The Penny is Gone

The penny's gone, that greasy little bastard, and good riddance to the shine on its ass, but Christ, what a hole it leaves in the pocket of the world. Back when the world was cheap as a whore's promise—five cents for a candy bar, a dime for a bus ride that'd rattle your teeth like dice in a drunk's fist—the penny wasn't just change; it was a currency of cruelty, a tiny copper bullet for the soul.You'd flick one across the bar top to the bartender who'd shorted your beer, watching it spin like a lazy accusation, landing heads-up in the sticky rings of yesterday's regrets. Or tip the waitress a single red cent on a dollar tab, her eyes narrowing like she'd just swallowed a bad oyster, and you'd grin because in that moment, you were the king of cheap grace, the emperor of fuck-you-very-much. Remember the jokes? "Why don't Jews play hide and seek? Good luck hiding when you're always pinching pennies." Or the Italians with their "pasta fazool and penny-pinching" bullshit, ethnic slurs wrapped in foil like holiday candy no one wanted. And the old bags, those penny-pinching crones in their mothball apartments, hoarding jars of them under the bed like dragon's gold, counting out their widow's mites while the world outside burned brighter bills.Hell, the penny had teeth. Fill a sock with twenty of the sons of bitches—heavy as a hangover, swinging like a pendulum of payback—and you'd crack a skull in an alley fight, or just wave it at the wife when she nagged about the rent. Self-defense for the down-and-out, a pauper's blackjack, thwacking against the thigh like a promise of violence deferred. I once saw a guy in Skid Row, eyes like piss holes in the snow, beg for a handout; some wiseass in a porkpie hat tossed him a penny from across the street, the coin arcing bright against the neon haze, landing at his feet with a tink that echoed louder than laughter. The bum picked it up, stared at Lincoln's stony mug, and wept—not for the money, but for the joke of it all, the way it made his hunger feel like a punchline.And the friends, those sorry sacks of bones you'd drink with till the stools stuck to your pants—the ones who'd lost a job or a broad or just the will to shave— you'd roll a penny their way across the scarred linoleum, saying, "There, buddy, that's for your dreams. Pick it up and make it count." They'd laugh, or they'd curse, but either way, it carved a little deeper into the scar tissue of brotherhood, that shared rot of being alive and broke.Now? Quarters and dimes, all fat and forgettable, no poetry in their clink. The world's rounded up to the nearest lie, and the penny's dust in the gutter, waiting for some kid to find it and wonder what the hell it was for. Man, I miss that little fucker already—the weight of it in your palm, the spite it carried like a grudge. Can I get a penny, man? Just one, for old times' sake, to flip for the end of the world.