The coins story

"You must have a lot of spare change lying around the house these days. You sound cheerful."

That’s what my friend in Seoul said to me over the phone.

"That’s all in the past now. But, you know, old habits die hard. Even now, when I go to someone’s house and see a glass jar full of coins, I think, ‘They must be doing okay,’ and it makes me feel strangely at ease."

Here in America, when money runs dry, it’s like being in a desert—your mouth feels parched, and you can't even catch sight of a single coin. In this country, even between parents and children, people don't talk about money. So there I was, back in the day, rummaging through old coat pockets, hoping to find a few coins. My friend must have remembered that story well—because ever since, she checks on me by listening to the tone of my voice and brings up coins whenever she calls.

Picasso, during his younger years living in Paris, was so poor that he couldn’t leave the house unless his girlfriend came home—because he didn’t even own shoes. So, searching for coins so my husband could go out didn’t seem like such a big deal.

“Please let there be a dollar bill… abracadabra…”
I whispered little chants while digging through every coat pocket, but there wasn’t even a single penny, let alone a bill. So, walking everywhere became our norm. I still remember how sad my husband looked, walking down the road in an old coat with a few coins jingling in his pocket, head down, hoping to spot a coin on the ground. We didn’t have any luck with big piles of cash, but we sure had a few lucky strikes with coins—thanks to payphones.

One hot summer day, my husband went out looking for a job. When he gave up and tried to use a public phone, a whole handful of quarters came clattering out. Another time, at a bar near his workplace, coins poured out of the payphone like a jackpot. He tells the story proudly: he pressed his chest against the coin slot, quickly looked around, and scooped up about ten dollars’ worth of coins into his jacket.

We even had a “coin windfall” once when we rented a small studio apartment. To save money, we agreed to fix the place up ourselves. In one old kitchen cabinet, tucked away behind a dusty spaghetti box, were two old pepper shakers. They felt oddly heavy, so I opened them—and they were full of silver coins from the 1940s and '50s. Even now, when I look at those pepper shakers like they’re treasure chests, I remember that desperate feeling: Should I spend it all... or not?

That friend who always asks about coins? She gave up going to art school because of her parents and became a doctor instead. She married another doctor and now lives comfortably in Gangnam. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to live that kind of life. So one day, I finally asked her,
“How good is it? I mean, if you say you’re doing well, how well are we talking?”

“Well,” she said,
“At first, when the money started coming in, it was all about luxury brands. Then that got boring, so it became foreign travel and golf. That faded too, so now we’re into concerts. And lately? Art collecting. I guess we’ve reached that stage. But you know what? Your husband’s paintings are really expensive now. I regret not buying one back when they were cheap.”

That reminded me of a story about when French culture minister André Malraux visited “Le Bateau-Lavoir” in Montmartre—once the hangout of struggling young artists—and declared it a historic landmark. Picasso, who had spent time there, muttered under his breath:
“They should’ve helped us back when we were starving.”

And without thinking, I suddenly lifted my chin and blurted out,
"You should’ve bought it then. Too late!"