Becoming: The Penny-Crushing Machine

Mom was excited. “I’ve got something you’re going to like, Teddy,” she said as she retrieved the just-delivered mail from the floor next to the front door, where the mail slot was. She must have known it was going to arrive today.

Pushing the drying stamps on the dining room table aside, Mom sorted the mail. She and Dad were stamp collectors. I hated the clutter. Endless mail from stamp dealers and collectors added to the mess daily. The table, with its dark chocolate tablecloth, was always covered with postage stamps, bowls of water for soaking stamps off their backing, stamps drying once they floated free from the corners of envelopes, magnifying glasses, scissors, tongs, and little translucent envelopes holding various categories of stamps. To me, the whole mess of it was another example of what misfits Mom and Dad were with modern life.

Finding the official-looking manila envelope, Mom got Dad’s sharp letter opener from the desk to carefully slit open the envelope without harming the contents.

Removing a letter and brochure, she glanced at the brochure before handing it to me. Then, adjusting her glasses, she began to quote from the letter, “With this machine, you can work carnivals, circuses, and maybe county fairs.”

I took the brochure, but I imagined another world. A world of circus wagons, the big tent, a row of carnival booths, men dressed in bowler hats, with boldly striped shirts, and red bow ties with white spots. Tigers jumped through flaming hoops. Elephants trumpeted. Women with theatrical makeup flew through the air. Muscular men performed feats of strength. The smell of fresh straw and animals floated through.

This could be my life. A life I could escape to. These circus people could be my people.

Then the dream, a vivid daydream, a dream driven by my need to escape, evaporated, and I was back standing in the dining room, with its cluttered table. It was summer. And the event I most wanted to escape from came screaming back in full. I’d just flunked fourth grade.

The weight of it, crushing.

I looked at the brochure. It showed a machine with a large gear and a crank sitting on a table. The brochure said the machine was a portable, fully manual hand-crank souvenir penny press, made from robust cast iron and heavy steel. Designed to last.

Mom continued at pace, “I discovered it in a magazine. It’s a perfect income producer at outdoor events, fairs, and even boat shows. You love boats, Teddy.” Taking a breath, she went on with, “I read that this machine is perfect for making a living at popular tourist spots and attractions across the country. You’ll get to travel!” Her voice rose.

She took another deep breath and said, “I can order the machine now so you can practice using it. Dad has already agreed to loan the money.” That meant the cost of the machine would go onto the ledger where Dad kept track of the money I owed.

Mom rarely got this excited. I knew my flunking fourth was really bad. Mom had been teaching fourth grade in Olympia for the last few years, while I was boarded with a neighbor and attending school in Seattle. She and Dad had decided that it was time for her to quit and for us to live together. “Together as a family,” Mom said.

My flunking had upset everything.

“He’s stupid,” Dad said, shaking his head in disgust. “Retarded.”

He was angry, slamming doors, stomping around the house. He didn’t hit me, but he said all the expected stuff about how useless I was.

Mom, coming to my defense, said, “Don’t say ‘retarded;’ he’s just a little slow.”

I got it that Mom had been on a quest to find a way for me to make a living. Getting a job –– the fact that I was probably too stupid, maybe too slow to get a job –– had been shouted at me and Mom, mostly Mom, routinely. I stayed outside or in my room as much as possible when Dad erupted in anger and frustration over my failings.

It never occurred me –– I was only nine at the time –– that this focus on getting a job was a little weird. Preparing me “to be able to make a living” was a consistent message from both Mom and Dad.

Mom took the brochure from me and, pointing at one of the photos, said, “Look, all you have to do, Teddy, is turn the handle to press the penny for the customer and, as the brochure says, ‘ring the profits out of every sale.’

“It’s perfect for a boy with a wonderful smile, and relates well to adults, but has trouble reading.”

I felt that one. The shame swept over. Tears I didn’t want. I left the brochure on the table and went upstairs to my room, where I found the comfort of my pillow and the heavy wool Navajo blanket.

The dream of the circus was grand, but I knew I wasn’t going to spend my life turning the handle of a penny-smashing machine.

I’d flunked fourth, but my drawing had been chosen as the winner of the school safety poster contest that same year.

I knew I had a future.