Things Change

But you know, when I was growing up — graciously — my father gave me his coin collection to cherish and augment. It contained some fairly rare coins. Coins of value. It must have taken him a long time to acquire them. A true gift.

So, when I was a teenager with no income (as opposed to now, when I am a man with no income) and needed to get into Manhattan frequently to perform for no money at top comedy clubs, I used the special coins for transit fare. At face value, of course.

I might, at least, have gotten a premium for the silver if I had taken it to the bank. And there were banks between me and the bus. But I had no time for that. And I was timid. And soon the coins were gone, leaving in their wake empty blue folders with empty blue holes labeled for coins now in a fare box and beyond. Perhaps in someone else’s holes.

Well, you know, time passes, that’s for certain. And since about 3 years ago, I’ve been putting aside a few of the the rarer coins I’ve found in a given pocket of change. Not as rare, perhaps, as what was lost, but still, I’ve found a nickel from the ’40s and one from the ’50s and a couple from the early ’60s. And a wheatback penny (we’re two backs away from that now).

And finally, the other day, on the way to the gym, I used them to buy a bag of potato chips.

Because you need nutrition to build muscles.

And you need muscles to be handsome.


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