An Old Man and his Money

At lunchtime today I approached an old man in the street. I use the word
"approach" here to solely indicate that I was walking towards him, rather than to indicate I had some intention of talking or interacting with him. I am very used to the idea that one should never talk to strangers and for me to have started a social interaction with this gentleman (or possibly paedophile, you can't tell by looking!) would have therefore been a wrong thing.

The man was stood still, doddering slightly, and he had his hand open. He was looking at the contents of this hand which was full of loose coinage. Perhaps he was trying to identify some suitable coins to place into the parking meter that he was standing beside. Perhaps he had merely placed his old man's hand into his pocket and been surprised by the burnished pieces of metal within. What were these odd demonic coins? How had they got there? And where were all the sixpences?

I was about three metres away at this point.

Whether what happened next was a result of his surprise at the contents of his pockets or whether it was merely a result of his advance age and dementia, I will never know. But the man's hand shook slightly causing one of the coins to fall to the floor (in slow motion, like an old man's bad dream), and roll away from him. It rolled towards where I was standing, and then curved off to come to rest in front of a parked car.

The old man hadn't seen how far the coin had rolled. The only person who knew where it had ended up was me. So like a flash, I knelt in front of the car to inspect the prize. It was a 20p! Fresh and shiny. I picked it up and stood up and then... he hadn't noticed I'd got it! His addled old man brain had been incapable of seeing as far as me and he was still gazing forlornly around his own feet.

I had an opportunity to keep the 20p! Greed dazzled my thought, dollar signs span around my eyeballs like slot machine wheels - this was slightly odd since my greed was entirely sterling denominated, but bear with me - and I decided what I must do. I'd steal the money and walk past like nothing had happened. I'd whistle innocently and stride away into the sunset. I would be a winner! For once in my life, I'd have got one up on The Man (even if it was just an old one). I'd finally, finally be happy.

And the thoughts of what I could buy with the money, the cars I could drive, the cigars I could smoke, the girls I could impress, they were all good thoughts. I was made. I was money.

But then my veneer cracked. I realised that to me, this 20p was a passport to wealth and bounty. But to the old man, it was more than that. It was enough to buy part of a cup of tea. Or a pipe cleaner to clean his old man's pipe and later bend into amusing shapes. For me it was a lot, but to him... it was everything.

So I didn't steal the money in the end. As I walked past him I handed the coin across. He said "I didn't realise it had rolled that far". I said, "It did" and then continued on my way.

And what did I get for my amazing act of kindness and generosity? Nothing, that's what. Stingy old git didn't give me any kind of reward at all. Not even one of the Werther's Originals that he must have had in one of his old pockets.

Bah. Old people today...