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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 had consumed all his money, save one silver-colored coin he held in his palm. Practically weightless and nearly valueless, it was nevertheless meaningful because 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 any one of a number of other useful tomes. Early on, Wilfred discovered the value of research during his matriculation at Brown. Co-eds from Coe College or Vassar were much more likely to spend time with a man of letters. A glib retort or well-timed response to a delicate situation could make all the difference. Wilfred learned his lessons well.
Exposure to the world of business completed his secondary 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… what was so wrong about living well while you helped those who were unable or unwilling to help themselves? Sure, he allowed himself a few trinkets along the way, not uncommon for an executive who was accomplished in his business.
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 nor take a cab or even walk to his office; even the marble structure of the building itself became repugnant to him. Wilfred saw himself as a symbol, an artifact dedicated to duplicity. And he was good at it… too good. Towards the end, he justified his actions by casting himself in the role of 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 had been reduced to a 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? But, one day Wilfred remembered he’d never once stepped foot inside a seminary and one class in psychology hardly qualified him as a clinical psychologist.
One cold day in October, Wilfred Baldano walked away from all the trappings, leaving the keys in the ignition of his Beamer. Cold turkey. Even then, he became successful. So well-honed were his skills, before winter was finished, 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 Hugh Downs’ Twenty-Twenty or Ed Bradley’s 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 improves with a liberal blanketing of salt and pepper. Today, Wilfred 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 Breakcresont. Hearing the on-rushing train, he held one finger up 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.
Bob Church © March 14,2002
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