The Amazing Adventures of 4¢ Ned, page 9
“Nudnik,” the chief muttered. He shook his head and addressed Ned, a grave look on his face. “Four, when I was held captive by the collector I had a vision.”
“Your ancestors?” Ned said. “The voices of the great Coinim?”
The chief nodded. “The collector was staying at a lodge in Montana, and while he was in the lobby looking me over and consulting his books to see what I might be worth to him, I got to staring into the lodge’s big fireplace. Voices spoke to me from the fire and I had a vision.”
“Whoa,” Pete said, enthralled.
The chief shot Pete a look of annoyance, and then continued. “They told me that a day was coming when coins would no longer be necessary; that all currency would be replaced.”
“But that’s crazy,” Pete said. “People need us. We are the life, the very blood cells of the American marketplace.”
“Replaced with what?” Ned asked.
“Something called polymers,” the chief answered. “Have you ever heard of such creatures?”
“Not creatures, Chief,” Pete said. “Plastic. I’ve heard of the stuff. But plastic coins? Really? It makes no sense. I don’t think they’d be durable enough, for one. Secondly, they’d be too easy to counterfeit.”
“In my vision I did not see coins, penny,” the chief replied curtly. “I saw something flat, like a playing card with numbers scribbled across them.”
“No disrespect, Chief,” Ned said, “but maybe you were hallucinating.”
Chief Iron Tail shook his head and reiterated, “Plastic cards!” He gazed off distantly in recollection. “And then later in the vision, strings of numbers.”
“Strings?” Pete said.
“Numbers?” Ned said.
The chief nodded, “All ones and zeros. An endless line of ones and zeros…”
The coins exchanged baffled looks. What could it mean?
The three pondered the chief’s vision, but every possibility they came up with sounded ridiculous.
Pete said, “Chief, these visions, do they have a timeline? Are there any dates in them?”
“No, they could refer to months, years, or decades in the future.”
Ned said, “Well, that might explain a few things. It’s possible that we don’t fully understand the visions because we lack the necessary knowledge or experience.”
“That’s right,” Pete said. “Ten years ago, no one had even heard about something called plastic. Even today few people know what it is.”
“What about those strings of numbers?” the chief asked. “Numbers aren’t new. I saw ones and zeros as far as the eye could see.”
“Odd indeed,” Ned said, “but it sounds like some sort of code.”
“A code!” Pete exclaimed. “I think you’re on to something, Ned. People have always used codes. In the war, codes were used by both sides, and breaking codes was a top priority.”
“I spent a few months with a code breaker during the war,” the chief said. “You might be right. But what kind of code?”
The coins had no idea.
Finally, Ned said, “Maybe you’ll have another vision and learn a little more. Until then, we have to get out of here and come up with some sort of strategy. And if Pete is going to work with us, we can’t be lugging him around everywhere we go.”
Eager as a puppy, Pete said, “You’ll teach me locomotion?”
“We can try,” Ned said, “but no promises. You have a few, er, disadvantages.”
“Huh?”
The chief said, “You’re beat, Pete. Look at you. You aren’t exactly round, ya know? You’re a little squashed on one side and you have more dings and dents in your rim than a junk yard hubcap.”
Pete frowned, and then he drew back Mr. Lincoln’s shoulder and said, “I’ll just work twice as hard. Where there’s a will there’s a way, fellas. Don’t you worry.”
“That’s the spirit,” Ned said. “Chief, where do we do this training? We need somewhere safe, somewhere away from commerce and collectors.”
“I know just the place,” the chief said, “but it is far from here.”
“Then we had better get going,” Ned said with new resolve. “The sooner I save Coinworld, or whatever the heck it is I’m supposed to do, the sooner I can get back to Franny.”
“What about him?” Pete said, tossing a glance towards the thief.
“What about him?” the chief said.
“We’re buckaneers, remember? We fight for justice, and that man is a thief.”
“Pete,” Ned said, “I hate to break it to you, but a buccaneer was a pirate. A thief. We don’t like thieves.”
