Lincoln’s Hoard

He was good at finding pennies because he never looked up.  Arthur woke up early as the April sun filtered through his window, from the outside world into his.  With a slight squint, his eyes traced the path of the sun as it crept over his bed.  He waited twelve minutes, until six thirty a.m exactly, when his manually wound alarm clock rang with a tinny sound.  His wrinkled hand reached out and stopped the ringer.  He sat up slowly and pushed the sheets back, dressed in a pair of white boxers and a plain white t-shirt.  Gathering his strength, he unfolded himself out of bed, knees creaking, leaning slightly but noticeably to his right, shuffling into the bathroom just a short walk down the hallway.  The floors were wood, varnished smooth by time and bare footsteps.  The walls themselves were bare as well, outlined with thick wooden trim and covered with a faded floral pattern in different shades of green, outdated by at least half a century. 

The bathroom floor was covered in tiny white tiles, and Arthur bent over with ancient grace, drying his feet with his right hand while gripping the edge of the porcelain claw footed tub with his left.  Taking a tentative step off the bath mat to make sure his feet were completely dry, Arthur stood before the sink and worked up a lather in his shaving cup.  He covered his slight gray whiskers with the brush, working carefully underneath his nose and up to his temples, raising his chin to get underneath, never looking himself in the eye.  Arthur’s straight razor scraped his chin and cheeks clean, and he dabbed off the few remaining specks of soap with a handtowel. 

Arthur shuffled back down the hallway and into his bedroom.  He changed into a new pair of boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, dropping the used clothes in a wicker basket by his closet.  He carefully pulled on a pair of brown slacks and sat down on the edge of his bed to pull on his socks and leather shoes.  His critical eye looked over the wearing by the heel and he decided by the end of the summer he might have to have them re-soled.  Arthur looked at his alarm clock.  Seven twelve a.m.  The ticking followed him down the hallway as he made his way to the steps.  He passed the only other door on the second floor, closed firmly shut.  It was not until next week when he was due to go in and dust in the second bedroom, a chore made all the easier because it was completely empty. 

The ticking of his alarm clock faded as he walked down the steps, holding onto the painted iron banister with one hand, his right foot sliding forward and dropping to the next step before patiently shuffling with his left and dropping it into place as well.  When he reached the living room, papered in the same faded green floral as the upstairs, Arthur’s progress was mirrored in the plate glass that covered half the wall in the living room.  His twin, dressed in the brown slacks and white t-shirt, walked with him across the room, past the same wooden couch with its rough cushions and single easy chair that smelled like mothballs and time.  There was a single area rug in living room over top the bare wooden floor like the upstairs hall.  It was so thin it was almost worn through was barely provided any cushion at all.    

The floor of the kitchen was covered in alternating black and white tiles, twelve inches to a side.  He lit the left front burner on the stove and measured out a cup of water to boil for his oatmeal.  Arthur’s refrigerator hummed a different note as he opened it and grabbed a quart of milk, holding it with both hands and putting it on the counter next to the stove.  He poured himself a glass of milk and drank tiny sips, waiting until the pot hissed and shivered into life.  Arthur poured the boiling water and stirred his oatmeal, eating the warm mush and finishing his milk.  A wooden radio sat on the kitchen counter as his mute breakfast companion.  Arthur placed the used dishes in the sink and made sure the burner on the stove was off. 

His mirror twin followed him back across the living room to the steps, another journey taken leaning on the banister as one shoe was gingerly placed next to the other.  Arthur shuffled over to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, rolling up the tube from the end and firmly capping it. He rinsed his mouth out with a swallow of water from the small glass that sat on the right hand side of the sink and placed his toothbrush in the holder.  Arthur straightened the hand towel and bath towel where they had hung from his earlier shower and shave, and picked up the straight razor from where it lay and moved it away from the edge of the sink.  The click of the metal as placed the razor down echoed a click in his memory from a day far in the past. 

Arthur walked home from work the few short blocks from the trolley stop.  He was lucky that it new house was so close to the trolley.  He could get almost anywhere in the city by hopping on one line or the other, and construction was booming in every neighborhood.  If it was a lousy day and he was lucky enough to have inside work, he just ducked inside his jacket and hustled to the trolley, and barely got wet or cold before starting the day.  But there were no worries that warm and sunny day.  The opening day of baseball season, and the Phillies might have a chance this year.   Of course, he said that last year, and the year before, but they were bound to turn it around.  Arthur couldn’t wait to get home and flip the radio on to see how they were doing.   He stopped at the ice cream parlor by the trolley stop and got a vanilla cone, lingering long enough to hear the Phils were up by two.  He waved goodbye to the Charlie behind the counter and hustled the few blocks home.  At the intersection of the last block before home sound of metal striking the ground caught his ear and the glint of copper caught his eye.  A kid on a bike had pedaled furiously by, losing a penny from an errant pocket.  Holding the ice cream cone in his left while scooping down with his right hand to grab the fallen penny, Arthur never broke his stride.  He looked down the block, but the kid on the bike was crossing the street and headed for the opposite corner.  With a shrug, he finished the ice cream cone and dropped the penny into his pocket.  He had found a nickel just the day before, and he figured if he kept his eyes peeled the next ice cream cone could be a free one, paid for with the people’s carelessness with their loose change. 

As soon as the click of the razor on the sink died away Arthur slowly made his way back to his bedroom.  He slipped on a clean white shirt, lightly starched, and his clumsy, arthritic fingers patiently forced the buttons together.  He tucked the shirt into his pants and chose the second of two ties that hung in his closet, knotting it with years of unconscious repetition and smoothing it against his frail chest.  Arthur slipped on his suit jacket and pulled it tight against his shoulders.  Arthur opened the drawer of his nightstand, and took out his wallet, a well used penknife, his house key, and pocket watch.  Winding up his watch, he squinted to examine the dial and adjusted it to make sure it was the same time as his alarm clock.  Eight oh four a.m. and time to start the day.  Slipping the wallet and penknife into his left pants pocket, he put his house key in his left jacket pocket and his watch in the inner breast pocket.  The bare wooden floors of the hallway greeted him as he walked from the room.

