Gwendy's Button Box

16

The first thing Gwendy notices when she walks into the VFW at ten-fifteen on Saturday morning is the sheer size of the place. It didn’t look nearly as spacious from the outside. The dealer tables are arranged in a long, enclosed rectangle. The sellers, mostly men, stand on the inside of the rectangle. The customers, of whom there are already more than two or three dozen, circle the tables with wary eyes and nervous fingers. There doesn’t seem to be a discernible pattern to the set-up—coin dealers here, stamp hucksters there—and more than a few of the merchants deal in both. A couple even have rare sports and tobacco cards fanned out across their tables. She is flabbergasted to see a signed Mickey Mantle card priced at $2,900, but in a way, relieved. It makes her silver dollars look like pretty small beans in comparison.

She stands in the entryway and takes it all in. It’s a whole new world, exotic and intimidating, and she feels overwhelmed. It must be obvious to anyone watching her because a nearby dealer calls out, “Ya lost, honey? Anything I can help ya with?”

He’s a chubby man in his thirties wearing glasses and an Orioles baseball cap. There’s food in his beard and a twinkle in his eyes.

Gwendy approaches his table. “I’m just looking right now, thanks.”

“Looking to buy or looking to sell?” The man’s eyes drop to Gwendy’s bare legs and linger there longer than they should. When he looks up again, he’s grinning and Gwendy doesn’t like that twinkle anymore.

“Just looking,” she says, quickly walking away.

She watches a man two tables down examining a tiny stamp with a magnifying glass and tweezers. She overhears him say, “I can go seventy dollars and that’s already twenty over my limit. My wife will kill me if I…” She doesn’t stick around to see if he seals the deal.

At the far end of the rectangle, she comes to a table covered exclusively with coins. She spots a Morgan silver dollar in the center of the last row. She takes this as a good sign. The man behind the table is bald and old, how old she’s not entirely sure, but at least old enough to be a grandfather. He smiles at Gwendy and doesn’t glance at her legs, which is a good start. He taps the nametag attached to his shirt. “Name’s Jon Leonard, like it says, but I go by Lenny to my friends. You look friendly, so is there anything special I can help you with today? Got a Lincoln penny book you want to finish filling out? Maybe looking for a buffalo nickel or a few commemorative state quarters? I got a Utah, very good condition and scarce.”

“I actually have something I’d like to sell. Maybe.”

“Uh-huh, okay, lemme take a look and I can tell you if we might do some business.”

Gwendy takes the coins—each in its own little plastic envelope—out of her pocket and hands them to him. Lenny’s fingers are thick and gnarled, but he slips the coins out with practiced ease, holding them by their thickness, not touching the heads and tails sides. Gwendy notices his eyes flash wider. He whistles. “Mind if I ask where you got these?”

Gwendy tells him what she told the coin dealer in Portland. “My grandfather passed away recently and left them to me.”

The man looks genuinely pained. “I’m really sorry to hear that, honey.”

“Thank you,” she says, and puts her hand out. “I’m Gwendy Peterson.”

The man gives it a firm shake. “Gwendy. I like that.”

“Me too,” Gwendy says and smiles. “Good thing, since I’m stuck with it.”

The man turns on a small desk light and uses a magnifying glass to examine the silver dollars. “Never seen one in mint condition before, and here you got two of em.” He looks up at her. “How old are you, Miss Gwendy, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Sixteen.”

The man snaps his fingers and points at her. “Looking to buy a car, I bet.”

She shakes her head. “One day, but I’m thinking of selling these to make some money for college. I want to go to an Ivy League school after I graduate.”

The man nods his head with approval. “Good for you.” He studies the coins again with the magnifying glass. “Be honest with me now, Miss Gwendy, your folks know you’re selling these?”

“Yes, sir, they do. They’re okay with it because it’s for a good cause.”

His gaze turns shrewd. “But they’re not with you, I notice.”

Gwendy might not have been ready for this at fourteen, but she’s older now, and can hit the occasional adult curveball. “They both said I have to start fending for myself sometime, and this might be a good place to start. Also, I read the magazine you’ve got there.” She points. “COINage?”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Lenny puts down the magnifying glass and gives her his full attention. “Well, Miss Gwendy Peterson, a Morgan silver dollar of this vintage and in Near Mint condition can sell for anywhere from seven hundred and twenty-five dollars to eight hundred. A Morgan in this condition…” He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

Gwendy didn’t practice this part—how could she?—but she really likes the old man, so she wings it. “My mom works at a car dealership, and they have a saying about some of the cars: ‘Priced to sell.’ So… could you pay eight hundred each? Would that be priced to sell?”

“Yes, ma’am, it would,” he says with no hesitation. “Only are you sure? One of the bigger shops might be able to—”

“I’m sure. If you can pay eight hundred apiece, we have a deal.”

The old man chuckles and sticks his hand out. “Then, Miss Gwendy Peterson, we have ourselves a deal.” They shake on it. “I’ll write you up a receipt and get you paid.”

“Um… I’m sure you’re trustworthy, Lenny, but I really wouldn’t feel comfortable with a check.”

“With me up in Toronto or down in D.C. tomorrow, who’d blame you?” He drops her a wink. “Besides, I got a saying of my own: Cash don’t tattle. And what Uncle Sammy don’t know about our business won’t hurt him.”

Lenny slips the coins into their transparent envelopes and disappears them somewhere beneath the table. Once he’s counted out sixteen crisp one hundred dollar bills—Gwendy still can’t believe this is happening—he writes a receipt, tears out a copy, and lays it atop the cash. “I put my phone number on there too in case your folks have any questions. How far is home?”

“About a mile. I rode my bike.”

He considers that. “Lotta money for a young girl, Gwendy. Think maybe you should call your parents for a ride?”

“No need,” she says, smiling. “I can take care of myself.”

The old man’s eyebrows dance as he laughs. “I bet you can.”

He stuffs the money and the receipt into an envelope. He folds the envelope in half and uses about a yard of scotch tape to seal it tight. “See if that’ll fit nice and snug in your shorts pocket,” he says, handing over the envelope.

Gwendy stuffs it into her pocket and pats the outside. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

“I like you, girl, I do. Got style and got sand. A combination that can’t be beat.” Lenny turns to the dealer on his left. “Hank, you mind watching my table for a minute?”

“Only if you bring me back a soda,” Hank says.

“Done.” Lenny slips out from behind his table and escorts Gwendy to the door. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Positive. Thanks again, Mr. Lenny,” she says, feeling the weight of the money inside her pocket. “I really appreciate it.”

“The appreciation is all mine, Miss Gwendy.” He holds the door open for her. “Good luck with the Ivy League.”