I can only hope that he still believes in redemption by Christian TeBordo
I can only hope that he still believes in redemption.
An old man yelled: “Give it back!”
It was early. Not in the morning, but in general. It was too early in general, for me, for the boy, for the old man who was yelling at the boy: “Give it back!” Again: “Give it back!”
It was already turning out to be a bad day for redemption.
The old man couldn't see what the boy wanted with it. True, it was a bright, shiny penny, but that's hardly enough reason for a maybe eight year old kid to tangle with a somewhat able-bodied and in any case full-grown man. Pennies are everywhere. He'd seen a penny—a slightly-less-shiny one—a block up the street from where they were standing, and stepped right over it without a thought. There hadn’t been anybody scrambling for that penny.
All right it wasn’t slightly less shiny. It was dull. It was tarnished. But one penny is worth one one-hundredth of a dollar regardless of gleam. Unless that penny carries sentimental value, and it's no coincidence that the penny the boy wouldn’t give back was shiny. The old man had spent hours polishing it, and the others, even the freshly minted pennies, the ones that didn't look like they needed it. Yes, there were others, and every one of them was threatened when any one of them was threatened. They were a confederacy of bright, shiny pennies.
The old man set his box down on the sidewalk, cautiously, or arthritically, and walked toward the boy, cautiously or arthritically, with one hand outstretched.
“Please,” he said, “just give it back.”
The boy probably couldn’t understand why the old man wanted the penny so desperately, which is probably why he wouldn’t give it back.
“There's a penny back there a block,” said the old man.
He gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the other penny.
“On the sidewalk,” he said.
The boy didn't respond.
“So you might as well give me mine, since there's another one back there,” he said, gesturing again so the boy could go claim the other one for himself.
Still no response.
“I could go get it for you,” said the old man. “We could trade,” he said. “We could each have one.”
The boy’s silence caused him to continue.
“Of course,” he said, just to be fair, “mine would be shinier cause I spent so much time polishing it.”
The boy finally spoke: “Why would I want that when I got this?”
He held it out between thumb and forefinger. The old man's own thumb and forefinger were only inches from the penny. The proximity made things seem even more hopeless.
“Because it's mine,” said the old man. “That's why it's shiny,” he said, “because I polish it.”
The boy didn’t seem to understand the politics of polishing and ownership.
The old man took it upon himself to explain: “The one back there belongs to whoever picks it up,” he said. “It hasn't been polished in a long time. You could go get it. You could polish it yourself.”
The boy let the penny slip into his palm and closed his fist over it, dropping his arm to his side.
“Maybe I will,” said the boy. “Maybe I'll keep this one, and go get that one, and polish that one and have two.”
“Not two,” said the old man. “One for each of us. Two people, two pennies.”
“Then why don't you go get the other one?” said the boy.
“I don't want the other one because it's not mine,” said the old man. “There's no redemption in it,” he caught himself, “for me. My redemption’s in the one you're holding,” he said. “Part of my redemption.”
He glanced down at his box, at the other polished pennies pasted to the top to form the word redemption. There was just a spot of glue where the penny that dotted the i—the penny the boy was holding—had fallen off.
“Redemption?” said the boy. “It's just a penny,” he said. “It isn’t worth any more than the one back there.”
“That's what I’m saying,” said the old man. “So why don’t you give me mine and go get it?”
“Why don't you?” said the boy.
The old man finally gave up trying to convince him. He needed another angle. He lunged at the boy from another angle, taking the boy’s clenched fist between his much larger hands and trying to pry his fingers open, yanking and pulling and pushing and scraping the boy’s hand with his nails.
“Get off,” the boy screamed, his legs running out from under his torso, his torso tugging his arm, but the old man wouldn’t get off.
“Let go,” the boy screamed, “let go,” but the old man didn’t let go.
He was lost in a cheap imitation of redemption, afloat the gentle waves of physical struggle. The penny was back in its proper place atop the i, his redemption redeemed by lop-sided violence. As he bit into the boy’s flesh, the old man's eyes were dotted briefly by bright, shiny pennies. The boy was still screaming, the old man still biting the hand until it fell open empty.
The penny wasn't in it. The old man released him and the boy stumbled backward, nursing his hand, holding it tightly to his stomach and bending at the waist. He wasn't bleeding. The bite hadn't broken the skin.
