Do you remember the day you were born? Maybe not. I suppose humans don’t remember things the way that we do. How could you? I mean, you guys are born to parents and have to develop your brains and all that stuff. And geez, all the crying never stops.
Nah, I was born in a factory. Well, “minted” is probably a better word. I was minted in a factory on August 26, 2007. I’m pretty sure my name is J10150506M, but everyone always called me “Bill.” They called everyone else Bill too, so I guess I have the same name as all my brothers. It’s probably because we all look pretty similar. The main difference between my brothers and I are our name tags, faces, and the numbers on our corners. The family always seemed to be out to get me because of the 1’s on my corners. Alongside my fellow brothers with 1’s on their corners, every other member of my family would tell me that I was worthless and held no value. How cruel is that!? Even coins would scoff at me as they rolled by (except for the pennies, who also seemed to have a rough time with their folks).
Not long after my…minting? I was sent to an ATM. That’s a scary name, but apparently it means “automatic teller machine.” I have no idea what it’s supposed to tell me, though. I can indeed verify that it is a machine, but I don’t think it’s automatic ‘cuz when I got taken out of it, there clearly was a woman there pressing the buttons.
I never learned the name of this woman, but I believe she’s what’s called a “mom.” She had a little kid with her, a little boy that was beaming his face off when she handed me over. He had a cute smile, he was missing some teeth, as I later learned many children do. Anyways, the kid waved me around as the pair walked into a grocery store. The kid dropped me when he went to pick up a chocolate bar, but his mom quickly picked me up again and brought me to the cashier, alongside the chocolate. I heard bubbly giggles as I was handed to the teenage cashier, who was definitely not laughing and definitely not happy to be doing this all day. I was stuffed into a cash register alongside other members of my family, many being much older and more damaged than I. They never talked to me, and I was almost convinced they were dead.
A few hours later, I was taken out of the cash register by a new cashier, an older, gentle woman. I was handed over to a teenage boy, who carefully placed me in his wallet. I probably stayed in that wallet for a few days before I was taken out, this time in the boy’s room. I watched as he took a pen and began to write on me; it really tickled! And then he put me back in his wallet.
The next day, I was in yet another new place, a place called a “school cafeteria.” It was brightly lit by open windows, but ooooooh boy. Those tables were sticky! I remember the boy handed me over to a girl, a girl who burst out laughing. It was probably because of what the boy wrote on me, but I like to pretend that it’s because I just looked cool.
For the next few years or so, I had the same routine. Well, more like that boy and girl had the same routine. I would be stuck in one of their wallets for a few days, then I would be taken out and put in the wallet of the other. I think they were playing a game. The places they brought me always seemed to be somewhere new; there was a merry-go-round, an ice-skating rink, a carnival, a pizzeria, and (my personal favorite) an arcade. Over the few years I was with them, I saw them getting older and older each time they handed me over. Even when I was in their wallets or pockets or purses, I could hear their laughter, and their voices slowly started to get deeper as well.
At some point, I remember the girl pulling me out in her bedroom, and the boy wasn’t around. She looked at me for a good, long while, and I stared right back at her. She wasn’t laughing or smiling, but she looked like she was thinking something. She pulled out a pen and scribbled something on me, and it was equally as ticklish as the time the boy did that. She put me in her purse, and the next time I saw the light of day, the boy still wasn’t around. Instead, there was a big man with a lot of hair on his face and none on his head. He had a glass bottle in his hand.
She handed me over to the man, and I felt kind of sad. Where did the boy go? I heard the girl asking the man about his son, and the man gave a lot of gruff responses. Eventually the girl left, and I was alone with the man. He didn’t put me in his pocket or wallet or purse, but began to walk down the street instead. He was muttering something about alcohol.