“Oh,” Pete said, crushed. Then he perked back up. “Not buccaneers with a ‘c’, buckaneers with a ‘k’. Good-guy pirates!”
“Oy gevalt,” groaned the chief.
“Okay, Pete,” Ned chuckled. “Good-guy pirates.” He turned to the chief. “Chief, according to your visions and the words of the great Coinim, is crime fighting in our job description?”
“Doggone it, you had to remind me, didn’t you?” He nodded regrettably. “Yeah, the elders told me that every vision ended with the words, ‘Justice, justice shall you pursue.’ I was told that is one way we know that the vision is the real deal.”
“And the vision you had in Montana?”
“Justice, justice shall you pursue,” confirmed the chief.
“How are we supposed to do that, Chief?” Ned asked. “We’re just coins. Justice is a human problem.”
“There is a policeman at the end of the counter,” Pete said.
“He can’t hear us,” the chief said. “And even if he could, do you think he’d believe his ears?”
“Not his ears,” Ned said, “but maybe his eyes. Chief, you and Buffalo get ready to vamoose. When you see your chance, you buck for the door and meet me on the sidewalk outside. Got it?”
“What are you going to do, Ned?” Pete asked.
“I’m not sure yet, but you’ll know it when I do.”
At that, Ned stole silently away.
The thief turned a page of the newspaper and continued to ignore his captives.
Once Ned was out of the thief’s peripheral vision, he righted himself and journeyed in a slow, cautious roll down the counter. Seeking to avoid detection, he scooted stealthily behind every ketchup bottle, napkin holder, salt, pepper, or sugar shaker along the way. None of the half dozen people he passed noticed him.
When he reached the end of the counter, the policeman drained the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Clearly, the officer was about to leave.
Ned spotted an unused, green waitress order pad next to the register, and beside it a rubber date stamper and open ink pad. He backed up and then dashed for the metal ink case, bumping over its edge and onto the moist pad. He made two quick circles, and then hopped onto the waitress book.
Ned rolled, twirled, and skipped back and forth along the green ticket leaving a trail of ink. With impressive penmanship he scribbled:
Officer Whittle — The man in the Warrior sweatshirt at the end of the counter is a thief. He stole some bullion today at the coin show down the street. Check his pockets. Concerned citizen — Ned Nickel
His note complete, Ned next had to get the officer’s attention. He bounded from the pad, rushed twice into an empty water glass—ting! ting!—and then he somersaulted to the floor.
Recovering from his spill, Ned scrambled back onto his rim and let out a sharp whistle. “Now, Chief!”
Pete shouted, “Hi-Yo, Silver. Away!”
The chief bucked leaping from the counter. They smacked onto the linoleum and went tumbling until they crashed into a booth and bounced into the middle of the walkway.
“Watch out!” Pete cried.
The chief bucked out of the way of a heavy patent-leather shoe stomping from the far end of the counter. The foot belonged to the cop, and he was eying the thief with purpose and suspicion.
“Our work is done here,” the chief said. “Yahla, we go.”
Pete and the chief saw Ned racing towards the door. He dropped flat and slid right under it.
“Like Jackie Robinson stealing second base!” Pete exclaimed.
He and the chief bucked galumphing behind and clumsily inched their way under the door like a two-headed worm, but they made it.
“Good work, Four,” the chief said.
“Yeah, Ned,” Pete said, “you should have seen the surprise on the thief’s face.”
“On both their faces,” added the chief.
“I’m glad things worked out,” Ned said. “So where are we going, Chief? You mentioned a safe house somewhere.”
“Safe box is more like it,” the chief replied.
“Back to Deadwood?” Ned asked.
The chief nodded. “It’s the last place the collector would look, and the old Indian proprietor will protect us. The other coins in the box know us and we can trust them.”
“That’s a long haul from here,” Pete remarked. “It would take us months, maybe years to get there. Worse still, if you guys buck ‘n’ roll all the way to Deadwood, I doubt there would be much left of either of you by the time we arrived.”
