He was not thinking about the new year at all. He was not thinking about the old year either. He was not thinking about any year at all, not even any day, only the moment, about the coins heating up in his hand, clenched in two tight fists, silver dollar in the right, gold five dollar Liberty in the left, both of which he knew meant nothing until he made the trip from the middle of the park where he was standing to the corner store, at which point they would mean everything. Until then, his time of greatest wealth had come when his sister had died and his grandparents had visited and announced that they were going to indulge him, because "that's what is done," and then made good on their pledge, his grandfather giving him a dime, his grandmother a quarter, both with great ceremony, his grandmother curtsying even, and that time he had gone straightaways to the store and bought a loaf of bread, an orange, and a chocolate bar, the lot of which he thought would provide an afternoon's worth of pleasure at most but which lasted much longer, the chocolate bar especially, which stuck around until after Easter. His grandparents had joined his sister and were no longer on the earth. This money had come from them as well, from instructions they had written on a piece of paper they had left behind. So what would happen with six dollars? What would not happen? He could eat like a king. He could drink like his grandfather. He might even pick up a magazine or two as gifts for his parents, and if his arms were too full, he could take the streetcar home. But first he had to get to the store.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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