The old man watched the boy as he performed a little boy ritual of moans and grunts and a seizure-like shaking of the hand. He knew the boy wasn't really hurt anymore, had never been hurt very badly. The old man wasn't the sharp-toothed strong-jawed predator he'd once been.
The little boy's seizure slowed to a nervous jitter and then stopped altogether. He let out a deep breath, stood up straight and looked the old man in the eyes, which suddenly seemed tarnished.
“You bit me,” he said.
The old man pointed at the hand he'd bitten. The boy was still holding it, now more gently, to his stomach. He lifted his hand to show the old man his empty palm, a faint bite-mark on the webbing between thumb and index finger.
“This one,” he said. “You bit this hand,” said the boy.
“The penny,” said the old man.
“No, my hand,” said the boy.
“What’d you do with it?” said the old man.
The boy grinned. He held out his other hand and revealed the bright, shiny penny.
“It was a trick,” he said, forming a fist.
The old man was dealing with a much craftier opponent than he'd imagined, but the old man wasn't as simple as he'd pretended to be. He knew that if you wanted a penny—a specific penny that you'd polished yourself, that was part of your redemption, a penny that carried sentimental value—from a boy, all you had to do was offer that boy a nickel. It didn't matter if the nickel was shiny. Nobody polishes nickels. Nickels don't carry any sentimental value.
But the man didn't carry any nickels because nickels have no sentimental value. No dimes or quarters for the same reason. There's no redemption in the higher denominations of pocket change. Copper is the color of redemption.
So the man reached for his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a one-dollar bill.
“Here,” he said.
You could see the boy’s lips working to hold back a smile.
“Your dollar for my penny?” he said.
“My penny,” said the old man.
“Your penny,” the boy said, opening his hand again.
The old man hesitated, not because he'd changed his mind, but because he hadn't expected it to be so easy. He took a moment to consider what sort of new scheme the boy might have up his sleeve. Or in his other hand. Would the penny disappear again when he stepped toward the boy? Had the boy switched his penny with another equally shiny penny during the assault?
He needed to assure himself of the penny's authenticity, of its redemption quotient.
“May I?” said the old man.
The boy nodded and the old man stepped closer, bending his head down toward the boy's open palm, reaching out his finger to touch its smooth, polished face.
“Look don't touch,” said the boy.
The old man stepped back and didn't come forward again until the boy nodded permission. He bent down and stared so hard you might have thought he was trying to lift it with his brain.
He could make out the date on the penny. To the best of his memory it matched the date on the one that had dotted the i of redemption, but in order to be sure, he removed a slip of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it.
There was a diagram on it—it spelled out the word redemption—and on the diagram, a list of dates that corresponded to pennies. At the end of the diagram there was a period, but there was no date on the period.
The old man looked back and forth between the diagram and the penny, and, satisfied, folded the slip of paper and put it back into his pocket.
The boy, no more or less patient than any other boy his age, was getting impatient. He was ready to finish the transaction and get away from the old man forever.
“Come on,” said the boy. “We trading or not?”
The old man jumped back again. The boy rolled his eyes as the man baby-stepped forward holding the bill behind his back with one hand and reaching out toward the boy's hand with the other. He snatched the penny and smacked the bill into the boy's palm, then jumped back. He kept his eyes on the boy, not his re-acquired redemption.
The boy was examining the dollar bill with what seemed like genuine happiness, pleased with his ten thousand percent profit, though his math probably wasn't quite so exact. The old man looked down at his part of the bargain, and saw that all was well with redemption—the head where the head belonged, the tail where the tail belonged. He rolled the polished penny over and over in his hand.
He laughed: “Ha!” “Ha!” “Ha!” as he rolled.
It was a forced sounding screeching laugh, slower and more rhythmic than the real thing, approximating or faking the unchecked hubris of the redeemed. It didn’t sound right. It didn’t feel right.
“Never try to con a con kid,” he coughed through the screeching. “Don't try to hustle a hustler.”
He kept coughing and laughing and screeching. The boy looked frightened, more frightened than when the old man had bitten him. Or differently frightened. This was his first real glimpse of redemption.
“I am redeemed,” said the old man. “I am almost redeemed. And what do you have to show for it?”