“Pete’s right,” Ned said. “All that scraping and friction will turn us to pixie dust.”
The chief shook his head at the coins’ lack of faith and ingenuity.
“Who said anything about going by rim? There’s a bus station three blocks from here. We find which bus is heading west, hop into a bag, and stow away in the luggage department. We’ll have to change busses a couple of times, and it will take a few days, but it’ll save us from wear and tear.”
Ned and Pete exchanged, ‘duh, why-didn’t-we-think-of-that looks,’ and then they started towards the bus station.
The coins kept close to the storefront walls to avoid the eyes and feet of pedestrians. The last thing they wanted now was to be seen and picked up, accidentally kicked into traffic, or—yikes—knocked into a storm grate along the side of the road.
Chief Iron Tail grunted and said, “Once we get back to base, I know the first thing I’m going to do.”
“What’s that?” Ned asked.
The chief cast a glance up at Pete. “Figure a way to free myself from this leech!”
“Leech?” Pete protested. “You think I like being stuck on your face like an ugly wart? And, by the way, ever think of giving Buffalo a bath? He stinks.”
Buffalo snorted indignantly, and then he dumped a little nickel-colored buffalo pie to let Pete know what he thought of his insult.
“Aw, Buffalo,” Pete said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. We’re lucky to have you.”
The chief said, “Buffalo forgives you. He’s a bigger man than me.”
Ned said, “Don’t worry, fellas. I’m sure the kindly store Indian will know what to do about your sticky dilemma.”
“Boy,” Pete said, “I can’t wait to learn locomotion like you guys.”
“Kimosabe,” the chief rejoined ominously, “careful what you wish for.”
10
lost and found
Two days later.
“Well, Chief,” Pete said, “that didn’t work out so well.”
“How could I have known that we’d choose the one piece of luggage that would be left behind?” the chief grumbled. “It was a fancy-schmancy bag. Who’d think a person would forget such a nice bag? But don’t worry, gam zu l’tovah, this too is for the best.”
Ned and Pete weren’t so sure.
Everything had gone fine until they became stranded in a small Illinois bus depot. The passengers disembarked to change busses, and every bag in the luggage compartment was retrieved but the one the three coins had chosen to stow away in. The driver lugged the forgotten bag to the Lost and Found, and there Ned Nickel, Pete Penny, and Chief Iron Tail sat unclaimed for the next three hours.
Bored, and not knowing how long they’d have to wait, the coins clambered out of the luggage’s side pouch and bucked over to the terminal to check the bus schedule. There they learned that the next bus headed towards Deadwood wasn’t to depart until 9:45 the following morning.
“We got a whole day,” Pete said. “What do you guys want to do?”
Ned and the chief exchanged looks, blinked, and then bust out laughing. Even Buffalo let out a snort. A coin with a decision to make! Who had ever heard of such a dilemma?
Coins didn’t have free will. They waited for a person to pocket them, and then hoped for the best. Their fates were in the hands of people, figuratively and literally, and there wasn’t a darn thing any coin could do about it.
Until now.
Chief Iron Tail and 4¢ Ned had achieved locomotion, and thanks to an impressively strong wad of bubble gum, so had Pete Penny. The old laws of coinage had fallen away from them, and new boundaries had been established in their place.
It was a liberating thought, if not a little intimidating. They were free-ranging coins now, and no longer required people to travel from place to place. For Ned, Pete, and the chief, the free market had taken on a whole new meaning.
“Where are we anyway?” the chief asked.
“Springfield, Illinois,” Ned answered. “We’re still about a thousand miles from Deadwood.”
“Springfield…Springfield,” Pete said, rolling the word around his memory banks. “It rings a bell. Any of you guys ever been here before?”
Ned and the chief thought back to their many travels.
“Never,” the chief said, “though I did spend a few weeks hopping tip taxis in Peoria back in the 40s. Eventually, a Fuller Brush door-to-door salesman whisked me off to Indianapolis.”
