Salt

When the Movers Took the Bed

7 W H E N t H E M O V E R s t O O K t H E B E D they left the pan full of change I kept beneath it. Emptying my daily pockets, I put wadded bills on the dresser and coins in the pan. I skimmed enough quarters from the stash to cover the cost of coffee, maybe a sandwich. Days of plenty outweighed days of want, and the pan grew heavy. On moving day, nickels sloshing like liquid on the floorboard with the turning of each corner, I hauled the pan to the grocer’s, shoveled handfuls of coins into the counting machine until the pan became lighter and my shoveling hand dark with penny dirt. My eyes fixed on the slot where things other than coins were spit out as if not worth counting. all those times on the golf course I borrowed a ball marker, and a dozen hid there in the pan. aspirin, too, their crisp round edges worn smooth against the coins. tokens exchanged for car washes, trips on the subway, bags of machine-dispensed balls. Watching the tokens pile up, I wondered what changed my plans, why I didn’t wash the car, take the train, go to the driving range. Pieces from Monopoly—the thimble, the terrier, a red hotel. I redeemed the coins for a voucher, the voucher for cash, then headed home, fiddling with the green house in my pocket. ...