Does anyone remember when coins used to jingle instead of making the dull thud? The jingle may have saved three of us from a beating, as part of a what-the-#!&@-you-looking-at? scenario. But first, a few words about the jingle of coins.
Millions today cannot fully comprehend the value of money, given that it’s inflated perhaps 25 times in our lifetimes.
A nickel would buy a soft drink, or a “fizz” at Murphey’s. A dime entitled you to a sundae at Leo’s Pharmacy or an empanadita at Angel’s Bakery on South Pacific.
Today, even a modest tip at a restaurant requires some folding stuff. About the only place we see coins smaller than a quarter is in the church collection plate.
A psychologist once performed an experiment in children of varying economic backgrounds used a projector and screen to estimate the physical size of a coin. Invariably, children from the lower economic classes guesstimated each coin as much larger than did their more affluent counterparts. So not only was a coin it appeared bigger as well.
As a family living in the Railroad barrio, we never went hungry, but on the other hand, it seems we never really had anything extra. Sending five of us to a parochial school cost our parents, but the tradeoff was in the paucity of material things like cars, or clothes or bikes.
Dad, always hopeful that we boys would be popular with girls, would coach us, at a very young age, on how to impress them. “You put two quarters in your pocket and make sure they jingle when you pass by the girls. That way they’ll think you have money,” Dad would explain.
But where am I going to get even one quarter, Dad, let alone two?
That’s your problem.
For the first few days of my “internship,” I tried to create a bell-like jingle using the only quarter I had, and a slug. Not much success. Selling Optics and setting pins at the bowling alley on Grand helped me find a partner for my quarter.
I discovered, on my road to riches that the more coins in my pocket the more the jingling began to resemble church chimes. Age and inflation have modified my view of coins. The mints stopped putting that clangy ingredient in coins, with the result that they sound more like lead weights than bells. The downside to “silent” coins is not always knowing when we’ve dropped them. And because age is a factor, my policy is to think very carefully about stooping to pick up a penny I’ve dropped. My stiffness will probably inflate to regard nickels and dimes the same way.
The fact that coins jingled once turned out advantageously for three of us. When I was about 13, I was riding with Harold and Ricky, two older boys in the most expensive car I’d ever seen.
Ricky’s father was in real estate, and bought a new car every year.
As we drove down Lincoln Avenue we saw a crowd of men spilling out of one of the bars in that area. At first we figured it was a pep rally or even a street dance.
What we discovered after further review was a fight involving five or six of the toughest guys in town, along with their own fans. Like tourists, we drove up close to observe, and almost immediately, the impromptu fighters became aware of our rubbernecking. One of them menacingly asked, “What the #!&@ are you looking at?” Without awaiting a reply, he ran toward us, as did a number of others.
The one positive thing our friend in the fancy car did was to break up the fight. Ricky could easily have sped away had the men in the street all been behind us. But they came from several directions, and I envisioned a scene from the movie “The Ugly American.”
More intent on directing their anger toward us, the moonlight brawlers must have signed a quick truce.
The incident took only a few seconds, and I imagined a lot of damage and injury; if we were going to watch any action, we were going to have to pay.
As the crowd drew closer and had started to pelt the car with rocks, Ricky grabbed a roll of quarters from his pocket, cracked open the wrapper and hurled the quarters on to the street. They made a wonderful clanging sound. Immediately, the plethora of pugilists began probing the pavement and picking up pocket change. That enabled us to get the #!&@ out of there.
I never saw Ricky or his car again. My cousin and I were relieved that nobody had recognized us in the car—at least we never learned of any repercussions.
Discussing the incident with Harold recently, I asked how it happened that Ricky conveniently located a roll of quarters in that emergency. My cousin said that Ricky liked to keep quarters handy—just to impress the girls.
I need to point out that in those days, 40 cents represented about an hour’s work, compared to today’s wages of $6+. The $10 investment by Ricky probably prevented lots of bodywork for both the car and its occupants.
The sight of the numismatic windfall made me think back in 1952—how tempting it would have been to join in the hunt and grab a couple of quarters for myself. But even then I was aware of something Shakespeare said about discretion and valor.