Value Of A Two Pound Coin

With a book covering my face, feigning a read, I was witnessing a bizarre event unfold, by peering out. Looking at it, I was feeling absolutely embarrassed, to myself and the person performing the act. I felt like getting out, or hiding away. But the grotesque nature of the spectacle made me glue to it.

We were inside a tube, Jubilee Line, going home from work at seven in the evening. It was quite crowded inside, and I was standing in the middle of the carriage, holding a pole with one hand and a book with the another. Then, when I took a break from the reading and looked down, tired, I noticed a two pound coin lying on the floor of the carriage. The money could have belonged to anyone. Maybe even dropped by an owner who’d already alighted.

I thought of picking it up and showing it around. If it belonged to nobody, I’d pocket it then. You could do a lot with two pounds. A pint of beer came to my mind. I could purchase a lunch, or pay for my day’s bus travel to work. It’s actually quite a lot. But I didn’t do anything, thinking I’d probably embarrassed myself. I wasn’t a rag. No need to be picking things lying on the ground.

While contemplating, I noticed another person looking down at the coin. In fact, he was the closest to it. Quickly, before he saw me staring at the mint also, I went back to reading my book. But more than the prose I was reading, the intrigue of the coin occupied my mind.

This person, a very Spanish looking young man, was with a company, a female. She was blissfully unaware of the coin and was chatting away. But the man was shifting his gaze, between the coin and the girl. A hard task I must admit, since the angle from the woman’s face to the coin was more than seventy degree. But only his eyes were hovering, not his visage, and despite the sweat, which had started appearing on the man’s temples, the girl seemed not to notice anything.

The train then came to a halt at Baker Street station, and the normal routine of people disembarking and getting on followed. The woman, the young man’s companion, was part of the alighting hoard, giving this Spanish person a hug before moving out.

When people settled down and the train lurched forward, I noticed the person had kept his satchel on the floor, next to the coin. Then, he bent down and started scratching his thigh. His face had turned red, and sweats from it were almost to the point of dripping. It was clear, he wanted the coin desperately.

I was embarrassed looking at his theatrics. Why could he just pick the coin up and get it done with? But no, after the scratching, he opened his bad and delved his left hand inside. Then, slowly, and inevitably, he stretched his right hand down on the floor, and sreading his fingers, picked up the coin.

Oh god! I nearly shouted at the person, telling him not to pretend so much. In fact, I was so mad I wanted the train to stop suddenly, so that this person would tumble on the floor. He he wasn’t holding on to anything. I wanted him injured, humiliated. But nothing like that happened, The coin disappeared inside his clenched fist. He got up, carrying the satchel with him.

His flushed face didn’t even turn around to look who were noticing him. Probably a good idea. I couldn’t take it any more, and covered my face with the book and started reading it.

Maybe he deserved the coin, for all the effort and sweat he poured into it. And, when my cloud of indignation for the person had been puffed away, I did find it quite funny, actually.