The Only Cents on Wall Street

   This is a short story I wrote awhile ago. I submitted it as part of my application to the Iowa Young Writers' Studio.

    Lincoln lay on the ground, copper encased, staring blankly out into a dirty world and even dirtier concrete.

    He had been sitting on Wall Street for nearly two days now. Shoes had stepped on him 117,647 times since he had been dropped last. With nothing else to do, of course, Lincoln had counted. There were 74,320 black shoes, 21,026 brown, 13,339 gray, and 8,962 white. It didn’t hurt, really. There wasn’t much to feel.

    It was all very predictable, Lincoln decided to himself as he watched the shoes go by. The dress shoes of all kinds thundered with a stoic dullness that was unrivaled from any other sight he’d seen.

A boring lifestyle, Lincoln thought to himself, very boring indeed. The clicks and dials of cellphones and pagers and planners created a constant buzz, never a time without some form of ringer sounding loudly from a briefcase or bag.

Twelve o’clock rolled around once again and the sun shone brightly off of Lincoln’s copper, the curve of his face catching the sun's rays, glinting amongst the world of gray suits and black ties. The sidewalk on which Lincoln rested was almost as bland in color as those walking on it. His shoe tally was up to 119,294, not surprising for the business market on a Wednesday.

As Lincoln embraced the utter monotony that seemed to accompany every businessman, he noticed a man sitting on a bench nearby. The bench was worn but sturdy, the underside caked with gum, unbeknownst to the sitter, save for the occasional one who touched the bottom, made a face in disgust and continued on his way.

Lincoln watched the man, dressed in appropriate business black, his shoes newly shined. He seemed to be sweating slightly, rubbing his palms on his knees and rocking back and forth, searching for some form of self comfort.

“You’ll do fine, Johnny,” he whispered, “ It’s not the end of the world. Just an interview that’ll make or break your career. Stop it, Johnny. Don’t think like that. Just go in and tell ‘em what they wanna hear. That’s all. Tell ‘em what they wanna hear.” Johnny breathed in sharply, his eyes closing as he exhaled, his custom-tailored suit rising and falling with his hunched back.

Johnny looked up at the building in front of him, a 94-story monster of a skyscraper with “one helluva view,” a popular sentiment amongst the brokers as they walked through the golden revolving door. Taken aback by the sheer size of the building, Johnny tried his best to see its whole, his head turned almost directly into the midday sun as he looked at the top floors. Pressing his hands on his knees once more and rising to his feet, Johnny’s dress shoes began to clack amongst the bustle of the business day. With another deep breath, he rounded the park bench and began walking towards the harrowing entrance to white-collar society.

The sun beat down heavily as Johnny began his slow walk toward his future. Lincoln saw his shoes, waiting expectantly to add them to his shoe tally, counting down the steps until he could add it in, but Johnny stopped short.

The rich copper of the penny caught the eye of the young, nervous Johnny, who bent down to recover it from the bustling crowd of poker faces.

“Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck!” Johnny whispered to himself, the copper casting reflecting into Johnny’s eyes.

Throwing Lincoln into his pocket, Johnny walked quickly, pushing the revolving door with confidence. The door swung with some force, continuously moving with the oncoming crowds.

Lincoln’s world went dark. The powder blue, silken lining of Johnny’s jacket pocket was much more comfortable than the city street, of that Lincoln was absolutely sure. He knew that they were moving, going somewhere, an elevator perhaps, but to which floor he was uncertain.

“You going up?” Lincoln thought he could make out amongst the mumbles.

“Yeah. 91.”

“Sure.”

Quiet mechanical noise filled the elevator as the two men began their long ascent to the top. Johnny tapped his foot nervously, clearing his throat and swallowing hard, thrusting his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed Lincoln, who sat listening to the outside world.

The elevator made a mild “ding” upon reaching the 91st floor. Johnny nodded to the man in the elevator, destined for the 93rd, and continued on his way. Lincoln could hear his breathing quicken as he approached the front desk.

“How can I help you?” A woman said in a nasal, New York accent as Johnny approached the official looking receptionist desk, her sharp eyes peering over her curved eyeglasses.

“I— I’m here to see Mr. Mason,” Johnny said, stuttering nervously. “I believe I have a, er, 12:30 appointment.”

“Oh, you. You’re late,” the woman said, her eyebrows raising in distaste.

“But, it’s only 12:15! I’m here fifteen minutes early!” Johnny said, the hand in his pocket gripping onto Lincoln for comfort.

“We operate on Mr. Mason’s schedule, sweetie. He’s been waitin’ for ya for five minutes now. Don’t keep him waiting,” the woman said. “Third door on the left.”

Johnny began to breathe rapidly, his black business shoes clicking loudly against the marble tile. He reached the third door on the left in no time at all, cranking open the handle and bursting in in a discombobulated manner.

Mr. Mason was startled, turning around in his large, expensive desk chair towards Johnny.

“John Andersen, how nice of you to finally make it,” a low voice said. “Please, take your jacket off, I don’t bite.”

Lincoln was jostled and jolted as Johnny wrestled the suit jacket off, hanging it haphazardly on the coat rack, promptly walking to the other side of the room at Mr. Mason’s gesture, sitting in a chair, resting his briefcase by his feet. Lincoln heard them talking, but could only make out a few words.

“Tell me about your—”

“Well, I plan to invest—”

“I never thought of it that way before.”

“Well, now you can.”

“I’ll tell you right now, I’m impr—”

The conversation lasted for about an hour, Lincoln estimated, though there was really no way to tell.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Mason, you won’t regret it!” Lincoln heard Johnny say as he walked back across the room to his jacket. Throwing it over his shoulder, Johnny yelled another gesture of gratitude and walked out the door, closing it rather loudly as he clunked happily down the hallway.

Johnny put his jacket back on as he got onto the elevator, beaming. They made eighteen stops on the way down, collecting people until the elevator was at capacity, but Johnny didn’t care. He would not have cared if there were one hundred people around him. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, the only one cracking a grin amongst a sea of faces.

Johnny ran out of the building and onto Wall Street, thrusting his arms in the air in utter joy, knocking Lincoln out of his pocket, and back onto the sidewalk. Johnny walked off in a frenzy, taking out his phone to call his wife, adding to the electronic buzz that was New York, his shoes disappearing amongst the sea of repetitive business attire.

Once again, Lincoln sat on the worn pavement, not fifty feet from where he was before.

Well, what do I do now? He thought to himself, as he usually did when he landed on the ground once again. He looked about, spotting a brown shoe coming in his direction. He waited in anticipation, his heart jumping a little as it stepped on his copper shell.

One.