Parker's Coin

“Say uncle!”

The big boy, Jamie, was on top of Parker. Flabby arms pinned the shoulders of the smaller boy to the ground. His thighs split in the middle, straddling Parker, who was wheezing, trying to breathe steadily with Jamie’s weight on top of him.

Jamie was a “real porker” as Parker’s grandfather would have said. The boy certainly felt like one now. Parker could see down the front of the bigger boy’s shirt, too close for comfort to the fleshy mass that was Jamie’s stomach.

“Say it!” Jamie hissed.

His breath was rancid. A mixture of old milk and something else Parker couldn’t identify, sickly sweet. Like overripe fruit that sat in the kitchen garbage for too long.

Parker coughed. He understood that Jamie knew Parker couldn’t say anything with the weight on his chest. That was the point, wasn’t it? Jamie had to present Parker with an opportunity to sleight him, even if it was flimsy.

Parker heard a horrible sound from Jamie’s throat. It sounded like a stuck garbage disposal, the blades catching against metal and the rotten crust of whatever else was doomed to sit in that deep, dark pit. His stomach lurched. He knew what was coming next. He saw a bubble of spit form on the end of Jamie’s chapped lips, the pinkish white flakes of skin mixed with the horrible, green-tinted fluid.

Jamie’s lips pursed, and the spit dropped lower, held up by a wet strand at least six inches long. It dangled dangerously, swaying from the motion of Jamie’s head. The target changed as he moved. For a moment, it was over Parker’s lips, then his chin, then the bridge of his nose. Parker closed his eyes. He would not give Jamie the dignity of seeing his disgust. He kept them shut tight as the terrible liquid dripped just over his upper lip.

Suddenly, a horrible slurping sound filled Parker’s ears. It was reminiscent of the big pump the septic tank man used in the yard whenever the drains in the house slowed down. Parker opened his eyes to see the remnants of the strand of spit disappear behind Jamie’s lips.

“What is that?” Jamie asked.

Parker felt the weight shift off of his chest and gasped, sucking in as much air as he could. Jamie’s hands moved off his shoulders, down toward Parker’s pockets. There, in the grass, was a glint of something gold. It was a coin.

Parker watched Jamie pick up the coin. It was large, around the size of a half dollar. It glittered in the sun. One face bore the image of two pentagrams, one slightly offset from the other. The sides melded together, forming small peaks and valleys around the edges of the design. The other side of the coin held nothing but plain letters, “P.W.”. The initials of Parker’s grandfather.

“That’s mine,” Parker said.

He moved a hand forward in defiance, grabbing at the meaty paw that Jamie held in front of his face. The bigger boy sneered and held the coin out of range.

“Not anymore,” Jamie declared.

He punched Parker in the stomach. Parker turned his head and vomited his breakfast onto the ground beside them. The brown, viscous fluid clung to the grass, a gravy of half-digested Cheerios.

Jamie stood up and walked away, victorious. Parker looked to the sky, seeing the pleasant, white clouds that billowed across. He was jealous of them, jealous of their freedom. They didn’t have to worry about Jamie or anything else.

The shrill tone of a bell signaled the start of the school day.

“Parker, where did you get this bruise?”

Parker said nothing and pulled the corduroy dress shirt over his stomach, his knuckles catching on the slim outline of his ribs. The purple spot sat faded, but still tender in the middle of his belly, its shape the perfect outline of the hammy fist of a 12-year-old boy.

“Is that boy Jamie picking on you again?”

His mother stood there, arms crossed. The seams on her sleeves were worn, and a few of the stitches lay torn and askew. The dress, while originally white and crisp, was disheveled. The edges were rumpled and shabby, too stressed from repeated washing and drying to stay tight. It was a dress that had seen decades.

Parker loved his mother, and he knew she tried her best. It was apparent in the notes she left in his lunch and in the spare quarters she gave him for the arcade. Sometimes, he wished she would spend the money on herself, namely, her cigarettes, which improved her mood tenfold. Parker’s mother smoked Vantage 100s. When he was younger, he used the symbol on the carton, three colored circles within each other, for slingshot target practice.

“Parker James, answer me,” she said.

He looked up at her. The middle name meant business. Her eyes were bloodshot, a red-lined canvas painted with coffee, nicotine, and high blood pressure. Lines of age tracked lazily around the edges of her face and nestled in the white roots of her graying hair.

“I didn’t get it from Jamie, Mom,” Parker said, “I must have fell or something.”

The lie came easily. It slipped out from under Parker’s tongue and wedged itself in the air like a throwing knife against a wall. Based on the look his mother had given him, the knife may as well have been thrown into the couch cushions. He had told versions of the lie before, to teachers, janitors, and even the principal. It didn’t take much to notice the dynamic between Jamie and Parker. It was something akin to the relationship between a bird with clipped wings and a cat.

“I’m going to talk to the school on Monday,” Parker’s mother said, irritated.

He saw the weariness on her, how her whole body seemed to slump as she exhaled. A puppet neglected by the puppeteer at the other end of the strings.

“Mom, please don’t,” Parker said, “I’ll handle it.”