Arthur’s dignified mirror twin once again walked with him across the living room as he walked to the kitchen.  He took an apple from the basket on the counter and put it his left jacket pocket.  It was Monday’s apple, and four more left after today for lunch until he went grocery shopping again on Friday.  Arthur reversed course and came back into the living room, opening the front door.  It was still a little chilly, but as Arthur got older it never seemed to be warm enough in April.  All in all, it didn’t seem too bad, and he decided against the overcoat that hung by his front door.  He stepped onto the silvered wood of his small front porch and locked the door behind him.  Arthur grabbed the handrail and took the three steps with care, noticing the middle step was staring to warp in the middle.  He made his way down the paver walkway to the sidewalk, hunched over and leaning to the right.  The bricks in the walkway had only shifted a little over time and his feet slid over them easily.  The sun snuck through the early morning clouds and he felt its warmth on the back of his neck as he turned to his left and headed up the block.  His day had begun. 

            Not fifteen minutes in and the sunlight picked up a glint of silver several feet in front of him.  A good start to the day, much better than the day before.  Arthur’s eyes were sometimes fooled by pieces of trash, but he knew right away it was a find.  He took a few more steps and stopped with both feet side by side, silent sentry before a quarter on the sidewalk.  Arthur bent over, right hand reaching out as his arm dropped lower.  He bent slightly at the waist and leaned his left hand on his knee as support.  Arthur scooped the quarter off the ground and straightened his back again, pushing with his left hand against his knee to get enough momentum.  He slipped the quarter in his right jacket pocket and felt the rough canvas of his right pocket, slipping into another memory at the feel of the fabric.

            Arthur sat at his kitchen table.  All his pants and jackets were folded and piled on one side of the table.  The radio was playing in the background, detailing the Phils’ latest struggle with Mets pitching.  The other side of the table had the remains of an old canvas tent, scissors, needle and thread.  The fate of the Phillies didn’t affect Arthur as he worked long into the night, replacing the worn right side pockets of all his clothes with a custom canvas pocket harvested from the old tent.  Several pockets had holes worn though with all of the change that Arthur found, and rather than take the risk of losing any of it he decided to change all his clothes to hold up.  He figured the canvas wouldn’t wear through and it could hold more weight than the typical cloth.  His eyes squinted with concentration and he sewed another together. 

            Arthur pulled his pocket watch out and saw it was eleven fifty eight.  No harm in taking a little early lunch, even though the day had slowed considerably from his good start with the quarter. Arthur only had eight seven cents so far.  He sat at his bench at the park where his Monday route always took him, taking the apple out of his pocket and slicing pieces off with his penknife, slowly chewing and making them soft enough to swallow.  The pigeons ignored him as they had learned he never fed them anything.  The bright green piece of gum that someone had spit out in front of the bench had faded to gray and had a sneaker print in it.  Arthur’s city streets were marked by shifting patterns of gum and trash, crack in the sidewalk slowly growing and migrating to be fixed later or ignored completely.  His Thursday route had a nice heaved section by the corner of Third and Landes Road that had been there for at least fifteen years. 

            The day wore on, sun disappearing and reappearing behind the clouds.   Arthur watched the sidewalk and streets pass him by, gauging where the sun was by its feel on his neck.  He made his way back onto the porch by  five oh two p.m., making his weary way to the kitchen and hanging his suit jacket of the back of the only chair at the kitchen table, his right pocket jingling slightly.  He turned the left front burner of the stove on, placing a frying pan on top.  Arthur took out a piece of liver and half an onion out of the refrigerator, chopping some slices off the onion to fry with the liver.  Arthur washed all his dishes and the frying pan after finishing dinner, drying them and putting them back in their cabinets and drawers.  He slipped the jacket back on, feeling the comforting weight on his right side and walked to the basement door in the corner of the kitchen.  Arthur flipped the switch and the bare incandescent bulbs lit up the recesses of the basement.  The steps for steep and narrow, and Arthur took considerable care walking down the steps, holding onto the banister on each side.  The basement was unfinished, holding the water heater, oil furnace, and hundreds of hundreds of jars of coins.  Mason jars, coffee cans, water cooler bottles, plastic storage bins, milk jugs, cups, and several fifty five gallons drums, all stacked and labeled neatly with their contents.  Arthur sighed as he walked across the basement.  Today had not been so good after all.  He emptied his right suit pocket into a plastic jar that had previously held several pounds of pretzels.  He had only found one dollar and forty seven cents today.  He made a careful note on the paper that was taped to the top of the plastic jar and slowly made his way back up the steep stairs, turning off the light as he reached the top of the stairs. 

            Arthur’s mirror twin made his weary way across the living room and upstairs.  Laboriously he unknotted his tie and took off his shirt, hanging both back up.  He put his wallet, penknife, house key, and pocket watch back in his nightstand.  Seven seventeen p.m.  The bare wooden floors of the hallway thumped with his tired footsteps as he brushed his teeth, rolling the tube from the bottom up and rinsing his mouth out with a swallow of water from the glass at the right hand side of the sink. He placed toothbrush in the holder and his footsteps once again echoed down the hall.  Arthur’s fingers struggled with his shoelaces and he finally disrobed, laying down in bed and pulling the sheets up to his chin.  Tomorrow was Tuesday, and he hoped for a little more luck.