A Penny

A small fleet of vans runs daily from northern Manhattan (the bus station on 178th St.) to Paterson, New Jersey. Some of these buses play wild Dominican merengue music on the stereo. On one such bus, I found a penny. It was in the aisle, and my intuition said: "Pick it up!"

I tried to read the date, but the bus was bouncing too violently. When I reached dry land, I looked again: 1985. The year I lived in Denver for five months, working as a telemarketer and sleeping at my meditation group headquarters, a few blocks from the state capitol. Walking home, I would see knots of youths outside the Punk nightclub. 1985 came back to me powerfully, looking at this penny.

Next to Lincoln’s portrait was a greenish blotch. It looked like a phosphorescent fish peering over Abe’s shoulder.