She gave him a look: her cheeks taut, mouth slightly open, wanting to protest but knowing better. He knew she would respect his boundaries. She had been good about that ever since his father left. Although he was an unfaithful man, Parker knew there was a part of his mother that felt guilty she’d kicked the adulterer out. It was a guilt that showed itself every time she saw a father and son playing catch or sitting in tandem at the barbershop.

“Hurry up, we’re late for church,” his mother said, dropping the subject.

It wasn’t until later, after Parker changed out of his church clothes, that he thought about what he said to his mother. He had already lied to her once, giving her an answer about the bruise on his side that would sit and gnaw at her tonight after he had gone to bed. It would be something she thought about as she ate oily sardines on little Ritz crackers in front of the television, clenched with worry for his school week ahead.

Why did he have to accept this as the status quo? She didn’t deserve to have to worry about Jamie. There were other, more pressing issues, like the overdue notices she tried not to leave on the kitchen table where Parker could see them.

Parker went up to his room and knelt beside the edge of his bed. He reached underneath, his fingers searching for the rough texture of the wooden box wedged toward the back, up against the wall. He brought it out, running a hand across the faded, red letters painted on the lid. They spelled “PARKE”, the “R” being the first victim to shoddy craftsmanship and the passage of time. The sight of the box made his heart feel heavy.

His grandfather, also named Parker, had made the box when he was a boy. Parker took possession of it after his grandfather had died last year. He missed the old man. The box held Parker Sr.’s essence, or at least the essence of the garage where it sat for many years. It smelled faintly of pine with a hint of tobacco. Parker Sr. used to sit in the garage smoking his pipe, sagged in an old wicker lawn chair marred with cigarette burns and ashes from campfires that had blazed decades ago.

Parker spent many evenings sitting next to his grandfather in the garage, watching the sunset. He’d gotten to keep the pipe too but his mother had locked it up somewhere lest he tried to light it up in the old man’s honor.

He opened the box’s latch. There was no lock and Parker didn’t need one. His mother respected his privacy, and for that he was grateful considering there were more than a few old issues of Playboy and Hustler included in the contents. He had Parker Sr.’s estate to thank for those, too.

Parker felt through the first layer, trying to get to the bottom. It was down there he found what he was looking for. The coin.

He knew it would be there. Earlier, when Jamie stole it, was not the first time it had been lost. There was some sort of homing quality to the memento, one Parker did not understand. Wherever it ended up, the moment it left Parker’s possession, it came right back to him or the box.

He wrapped his fingers around the coin and pulled it into the light. He thumbed it, feeling the textured bumps that had stood the test of time. The coin pulsed with warmth like a stone left close to the campfire on one of his scouting trips. It held some sort of power, that much was clear. Could this power be drawn? Parker smiled, and, for the first time that day, he prayed.

“What did your mom pack me for lunch?” Jamie asked.

He leaned against the side of a brick wall, perched in the shallow mouth of the alleyway between the post office and hardware store. Roosevelt Junior High was two blocks ahead.

Parker stood there, accosted. Close, but still so far away from safety. He held his metal lunch pail in his left hand, gripping the handle tight. His other hand sat in the pocket of his jacket and held his grandfather’s coin. The sweat from his palm made the metal feel warm and sticky.

This would end today.

“You don’t need two lunches, Jamie,” Parker said, “That’s why you’re so fat.”

The other boy flushed with anger. His mouth opened, agape at the personal insult. Parker could see the black bits of decay that capped the ends of some of Jamie’s yellow teeth.

“Fuck you,” Jamie spat.

Parker saw the fury in the other boy’s eyes. He could see something else there too. Something muted. Amusement? Jamie’s face was red and his lip quivered. His posture changed, fists clenched, away from the wall, body tensed like a coiled spring.

There was no more than five feet between them now. Jamie reached forward, striking like an asp. He grabbed the front of Parker’s shirt. His meaty fist balled up the fabric and held it there, bringing Parker’s face up to his, eye to eye.

Jamie moved farther into the alley, going past the side doors that led into the neighboring businesses and toward the chain link fence that blocked the alley off from the construction on the other side of the street. He dragged Parker along, using the smaller boy’s shirt as a lead. Parker dug his heels uselessly into the concrete leaving black streaks of rubber behind.

Parker stayed silent. The knuckles on the hand that held his lunchbox were white. His heart pounded in his chest. The confidence he had moments before was gone. He knew this was going to hurt.

“Give me that,” Jamie said.

He pawed at the lunchbox the way a bear might swipe at a trash can in hopes to dislodge the lid. Parker let go. The metal box hit the concrete and the collision echoed across the empty alley like a gunshot. He squared his shoulders to Jamie in direct defiance, moving to him like a boxer. He brought his other hand out of his jacket pocket, still holding the coin.

Parker pushed. His open palm and closed fist made contact with Jamie’s shoulders. Their size difference meant Jamie shouldn’t have moved an inch. However, this time was different. This time, Parker held an item of great power. An item that, had he understood its true nature, he would have left in the bottom of the box.