Eventually we reached the front of a grocery store. I think it was the same as the first one I went to, but I have no idea. The man looked like he was about to go in, but there was a woman sitting in front of the door, and he didn’t seem like he wanted to talk to her. The woman was raggedy and her hole-y hat didn’t really protect her head, which had a lot of silver hairs coming from it. She had a cart full of plastic bags, I think there were snacks in those bags.
The man paced back and forth for a while, like he was waiting for her to move, but she didn’t move. She was extremely still. He seemed to get tired of this and offered me to the woman. The woman barely registered his outstretched hand, but slowly she raised her aged hands to grab me, a toothy grin on her face as she shed a few tears. The man grunted and walked away, and the woman remained still. At some point, a cashier from inside the store came and chased her away, and the woman shuffled away aimlessly as she dragged her cart with her left hand and clutched me gently with her right.
We continued this way for months. Sometimes she would sit down on the sidewalk and pull things out of the plastic bags in her cart. She didn’t have pockets and would carefully tuck me into her hat when she did this. I would hear the occasional crunch while I was hiding in her hat, so I’m pretty sure there was food in those plastic bags and she was eating, but I still have no idea.
As more months passed and more plastic bags vanished from her cart, eventually the cart was empty. I noticed she didn’t stop to sit on the sidewalk anymore. She would just walk and walk and walk. On a few occasions, she would stop walking and stand still, staring at certain buildings for long periods of time. I think most of them were restaurants. But she almost never went inside, and when she did, someone usually drove her out.
There was one time when they didn’t drive her out, though. Actually, a lady came outside and talked to the woman. She was wearing a black shirt and an apron. The woman happily followed the lady inside, and the woman sat down at a table. It reminded me of the pizzeria I visited with the boy and the girl a few years ago. The lady came by with a lot of fancy-looking food, and the woman handed me over. I was really sad to go, but I was glad that the woman looked so happy and finally had something to eat, ‘cuz I learned that food’s something that humans need.
The lady with the apron put me in a cash register similar to the first one I visited. Once again, my fellow Bills never spoke a word, so I didn’t either. The cash register opened and closed, open and closed, but I stayed on top of my stack, so I kind of felt special. The flickering lights were annoying though. I spent a good hour or two with that treatment.
At the end of the night, the lady with the apron came along and dumped me and all the other Bills into a bag. The only light in the bag came from the small holes in the stitches of the bag, but that light vanished quickly when I heard a truck door slam. In the darkness, I listened to the sound of tires rolling, horns honking, and people yelling. I would like to say I got motion-sickness, but I don’t think that’s a thing a Bill can get.
When the light started streaming into the bag again, it was only for a short period of time. I heard the truck door open, I heard voices, I heard footsteps. I felt the bag get picked up and felt every step the person took. I heard a different door open. I heard a snobby voice talk about a millionaire’s vault. I felt the footsteps again. I heard a heavy, metal vault door open. I felt the bag fly through the air and land on a pile of something, and a ton of metallic clink! noises followed. I heard the vault door slam shut. I saw the lights go out.
And now I’m here. I’ve been here for…thirty years? At first, I used to hear the vault open and close, and I used to see the lights return and disappear. But in a few weeks, I could only feel the weight of other Bills on top of me, and I could no longer see or hear anything. The Bills and coins never spoke, so I didn’t either. But sometimes, I wish they would talk. I wish I could tell them about the mom and the son and the teenage cashier and the lady cashier and the teenage boy and the teenage girl and the man and the woman and the lady. I wonder how all of them are today. But it seems like I’m stuck here.
A little about this story...
I've had the idea for this story for about two years now. It's supposed to be about the value of money, and how useful or useful it can be based on where it is. I wanted to explore the perspective of money, since we give money value and exchange it at our will. Originally I intended to have Bill go through many more pockets to explore the diversity of people in the world, but I know it would be impossible to cover all the bases and I rushed this one for the school writing contest (I got first place!). Overall, I like to think I got my social commentary across, although I'm not sure it'll make a big difference quite yet.
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