The Silver Dollar
I know where it came from. I just wanted to be bad. So, on cold stormy nights, I would go out to the rough streets and tease them. They’d look at me wide-eyed and hope for a warm meal or a bed or a bottle of booze or a hit to ease the pain. It was something I just wanted to do. So, I did it.
My family life as a kid was so ordinary. It was so family sitcom. I suppose that was good with all its securities and toys and visiting grandparents and being patted on the head for good marks. It was like most of the kids in my neighbourhood–average. Nobody wanted to be exceptional, just better than someone but not in any different kind of way. Nobody wanted weird.
So, nobody would wear yellow on Thursday because that meant you were a fruit. And everybody wanted to play baseball at recess and not not be picked on a team. It was just good to get more home runs that anyone; that was as exceptional as exceptional got.
I could never figure out why my older brother was exceptional. He got everything. I was particularly obvious when my grandparents visited. He was always the golden boy. And he never cared what anybody else thought. He didn’t have to; they always went to him. Is that what being the first born is? Getting the sunlight with everybody behind you in the shadow.
I always felt that it was in the cards, how much sunlight you got. But I wasn’t. It was other people’s decisions. They decided so much for you. And then you lived with it and carried whatever they did with you and they went on their merry ways. They kind of bumped into things along the way and if it was you, you had to get back to your own balance. But sometimes the bumps were really tough.
Why did the older brother, call him Jed, get to stay longer? I don’t mean go to bed later because he was older, but get to stay longer with Uncle Noah and Aunt Millie on the farm so he could ride the old nag for another day. I had to go home with Mom and Dad and sleep in the same bed and not be able to hang out in the barn for one more day chasing chickens and milking cows. I loved doing that but I never got to do it on my own.
Sometimes Jed would get together with our older cousins and they would try to get me to do stupid things. I remember once I was standing at the hay opening on the second floor of the barn and the three of them were down below coaxing me. The ground below them was solid rock, a baring of hard Canadian Shield, but they kept saying, “We’ll catch you. Go ahead. Trust us. We can catch you.”
I don’t know why I didn’t but I didn’t. I wanted them to think I was brave, but I let them think I was a scaredy-cat. But I’m writing this today.
But it wasn’t all bad. I can only tell you about the stuff that made me want to be bad. The good stuff was ordinary. I got good marks and took piano lessons and read books from the library and when I got older babysat and played with kids and then I felt good. They always liked me because I could read them stories and play games with them. It was like being a conductor in an orchestra deciding what the music would be.
But at some point, I wanted to do something that I wasn’t supposed to do, something that nobody would like. So, one day after school, my mother was visiting one of her friends, but she had left her purse in front of the bread bin. So, I looked into it and found two quarters and I took them. I ran as fast as I could and bought two chocolate bars and kept them all to myself. It felt so good that when I was walking home, I waved one in front of a little kid’s face and said, “I bet you want some of this, don’t you?”
His eyes lit up and he asked, “Can I have a bite?”
“I’ve got two,” I said.
Then his eyes really lit up. He must have been only about four or five because I never saw him at our school because he was too young.
“Nyah, nyah,” I yelled at him before his mother appeared and yelled at me.
“Bertie, go home,” she said. “Why are you teasing him?”
And then I knew what made me feel good. Taking the money made me feel weird because whenever I wanted a quarter, I could get some old person to give me one. And my Mom trusted me and that made me feel like I was a coward and take it without telling her. I did that only once.
I liked to tease. I could make someone want something I had and then not give it to them. It made me feel rich. And I could give it to them or not. They couldn’t make me, because the goodies were mine. Once I had a huge pocketful of Hallowe’en kisses and I walked through the little kids play ground on the day after we all trick ‘r treated. I was wearing tank pants that were popular then because the Korean War or something was just over. My pockets were stuffed with the taking from the night before.
So, I would make sure that a bunch of little kiddies would see me give a couple away and then come running and asking. Sometimes I would throw a few on the ground and that was fun to watch. I would laugh and laugh and say to the one that got the most, “You’re good,” and to the one that fell and got nothing, “You’re stupid.” Because I was starting grade five, they couldn’t do anything. Sometimes I gave and sometimes I didn’t. I loved those candies.
When they begged me, it was like I was their favourite. It must be nice to be a favourite. I remember when I was about their age, my grandmother would show who was the favourite. I shared a room in our little home with my brother, two years older, the first-born, as I said. When they were visiting, she’d come into our room and lie down with him and cuddle him to sleep. He never asked or anything, she just did. Never me. I used to cry but not so loud that she heard me. I guess he was the favourite.
Then when I was older, I realised that my brother got more attention from everyone than anyone else. He got more attention from Grandpa than even Grandma did. I think it was weird. I think she wanted attention and to feel good from Jed, or something so she snuggled with him. I can’t quite figure it out. But I was left out. And I wanted attention too.
When I got into high school and made money cutting lawns, I used to go out on some cold nights and stick a few fives in my pocket. I knew where the rubbies were so I would saunter slowly down that street, particularly in the winter, and pick a few guys. Some of them were huddled in doorways. One or two would even have some kind of flame going from a tin can, the camping stuff. Even in the cold there were bad smells. I guess it’s obvious what I would do.
I’d just flash the fives and let them reach and walk away. “Not tonight, Sir.” I was always polite. “I don’t want you to spend it on wine.”
Some guys would say rude things, but most were sort of out of it so they went back to huddling in their sleeping bags or those grey military blankets the Community Street Patrol had left them.
I would give one or two of them a five, but only if they had a dog or a pet with them. That means they wouldn’t be selfish with it. Then I’d go to the corner store and buy some smokes and smoke a couple before I got home. Oh yeah, cigarettes would tease them too.
There was one big moment. It was my birthday and Grandpa and Grandma had come for the weekend. Grandpa hadn’t retired yet so he had to go back to their city on Sunday afternoon. As they were leaving, he said to me, “Here’s a silver dollar, one more little thing for your birthday.” Every kid loved silver dollars and we never spent them, well at least till we started to smoke. I took it and held it up to the sunlight and it shone.
Then he said, “Here’s another one. Jed, you take it.”
My stomach fell out of my middle. The betrayal was too much. My grandfather could make me feel so good in a second and then in one moment take it all away and make me feel I was up in bed crying because my Grandmother would not cuddle with me.
I acted my age. I threw a tantrum and stomped my way upstairs and yelled at the top of my lungs, “But it’s my birthday.” I cried quite a bit that afternoon lying face down on my bed. It was my birthday. Well, I guess it made my grandfather feel good by making us both feel good. But he didn’t because of what he did. He made me feel bad and the silver dollar could have been just a piece of tin.
Now I understand what giving and not giving can do. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes it brings old things back, but I do what I have to do to get the feelings that I want.
It’s good working in the social services Community Funding department. When decision time comes, I just pick up my trusty silver dollar in my pen tray and flip it. Like today, I had a request for a grant for student remedial courses at the community centre. Toss, flip. Tails. Nope, maybe tomorrow.
I understand about making decisions. They’re mine; I get to decide.