I had gone to Richland Mall with a few folks from college as one of our usual avoidances of classwork. We had finished our tour of the one-level “ranch” mall and were standing in a small group near the planters outside of the Waldenbooks.
I don’t recall why we were loitering instead of just leaving the place, but as we stood around I removed a nickel from my pocket and began to flip it into the air and catch it. I set the nickel on the side of my bent finger and flicked it into the air with my thumbnail, each time simply catching the coin and replacing it to flick again.
A boy at the entrance of the bookstore took interest in my flipping, and stood there alone, watching. I flipped quite a few times, catching, replacing, until one time an errant flip sent the coin just out of my grasp. The nickel fell to the floor and rolled a foot or two toward the boy before I managed to step on it and stop its progression.
I looked at the boy, who looked up from my foot-covered coin, and I smiled at him as I picked up my foot and retrieved the coin. Thinking better than to flip the coin into the hallway again, I put the coin in my pocket and returned to my group of friends. The boy ran off, and I didn’t think anything of it.
I few moments later when I wasn’t paying much attention, the boy had returned. A woman I didn’t know was addressing me: “Give my son back his money.”
I was confused at first. Had she mistaken me for someone else? Who had stolen this boy’s money?
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You know what you did — taking a nickel from a little boy. I saw you pick it up.”
Huh? “No,” I said, “I have been standing here flipping this coin in the air for the past ten minutes. You saw me pick it up after I dropped it.” The little squirt stood there looking innocent.
“Don’t lie!” she yelled. My friends started to back away from the growing scene. “How can you take money from a little boy?”
“I didn’t!” I insisted. “I took the money from my own pocket. I dropped it. It’s mine. He’s been standing there watching me flip the coin for ten minutes, he knows it’s mine.”
“Give him back the nickel!”
“Uh, no,” I said. “It’s not his.” I planted my hands in my pockets.
“Fine! The nerve of some people!” She grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him off.
All of this trouble over a nickel.
It occurred to me shortly afterward that saying something pithy might have ended this story better, but I simply returned to my “friends” (nice being supportive there, guys) and we left the mall, as planned. What might you have said?