He snatched the bill from the boy's hand and waved it in front of his face.
“A dollar?” he screeched. “This?”
He was breathing heavily. The boy was on the verge of tears. He didn't care so much about the money anymore as about escaping before the old man could do him any harm. Any more harm.
The old man stood still and quiet until his breathing steadied.
“This,” he gasped. “A dollar.”
A dollar that he held between thumb and forefinger of each hand and ripped in two, then in four, then into hundreds of uneven little bits and shreds, each worth less than even the most tarnished penny, until they were sticking to his sweaty palms and flaking to the ground like ugly olive snow.
The old man rubbed his hands on the seat of his pants and said: “I hope you've learned as much from this as I have.”
The boy wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his arm. For a second, I thought he was going to hit the old man. Instead he ran past him, picking up the old man's box and running down the street in the direction of the other penny. The old man didn't even try to follow.
I yelled: “Hey. Up here.”
The old man stood staring at his penny. I thought he might not bother looking up at me, but then he did, he bothered.
“The boy lives in this building,” I said.
I didn't know where the boy lived, but I'd seen him before. Often, in fact. From my window, I'd seen him go in and out of the building. So he might live here. Or maybe he's only visiting a friend.
“You could wait for him here,” I said.
I was standing in the window.
I said: “I'll make coffee. It'll get you out of the cold for a while.”
It was cold, an autumn day, crisp as a new one dollar bill, with a wind blustery enough to blow a skinny old man into oblivion without redemption.
I watched him walk in from the street. I heard him walking up the stairs. I closed my window, walked across the room, and opened the door for him. He walked in without acknowledging me, and went over to my window.
I introduced myself. He didn’t introduce himself. I'm not sure whether he heard me or not.
“Coffee?” I said.
It took him a minute to say: “No.”
No thank you, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I'm a gracious host. I started a pot of coffee.
I walked around the room as though I were the visitor, picking things, my things, up and looking at them through my impersonation of his eyes: a puppy-shaped paperweight, an empty tea-tin, a pen with my accountant's name and address on it.
He was staring out my window as though the boy might be hiding anywhere in the scene, as though the culprit, who they say always returns to the scene of the crime, couldn't have actually left the scene of the crime in the first place. As though all he had to do was wait until the criminal, the boy, peeked out from behind that tree trunk, that garbage can, that blade of grass.
The coffee began to drip into the pot with the sound of sizzling water.
“What's in the box?” I said.
He forced a cough and leaned in closer to the window. His breath condensed on the cold glass, and he wiped it quickly lest the fog obscure his view for even a moment.
I walked over to the kitchen table, and brought him a chair. He didn't notice me behind him. I tapped him on the shoulder.
He said: “What?” without looking back.
“I thought you'd like a seat,” I said.
He sat down in the chair still staring out the window. He turned around a moment later.
“Thanks,” he said, and went back to watching.
The coffee pot was full and my room smelled like coffee. I poured two cups and asked if he took cream and sugar.
“Do you take cream and sugar?” I said.
“Black,” he said.
I placed his mug on the window sill in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said, this time without turning toward me.
Which made three responses. I thought he might not mind answering a question or two as long as it didn't require his looking away from the window.
I tried again: “What's in the box?”
“It doesn't make any difference now,” he said.
“Then why are you staring out my window?” I said.
“I'll go,” he said, but he didn’t move.
“What's redemption?” I said.
He coughed again and leaned into the window. His breath condensed on the cold glass and he wiped it away. He hadn't touched his coffee, and it was steaming the window below the level of his eyes.
I walked over to the kitchen table and went back to what I was doing. I did what I was doing until it started to get dark. I turned my lamp on as the sun set, and the man started to see more of his own reflection than the street outside until he was just squinting at himself. From the table, I watched him lean toward the window, wipe his breath off the glass and sit back, over and over until finally he fell asleep. I'd almost forgotten about him by the time he woke with a jump, stood up, and brought his mug full of cold coffee to the sink.
“I'm going,” he said.
He pulled his jacket tight around his body, buttoned it all the way up to his neck, and left. I watched him walk out of my room. I heard him walk down the stairs. I assume he went out the front door of my building and down the lamplit street in the direction of the other penny, but I didn't get up to check.
