “You see, Benny, I hid that coin in that walkie-talkie when Suzie was little so she wouldn’t lose it. Suzie was born with a heart condition, and we never knew how long she had. I figured if my lucky penny had gotten me through the war, maybe it could do the same for her.”
Benny nodded. He believed it.
“When she went to college, it had been so long that I sort of forgot about it. I think her luck turned bad. She collapsed outside class and had to be rushed to the emergency room. She was put on a waiting list for a new heart.”
“So all those yard sales …”
“Were to pay the medical bills.” Mr. Almsworth finished for him. “My sister selling anything she could get her hands on to help her daughter. I did what I could, too. The doctor said she’d need luck and a miracle to pull through. That’s when I remembered the penny.”
“But she’d already sold one of the walkie-talkies?”
“Right again, but we’re here.” Mr. Almsworth quietly opened the door to a hospital room containing a single bed and a lot of beeping equipment. Suzie was asleep. The penny had been strung on a necklace directly over the bandages on her chest. Directly over her new heart.
“Well, I believe we have luck covered, don’t we, son? Now, it’s the miracle part we need.” Mr. Almsworth put a hand on Benny’s shoulder. “What do you want to do?”
For an instant, Benny longed for the penny, his totem, but it had led him here. Given him a chance to do something right and earn the respect of Mr. Almsworth, the first adult who’d truly acknowledged him. Maybe optimizing trades wasn’t what it was all about. Maybe investment wasn’t only about money.
“I’ll pray for a miracle,” Benny said, placing the carnelian charm on the foot of Suzie’s bed. “This should cover a bill or three.”
Mr. Almsworth squeezed his shoulder, and somehow, Benny knew everything would be okay.
Author’s Note
This is an allegory for the wanton greed I saw and experienced with the explosion and collapse of the artist NFT market. AI-generated art was the final nail, but that coffin had already been built. The hole dug.
I wanted to explore the mindset of a flipper who buys and sells whatever for short-term gains, toying with the hearts of artists who start to feel like the world truly appreciates their art only to have a market downturn dash it all away.
I think I only managed part of this nuance in this story. What can cause a person to recognize that things aren’t only vehicles to buy and sell, but can represent a moment? The embodiment of a lesson learned, a kindness given, an experience shared. It’s what Polaroid built their business on. Digital collectibles could have been that. Can still be that.
People used to collect ticket stubs, concert wristbands, and signatures in a yearbook. These are physical reminders, totems, that help to preserve memory. Durable reminders. The value may be personal, but it doesn’t make it less real. Digital Mementos--what I’m trying to do with bonus content in books.
If this bear market has taught me anything, it’s that creative people who struggle to birth their art into the world were treated terribly by the boom-and-bust cycle. I’ve always believed people should buy art that speaks to them, to compensate the artist for their effort and to show them you appreciate their work.
I’ve bought hundreds of pieces on the blockchain and sold none (except my own). Artists will pick themselves back up. They always do. They have to make art. We just need more collectors. More readers who want to own a book to encourage the writer to write more. Who knows, maybe they want to reread it, too? Isn’t that the point of having a bookshelf that collects dust on your wall? It shows where you’ve been. It reminds YOU what you learned and experienced. It is your own miniature Library of Alexandria.
So what’s my point? Digital collectibles can chronicle a journey as easily as they can line a pocketbook. I think people forget that. I want that back.
Note: I might switch to posting every other week, things have been busy around here!
