Hey, Folks! So here’s another jumble of words that originally sprang from a writing prompt. It’s one of those things where the first couple hundred words came pretty quickly, but then I got bogged down by tiny details, like having a plot, or even a basic story arc. So here we go:
For all his wealth, I inherited nothing from Uncle Wendell except the ancient coin. I was surprised to receive even that much as we despised each other. I was assured the coin would fetch a princely sum at auction, but I’d never heard of the thing. The coin itself was large, about as big around as a hockey puck, and maybe a quarter inch thick. It came encased between two cardboard sheets for protection. If I wanted to look at it, I always donned clean cotton gloves so as to avoid damaging it.
The coin really wasn’t much to look at. As far as I could tell, it was made of gold. The obverse image was of a man in profile, with a long, pointed beard, and wearing a conical sort of hat, bent slightly forward. The reverse side contained the image of a bird with long legs and a long neck. A stork, maybe? Each side contained writing along the circumference, but at the far edge of legibility, even if I fetched a magnifying glass. What I remember is how heavy it was. One wouldn’t dare carry it in a trouser pocket!
Shortly after receiving the coin, I took it to a numismatist at an antiquities dealer downtown. He weighed the thing, and measured it carefully for volume, finally announcing that it was probably made from a gold alloy, not uncommon even in ancient coins. The images puzzled him, though. He asked me where the coin came from. I told him I’d inherited it, but prior to a few days ago, I hadn’t even known it existed. The numismatist shook his head. He couldn’t recognize the images on either side, and the writing, while it might have been Greek, was too faint for him to examine properly. He couldn’t say for sure what my inheritance really was, much less estimate its value. If I really wanted to know, he suggested a couple local antiquities professors, but as for himself, he was at the end of his knowledge. I was disappointed, and I suspect he was too, but I did leave with an elegant wooden display case, lined with velvet, to display the coin properly in my home.
So, besides not understanding exactly what I’d inherited, why I inherited it at all further baffled me. As I mentioned, Uncle Wendell and I couldn’t stand each other. It wasn’t like there was a feud or anything; it was just that he was rude and unpleasant every time I’d see him, which was usually about once every couple months. Uncle Wendell was my father’s uncle, my grandfather’s brother. He had an opinion on everything my father and I did, usually negative. He couldn’t believe my father married the woman he did. He told me the boarding school I’d be attending “was filled with a bunch of bastards” and I’d hate it (I’ll admit he was right about that). The few girls I’d dated were, he said, “not worth the pain killers I’d need to deal with them.” He had further contempt for the classes I took and the sports I played.
Only once did I ever stand up to him. It was after dinner during Thanksgiving; our family was hosting numerous relatives, and I was home from boarding school. I was sitting in the rec room with Father and Uncle Wendall, watching a football game, when Uncle Wendall started in on my choice of college the following fall. I’d had enough. I interrupted his tirade to suggest that he was hardly in a position to evaluate my life’s plans, though I phrased it less delicately. Uncle Wendall looked like he was ready to take a swing at me, but Father banished me upstairs. After the party broke up, Father knocked on my door, bringing me a Coca-Cola as a peace offering. He was sorry for banishing me, and he didn’t blame me for speaking up. “Uncle Wendall’s always been like that,” he said, “and not just to you. He drives everyone crazy, and he knows it, too.”
“He’s a complete jerk,” I said, though I wanted to say more.
“No argument from me,” said Father. “People try to put him in his place, but it never works. Nobody can say exactly why he’s like that. Your grandfather always told me, ‘well, he’s seen a few things and been a few places.’ That never seemed like much of an explanation, but that’s all I ever got.”
And then what? Obviously, the coin’s a MacGuffin. Our narrator has it. Somebody else is going to try to get it. And what about Uncle Wendell? Is there a reason why he was such difficult man? Does it have something to do with the coin? While no answers have been forthcoming, it’s kind of fun to toss different ideas around in my head. Maybe one will take root, and then I’ll have a real story to tell. If I do, you’ll be the first to know. See you soon!
Midnight Oil Diary 