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October 2007 One-Tenth Of A Dollar It was the best of dimes… it was the worst of dimes. Wilfred Baldano stared at the coin, a smile creeping from his reserve. With help of the governor’s tax on food, the meager breakfast sandwich consumed all his money, save one silver-colored coin he held in his palm. Practically weightless and nearly valueless, it was nevertheless meaningful as it represented excess, at least to Wilfred. It was the difference between rich and poor. Waxing philosophic was part and parcel of Wilfred’s activities these days. Whenever possible, he sneaked into the public library in quest of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations or some other useful tome. Early on, Wilfred discovered the value of research during his matriculation at Brown. Co-eds from Coe College or Vassar were more likely to spend time with a man of letters. A glib retort or well-timed rejoinder could make all the difference. Wilfred learned his lessons well. Exposure to the world of business marked the completion of Wilfred's formal education. His career as a fund-raiser started innocently enough, altruism his hallmark as he climbed the corporate ladder; first to the office with a window, then into the executive suites… where was the harm in living well while helping those unable or unwilling to help themselves? Sure, he allowed himself a few trinkets along the way, an accepted practice common to executives accomplished in the mores of the Financial District. Unfortunately, Wilfred also realized that rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, also cemented the hypocrisy of society. Stealing for a noble cause, was, for all its crimson-robed glory, nonetheless felonious; the primary difference being the accommodations allowed the perpetrator. One thief inhabits an eight-room loft just off Wall Street, whereas another occupies a one-room cell just off “B” Block inside the walls of Attica. Wilfred’s chosen domicile currently included a cardboard box located in a subway tunnel somewhere beneath 5th Avenue and the irony did not escape him. He lived in the penthouse of all outhouses… even this characterized the bounty of his excess. At some point, Wilfred Baldano could no longer bring himself to ride the A-train, take a cab or even walk to his office; the building itself became repugnant to him. Wilfred saw himself as a symbol, an artifact dedicated to duplicity. His values leaked into the very structure as he replaced them with the alchemy of larceny upon the rich. And he became good at it… too good. No Robin Hood he, Wilfred learned to morph his work into his life until it all but consumed him. In fact, towards the end, he justified his actions by casting himself in the role of benevolent therapist/priest, divesting those privileged few of a considerable portion of their ill-garnered booty, thereby assuaging their conscience and providing absolution for their avaricious sins. His entire life was reduced to a shell-game; Mr. Getty, you pitch a few farthings into my basket, and despite the fact that you know little (if any) of the money will ever grace the coffers of any charity, so what? I tell you what a saint you truly are, and you believe it. It’s all tax-deductible, so who’s the poorer for it? These days, Wilfred recalled that he’d never once stepped foot inside a seminary and his one semester in behavioral science hardly qualified him as a clinical psychologist. One cold day in October, Wilfred Baldano simply walked away from all the trappings, leaving the keys in the ignition of his Mercedes. Cold turkey. Even then, he became successful. So well honed were his skills, before winter gave way to spring, Wilfred claimed the crown as prince of the pavement. Any panhandler could look pitiful... this took no particular skill or art. The delivery made all the difference. It separated Nolan Ryan from Juan Calderon, Robin Williams from Bobcat Goldthwait, The Beatles from Strawberry Alarm Clock. The really successful artisans involved themselves in their art, becoming a compelling force for the retrieval of errant funds. Success at any level comes at a price, however. So pleasing was his repertoire, Wilfred Baldano, the current street-Midas of Manhattan, through no fault of his own, became the subject of every photographer and free-lance journalist with his eye on a Pulitzer. Even in obscurity, he could not escape a society bent on exploitation. His every step, every action required him to run from Twenty-Twenty or Sixty Minutes crews. Burger Basket makes one fine breakfast sandwich, especially the croissant version with grease dripping off the sausage, egg and cheese- even if the flavor does improve with a liberal blanketing of salt and pepper. Today, Wilbert Baldano would once again entertain the photographer dogging him. The subway tunnel provided the perfect backdrop as Wilbert stood on the concrete escarpment above the tracks, placidly munching his 3000-calorie widow-maker. Hearing the on-rushing train, he held one finger in the air (cueing the pursuant shutterbug) and timing it perfectly, pirouetted gracefully onto the tracks, the middle finger of his left hand saluting the camera. The New York City Coroner’s office worker inventoried the remains. As the TV in the background told the story of the itinerant subway fatality, he checked the pockets of the filthy blue jeans and found one Denver-minted 1942 Mercury dime. Glancing around the office to see if anyone was watching, the clerk/numismatist deftly employed a little sleight-of-hand and the $35,000 coin disappeared into his pocket. Somewhere, Wilfred Baldano chuckled— the baton had been passed. Bob Church © 7/2004 Bob Church is a 59-year-old
writer/engineer living in Moberly, Missouri with his wife, Louise,
and their poodle, Carla. After thirty years spent raising a family,
he has reached the point in his life that allows time to pursue
his real love, writing. While Bob has not, until recently, actively
sought print publication, his work has appeared in numerous on-line
publications. He is a writer of both short and long fiction with
a slightly different je ne sais quoi. His characters and stories
have been described as ‘quirky’, ‘off-beat’,
and ‘far-out’, truly exhibiting a few degrees of separation
from contemporary mainstream society. Bob says, however, there
is method in his madness. He tries to ask the question, Who is
more interesting, your banker or the twenty little people dressed
in clown suits who jump out of the car at the circus? |
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