The Gold Button
by Michael A. Kechula
It's tougher
than ever to find a decent cigarette butt in the
gutter. I'd just spent an hour looking. I
spotted candy wrappers, banana peels, assorted
junk. But no smokes. Dammit! Where does
a guy go to complain?
Then I spotted
a gold button. When I rubbed it against my
jeans, it got real shiny. I checked the back
hoping it'd say “14 carat.” But
all I saw was, “555-2279.”
If I had a
quarter, I'd use a payphone and dial those seven
numbers. I'd say, “This is Joe. I found
your gold button. Is there a reward?”
“Hey kid,”
I called. “Got a quarter for a cuppa
coffee? Well, a dime is good. Know
where I can get fifteen more cents?”
“Hey,
Lady. Can you spare a quarter? I'll
give you a dime. Yeah, that's the idea...you get
an instant rebate. Here's the dime. Glad I
made you laugh.”
I dialed 555-2279.
A man answered
by repeating the seven numbers.
“Hi.”
I said. “I’m Joe. I found
your button.”
“What
button?”
“A gold
one. Is there a reward?”
“Where
are you, Joe?”
“7th and
Main.”
“What’re
you wearing?”
“Blue
jeans. Red shirt.”
“Hang up
and stay where you are. I’m sending
somebody to get the button.”
Minutes later
a Dodge drove up. Two guys in dark suits got
out.
“You Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“Let's
see the button.”
I gave it to
them. They looked at it real close.
“How much
you want for it?”
“A carton
of cigarettes.”
“Get in
the car. We'll take you to a smoke shop.”
“No,”
I said. “I get car sick. I might vomit.”
They threw me
in the car. One leaned against me so hard, I
couldn't move. When I complained, he bopped
me.
When I woke up,
I was in a room with a bright light shinning in
my eyes.
“So, you
say you’re Joe Slavitsky,” said a mean-sounding
voice. “Age 61. No address. Tell
us again how you got the button.”
“Found it
in the gutter, while looking for smokes. Who
are you guys?”
“Doesn't
matter. What matters is who you really are.
Have you ever been inside the Russian Embassy?”
“Never. I
don't even know where it is. Think they'd let me
in dressed like this?”
“I
have a report that says you’ve been there
twice this week. Looks like you're in big
trouble.”
“What? Over
a stupid button? Forget the reward. Let
me go. I got things to do, people to see.”
“You got
people to see all right. FBI
Counterintelligence.”
It took the
FBI a couple hours to realize I was nobody, never
been nobody, never will be nobody. They
apologized. Even chipped in so I could buy a
carton of cigarettes. Then they released me.
When my
cigarettes ran out, I went back to searching for
smokes in the gutter.
Since then, I've
found other buttons. I wouldn't touch them with a
ten-foot pole.
Even if one of
them happens to be 14 carat gold.
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