Jamie flew backward as if he had been shot from a cannon. There was a terrible clang and crack as the big boy hit the object behind him, a large yellow cement mixer.

Parker dropped the coin. The sound of it skipping across the concrete below hardly registered over the thumping of his heart in his ears. He knew by the sound of the impact that Jamie was injured. Parker felt his heart lurch into his chest. He hadn’t meant for this.

He looked for Jamie, expecting to see him in a crumpled heap next to the cement mixer but there was nothing there. Parker ran to the spot he had last seen him, next to the large drum that sat on the back of the vehicle. There were no markings on the ground that indicated Jamie had been here, nor were there any dents in the side of the vehicle from the impact.

It was next to the cement mixer that Parker heard a terrible sound. It was nothing but a moan, agony, like what one would hear from a wounded animal. The cry was muffled. Parker traced it to the source. His knees buckled in horror as he realized it came from inside the cement mixer’s drum.

How did Jamie get inside the drum? There were no markings on the outside of the vehicle. It was like Jamie had been a ghost, phasing through the solid wall of the drum.

Parker ran to the rear of the mixer. He reached for the latch on the backside of the drum but his hand found nothing but smooth metal. Did he miss it? He looked carefully. There should have been a receptacle, some way for the mixed concrete within to get out, but there was nothing there.

His stomach churned, and he knew that he had to get Jamie out quickly. If there wasn’t an entrance, Parker knew there probably wasn’t any fresh air inside the drum either. He put his hand in his pocket for a moment, recoiling in horror as if he had been burned. In it lay the coin, the same coin that should be laying somewhere in the alley behind him. It had never returned this quickly before.

Parker let out a sob and grabbed the coin. He held it between his index finger and thumb, the way someone might hold an insect or pick a mouse up by the tail.

“Please, get him out!” Parker yelled at the coin.

For a moment, nothing happened. There was no sound but the wind and Jamie’s muffled groans. Then, a terrible grinding noise startled Parker, making him jump. It was the sound of the cement mixer’s engine turning over. It stalled for a moment before finding purchase, producing a terrible diesel tone.

“No,” Parker sobbed.

Another sound, a scraping sound. The large drum that held Jamie inside started to rotate as Parker watched in horror. He beat his fists on the back of the cement mixer helplessly.

The drum picked up speed. Parker had seen the inside of a concrete mixer once, last year, during a school career day. A construction equipment dealer had volunteered some time to talk to Parker’s class. One of the duties the man detailed was washing out the concrete mixers after deliveries. If they were not washed out immediately with water, the material inside would harden, and they would have to bring in a specialist to chip out the rest.

The man had shown the class a picture of the inside of a concrete mixer that day. They were cylindrical things with curved blades that ran down the sides and onto the floor. The blades were sharp, used to mix up the slurry within. Right now, those blades had unobstructed access to Jamie’s body. The speed of the drum meant the boy had to be consistently rotating now, unbelievably dizzy and disoriented, moving up the side of the drum only to be dropped down onto the bottom blade over and over again.

Parker stepped back. The high-pitched whine of the hydraulics pierced the air as the machine sped well past its typical rate of revolution. He ran toward the front of the mixer on shaky legs, pitching from side to side as if walking on the deck of a boat. The key. He could take out the key and shut the machine off.

Parker lunged for the handle of the cab and used the bottom of the attached driver’s side mirror to pull himself forward. He gripped the door’s handle and pulled uselessly. It was locked. His knee buckled as he placed his foot on the step that led up to the cab. The window was down. Parker grabbed the bottom of the window’s frame and wrapped his fingers around the edge.

He boosted himself up and managed to peek into the cab. It was messy, smelling of nicotine and body odor. A faded can of grape soda sat dented in the cupholder, sticky and long forgotten.

Parker reached forward, grasping at the unseen side of the steering wheel for the ignition only for his fingers to reach the slot unobstructed. There was no key. The heavy duty vehicle was running all on its own.

The drum slowed as the rumbling sound of the engine ceased. There was a terrible odor in the air, like burnt copper, that smothered Parker’s nostrils. He sat on the step to the cab and put his head in his hands as the sloshing of Jamie’s remains settled into the bottom of the cement mixer’s drum. It was over.

Parker didn’t say anything the rest of the day. He didn’t say anything the day after either, when the equipment was returned and the man in charge of cleaning the inside of the cement mixer quit on the spot. He didn’t say anything to the police, who ruled it a suicide, nor anything to Jamie’s parents as the winch dropped Jamie’s empty, closed casket into a small plot at Shepherd Presbyterian Church.

He had tried to get rid of the coin a few times after that. Once, throwing it into the sewer, another time skipping it into the waters of Daytona Beach on a spring break vacation in college. Removing the box made no difference either, at least not when it was weighed down with rocks and cast into an abandoned well.

Parker knew that he and the coin were linked somehow. There would be a day he would have to face that. Sometime after his mother passed, when the shoddy house would become his. It would lie at the bottom of his grandfather’s box under the bed, waiting for him. He did not look forward to that day.

Article © Blake Wickham. All rights reserved.
Published on 2025-07-28