THE STAIRS© Tom Scocca, 2025 This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, and events is entirely coincidental, with the exception of the events in Chapters One and Two, which happened more or less as written, on the line between Cambridge and Somerville, Massachusetts, on Memorial Day weekend in 1999. 6. "What are—" I repeated, goggling at the furious face behind the diner counter. "You come in here dressed like I don't know what," Eugene said, "which is fine, we get all types here around the college, but now you try to pass me this—what kind of cockamamie slug is this?" He shook Theo's quarter at us. "They ain't even covered the edge with silver!" Another voice cut in. "I'm sorry, might I be of help?" The young man from the far end of the counter had come over to see what the trouble was. The front of his hair flopped down to his glasses, and he was peering intently through it at the coin in Eugene's grasp. "You know these juvie counterfeiters?" Eugene asked. The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, then straightened up and drew a breath. "These young people," he said, "I believe are junior auxiliaries of our campus Dramatical Society, still in their rehearsal clothes. It seems they accidentally confused some of the Society's theatrical prop money for the genuine article." He reached out and gently took the quarter from the counterman's hands, scooping up the dime for good measure. "Ah, yes," he said. "You saw the copper edging here, designed to prevent this very sort of confusion. No one could mistake this stage money for a genuine silver United States quarter." He put our coins in his pocket and pulled out some other money. "I will take these back to our prop master," he said. "Now here is 40 cents to cover the children's fare, plus another quarter for my sandwich." "We're very sorry, sir," I said to Eugene, as we scrambled off our stools. "Actors," he said, shaking his head. "And thank you, sir," I said to the young man. "Goodbye." "I'll walk you out," he said, grabbing an overcoat off the hook by the door. "Oh, no, that's not necessary," Maxine said. "Nevertheless," he said. Theo and Maxine and I together pulled the door open and squeezed out into the night. It was still snowing. The young man stepped out too. The door jingled as it shut behind him. We all stood out there, in the pinkish light of the WALT'S EATS sign. He looked at us. "How did you do it?" he said. "How did we do what?" I asked. The young man shook his head. "Don't act. You're not actors. I made that part up, remember?" "Are you in the Dramatical Society?" Maxine asked. "Am I—?" he frowned. "No, no. I—" "I thought he was in the Dramatical Society," Theo said. The man squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, where the glasses sat. He let go, opened his eyes, and shook his head again. "No. No. Let me step back. My name is Norman, Norman Melk. I am a first-year graduate student in applied philosophy here at Marble University." "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Melk," Maxine said, "but we need to go home now." "Now?" Norman Melk said, with a quizzical little smile. "What does 'now' mean to you, exactly?" "It means now," Theo said. "Rollo, let's go." "Sorry," I said, "but it's late, and we shouldn't be standing around in the snow." "Please," Norman Melk said. "Bear with me. You certainly must be cold. Under those odd coats, you seem to be dressed for a summer day. You also," he said, "seem to be in possession of United States currency that was minted in the year 1998." He drew the quarter out of his pocket. "Or should I say, will be minted? I am having trouble with the tenses." I liked Norman Melk, I decided. At any rate, there didn't seem to be much point in bluffing him. "Mr. Melk," I said, "I think we know what you are asking us about. Unfortunately, we are not very clear, ourselves, about how we did it, or how it happened." "We walked out the door, basically," Maxine said, "and here we were." "Somebody left us acorns," Theo added, holding his up. "Acorns?" Norman Melk said. Now he looked less puzzled than worried. "Acorns. This could..." "You know why we got the acorns?" I asked. "I do not," Norman Melk said. "But I know someone who might. I need to ask that person, and then you and I need to talk again." He dug in his pocket and came out with a fistful of change. "Take these coins with you—Rollo, was it?" I nodded. "I'm Theo," Theo said. "Maxine," Maxine said. "Rollo, Theo, Maxine. Call me Norman. Here." He gave each of us some of the coins. "Next time, when you need money, use these. Most evenings you can find me here at Walt's." He got out a pen and scribbled something on a little card. "There. That's my telephone number. CRandall-4-9287." "Crandall?" I said. Maxine took the card. "The first two letters are numbers," she said. "That's how they did it—I mean, do it—then. Now." "Thank you, Mr. Melk—Norman," I said. "We'll see you soon," Maxine said. We waved goodbye and retreated up the block and around the corner. More snow had accumulated on the ground and the cars while we were in Walt's Eats. Flakes were sticking to my coat and my legs were freezing. I looked up, more than a little nervously, at the windows where our apartment should be, or used to be, or would be. They were dark. The door was still propped open a crack, the way we'd left it. I took a quick look around the empty, snowy street, then pulled the door all the way open, and we were back inside. Find other chapters of The Stairs here. EASY LISTENING DEP'T.Here is the Indignity Morning Podcast archive! SANDWICH RECIPES DEP'T.WE PRESENT INSTRUCTIONS for the assembly of a sandwich selected from Cassell's New Dictionary of Cookery, published in 1912 by Cassell and Company, London, New York, Toronto, and Melbourne, and available at archive.org for the delectation of all. IRISH SANDWICHES. Cut the meat in very thin slices from partridges, grouse, or any game that has been roasted, and shred some celery. Lay the meat on delicately thin fresh toast—it should be crisp, and not tough—strew celery over, and season well with Tartar sauce. Serve in squares, and on a napkin. If you decide to prepare and attempt to enjoy a sandwich inspired by this offering, be sure to send a picture to indignity@indignity.net . SELF-SERVING SELF-PROMOTION DEP'T. Indignity is presented on Ghost. Indignity recommends Ghost for your Modern Publishing needs. Indignity gets a slice if you do this successfully!
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