Does he stare out his window at another cold autumn day? The day is crisp as a new one dollar bill with a bitter wind that could blow a skinny old man into oblivion without redemption.
Does he pull his jacket tight around his body and button it all the way up to his neck? Does he look down at his box? It's about the size of a shoebox, but any indication of whether or not it’s a shoebox has been worn away.
The word redemption is spelled atop the box. Is it spelled in peeled-paper as though something’s been pasted on and ripped off? Pennies. Is there a bright shiny penny dotting the i?
Does he take the box under his arm and walk out of his room, down the stairs and into the street? Cars drive by. Children play. Does he walk up the block toward the grocery store? If he goes to the grocery store he will find relief from the autumn morning in the rotting-produce warmth of the grocery store.
Does one of the clerks say: “It's that guy?”
Does the clerk who says it's that guy pretend to be busy so he won't have to help him?
Does he stop in front of the customer service desk? The customer service desk is on the wall opposite the entrance. Do the rest of the employees pretend not to notice him? Do they scurry away like bunny rabbits? Is it because they know that the last to notice him will have to redeem him?
Is the new girl the last to notice him? She barely looks old enough to work. Does he place his box on the counter in front of her?
“How may I help you?” she says with a smile that says, paper or plastic.
Does he open the box? Are there piles and stacks of colorful coupons inside? Does the girl pick through them, puzzled as to what's expected of her?
She says: “What am I supposed to do with these?”
Does he want to redeem them? Does he say: “I want to redeem them?”
She looks up at him as though he's an idiot. She wonders if he's an idiot, if he really doesn't know how to use a coupon.
“Don't you know how to use a coupon?” she says. “You buy things with them. To get a discount on things. Like this one.” She picks out a coupon with a picture of a bottle of green dish detergent on it. “It says you get ten cents off a bottle of green dish detergent when you use it.”
Does he respond?
“So if you wanna go get a bottle of green dish detergent I can give you ten cents off,” she says.
[caption id="attachment_1729" align="alignleft" width="214"] The Awful Possibilities by Christian TeBordo[/caption]
Does he not respond?
“Except this coupon expired over a year ago,” she says. “See this?” She shows him the date on the bottom. “It expired on this date. That's a year ago so I can't give you ten cents off.”
Does he point to the fine print below the date? The girl squints to read.
“It says actual cash value: one one-thousandth cent,” she says.
Does he nod?
“But we don't have one one-thousandth cent,” she says. “You would need like a thousand of these just to make one cent.”
Does he point toward the box? Toward the other coupons in the box? Does he make sure she counts every one of them? It takes her more than two hours because she loses track and has to start over several times.
“One thousand,” she says, and smacks the last coupon on the counter with a hateful look that doesn't become her young face.
She hands him his redemption. One penny.
Does he take it? Does he rub it against his shirt? A rub against a shirt is a far cry from the rigorous routine of polishings that the rest of his pennies got.
Does he ask her for some paste?
She checks beneath the desk—the sound of clutter being tossed around—and stands up brandishing a tube of rubber cement.
“This is all we got,” she says.
Does he cement the period to redemption? Rubber cement works as well as paste, but doesn’t smell as good.
Does he say thank you?
“Fuck you, too,” she says, not quite beneath her breath.
Does he step back outside? It's still a cold day. Does he head toward home with the empty box under his arm? Do the two pennies on the box reflect the rays of the setting sun? Now and again.
How long before he stops in front of a trash can and drops the box in unceremoniously? Who’s keeping track? And does he still believe in redemption? Does he finally believe in redemption?
* * *
Christian TeBordo's work has been published in 3rd Bed, Avery Anthology, Ninth Letter, and Sleeping Fish, among others. He is the author of three novels: The Conviction and Subsequent Life of Savior Neck (2005); Better Ways of Being Dead (2007); We Go Liquid (2007).
TeBordo was born in Albany, New York in 1978, and earned his BA at Bard College and his MFA at Syracuse University. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife Kathryn, a choreographer. He teaches at Temple University, and plays bass guitar in a noise-pop band called The Failed Alliance.
This story was originally published in his first collection of short stories entitled The Awful Possibilities (Featherproof Books 2010), and appears on Smalldoggies courtesy of the author.
Find more out about Christian TeBordo here: Featherproof Books.