Ned said, “Springfield, no, but I was held captive in a tin Band-Aid box by a half-blind old woman in Decatur for three months in 1951. She mistook me for a quarter and was saving us for a rainy day. One rainy day in March she died. A week later her son found the box. He dumped us into the pocket of his blazer and spent us on a date at a steak and lobster restaurant with a girl named Gina. I ended up as part of the tip. I left town two days later in the jeans of a truck driver on his way to Denver. How about you, Pete?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been here, but I feel a strange connection to the place. Like a déjà vu, but not my déjà vu.”
“Must be the fumes from all these busses,” the chief coughed. “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand and come back later. Nothing is holding us here but our own stupidity.”
Ned nodded and off they bucked across the scuzzy bus station floor. The coins kept close to the walls to lessen the chance of being seen. Once out of the station and onto the main street, they began to question the wisdom of leaving the relative safety of the bus station. Danger lurked everywhere for three small coins bucking along a sidewalk.
After a block they stopped and considered turning around. Ned uprighted himself and scanned the vicinity. He smiled and drew the others’ attention to a large tourist sign with a map of historical Springfield on it.
“Pete,” he said, “I think I know the source of your déjà vu. Notice anything?”
Indeed he did. Half of the places of interest had one thing in common: his penny namesake, Abraham Lincoln. Among other locales, the sign indicated Lincoln Park, Lincoln Memorial Garden, the Lincoln Home National Historic Site, the Lincoln Tomb State Historic Site, the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum, and even the Lincoln Depot, where Abe departed Springfield to be inaugurated president in Washington D.C.
“How could I have missed it?” Pete said, ashamed for not having figured it out himself. “For a penny, this is holy ground!” If he had a hand he’d have slapped his forehead.
“It was a long time ago,” Ned said. “Like people, I’m sure most coins have forgotten their roots and heritage.”
“It doesn’t make it right,” Pete mumbled.
“Was the great chief born here?” Iron Tail asked.
“No,” Pete answered. “In a log cabin in Hodgenville, Kentucky. He grew up on the western frontier and moved to Springfield in 1837, where he practiced law and politics. He lived here for twenty-seven years. Ned, have you been to Jefferson’s home?”
“I got as close as Charlottesville, but was never taken to Monticello. Maybe one day.”
“How about you, Chief?” Pete asked. “Where do you hail from?”
“I don’t have a hometown. For me, home was the range. Where the deer and the antelope played. Where seldom was heard a discouraging word, and the sky was not cloudy all day.”
Ned and Pete exchanged amused, knowing smiles.
Buffalo snuffled.
“Oh, Buffalo, too,” the chief added apologetically. Buffalo roamed there. The prairies and badlands. That was ours. You can keep your stinking cities.”
The coins decided on doing some sightseeing, as there was no telling when or if they’d ever pass this way again. Because of their size and speed they couldn’t take in much, but they did manage to see a couple of spots. That Abraham Lincoln had walked the very earth where they were bucking impressed Pete considerably. Little did Mr. Lincoln know way back then that a copper penny with his face on it would one day be paying his respects at his tomb.
By nightfall, and after more than a few adventures and one too many close calls, the coins decided to spend the night at a woodsy campground and park named after the great president.
Coins, like dogs and other pets, naturally gravitated towards people, and so when they spotted a happy family sitting around a campfire, they bucked over and parked themselves under the lip of a long log occupied by a mother, father, and their two small children.
The father was telling ghost stories as the kids roasted marshmallows over the campfire. Cool summer zephyrs ventilated the grounds, and at the edge of the woods the coins could see fireflies blinking on and off.
The coins listened in rapt attention to the father’s ghost stories. The stories weren’t that scary, but they were entertaining all the same. The dad was good at sound effects like creaking doors and bumps in the night too.
“Ned,” Pete said, “have you ever seen a ghost?”
“Nope, but I’ve met other coins who said they have. But you know coins and their yarns.”
