The Stewardship of Attention
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1951
(5:47 PM)
The man stood in the lobby of the truck stop, staring at the machine.[1] A thick pile of nickels lay on the shelf behind the machine’s glass window. There must be hundreds of dollars in nickels in there, he thought. I know it releases randomly, but it does release every once in a while. I mean, look at how much is in there. I bet it’s about to release any time. Some lucky chap is going to come by and put in a few nickels and boom . . . he’ll walk out with all of that. I bet it’s just about to go. Maybe I should put a few nickels in.
He stood in the glow of the blinking fluorescent bulbs, staring at the shelf of silver, his pupils dilated at the money. His hand, scrunched and sweating in his coat pocket, was wrapped around the seventy-six dollars he’d just received at the counter where he’d cashed his check. It was his entire week’s earnings.
“Go home and take care of your family,” a little voice seemed to prod. “Just walk out of here and go home to your wife and children.”
But look at all that money, he thought. I mean it’s got to be just about to trip. I can’t believe somebody else walked away from it and left it this way. Just think . . . if I could get that thing to drop it all, I could double, no triple my week’s earnings just like that! The money crumpled in his fist seemed to call out for more. There was never enough. It seemed like the moment he took his wages home, they just disappeared, vacuumed into a black hole of expenses. Food, rent, diapers, electricity—the list went on and on. When was the last time he’d had a little money for himself? A year ago, when his wife gave him five dollars for his birthday and told him to go out to eat with a friend? That was almost 10 months ago, he thought. A pathetic five dollars. When was the last time he’d had enough money to just buy something if he needed it? To just walk into a store and point at something and say, “I’d like that, please.”
Unless it was store-brand toilet paper, I’d say it must have been before I was married. I didn’t know that when I said ‘I do’ I’d never have another dollar or moment for myself.
He stood staring at the pile of money that seemed to grow before his eyes. Piles of silver coins. Heaps of it. He had been in here one time before when the machine had tripped. Remembered the tremendous rush of coins down the chute, coins even flipping out to land on the floor, some rolling under nearby tables and chairs.
The man shifted from one foot to the other, the money sweaty in his palm. “Go home to your family. Just walk out of here.”
But when was the last time I had anything for myself? Even on my few days off it’s always, take the children here, or why don’t we use this time to run the children there. And that Christmas bonus, he thought, I was going to use that to do something special. And what happened to it? Oh yeah, we were behind on the rent, just like we are now. He gave his head a bitter shake. And then she wanted to send the few dollars that were left to her mother for that little operation she had to have because she couldn’t walk up a set of snowy steps alone. He knew he was bitter now, and he blinked back the hot tears threatening his eyelids. But does it always have to be this way? Will it always be this way? Life stretched ahead, a long dark tunnel of work, no money, and more work.
Just try it, he thought. Just turn in a few bills and get a handful of nickels. There is no way it will take more than a handful to get that thing to release. Then I can still give my wife my full wages and have something for myself. He blinked again, staring at the mountainous pile of coins. He could almost feel the cold handle in his hand, almost hear the crash of all that money dropping down the chute. “Don’t do it. Go home to your family.”
But it’s just a few nickels. What harm will it do? I know I can do it. I’ll . . . I’ll buy my wife something special with it. That’s it. Squaring his shoulders, he walked over to the glowing neon sign over the counter and handed the clerk a five-dollar bill. “Could you turn this into nickels for me?” The clerk took the five and dropped it into the register, and counted out a hundred nickels wordlessly.
A hundred nickels. That should be plenty. It’s got to be about to release. Lucky I should come in and find it like this. The bag of money felt heavy in his hand. Will this be enough to get it to trip? I don’t know. Yes, surely. It’s got to go anytime.
He hurried back to the machine, inserted a coin in the slot, and turned the handle. Clink. He watched the coin fall into the pile. It looked so small lying there, just one of thousands. Well, let’s try that again. It’s got to trip soon. Again, the coin dropped through the slot, again he turned the handle, again the coin dropped to clink onto the colossal shelf of nickels. He was breathing faster already. Try again.
Clink. Not this time. Maybe next time . . . Clink. The coins continued to drop into the little slot.
The nickels were gone. “Leave, just leave, now,” the voice said.
The man stood shifting from one foot to the other on the dirty tile floor. No, I’ll try one more five. If that doesn’t work, I’ll go home. He hurried back to the counter. “Another five into nickels, please.” The clerk smirked but again counted out the hundred nickels.
I’ve got to get back there before somebody else gets there ahead of me. Wouldn’t it be terrible if somebody walked by, dropped in a nickel, and got it all while I was getting more money?
(6:03 PM)
“Uh . . . another five dollars in nickels, please.”
(6:25 PM)
“Just another five dollars in nickels.” The smirking clerk handed it over.
The man was sweating now, great patches of dark staining his shirt underarms. He shifted from one foot to the other as someone agitated. Like he had to go to the bathroom. Like one possessed. It has to dump soon, he thought, his eyes glued to the money pile. I can’t believe it didn’t release yet. It has to go soon. It has to. I can’t go home like this. We won’t be able to pay rent. We’re already behind. The landlord said he’d kick us out if I miss another payment. My mother-in-law will say she’s right. That I really am not responsible enough to take care of my family.
(6:56 PM)
“I’ll take five more dollars in nickels.” His voice was thick. His hands were shaking. Even the clerk was not smirking now as he silently handed the disheveled man the last hundred nickels, contempt mixed with pity on his face.
(7:13 PM)
He was breathing hard, seeing nothing but the pile of coins, hearing nothing but his own harsh breathing and the thump, thump, thump of his heart in his ears. I will not even have enough to send along lunch money for junior at school. To get milk for the baby. He prayed, prayed for it to release. Anything, anything to save him from going home empty handed. He was down to his last nickel, his vision narrowing to nothing but the enormous stack of money smirking at him, mocking him. It has to work. It has to. He dropped the coin and cranked the handle. It rolled through the tunnel, clink, and landed to lay mocking him on the huge pile of money, one among thousands. He stood staring at it, uncomprehending under the harsh neon light. It couldn’t be. No. He’d get evicted. No lunch money for junior. How could he . . . he go home and tell his wife he . . . he’d done this? That there would be no money for the baby’s milk. For anything.
The scales seemed to fall from his eyes. He seemed to see himself standing before this machine an hour and a half ago, angry . . . bitter, wishing for one day to himself. For one half paycheck that wasn’t spoken for before it came in. How he wished to wind back the clock to that. That was nothing. Nothing compared to this. His shoulders heaved and suddenly he was crying, great tears spilling down his cheeks. He couldn’t see. Reaching out, he steadied himself on the corner of the machine, his breaths and sobs coming in great ragged waves. His head down on his arm, his knees about to buckle.
How long he cried like that he didn’t know. Didn’t care. Why go home now? How could he? He felt the hand on his shoulder and turned. A man, a manager of some sort, stood looking at him.
“What happened?”
He told him. Told him all of it. About the rent, the baby’s milk, all of it. The words tumbling out. The stranger said nothing, just listened.
Finally, he said. “You put your whole paycheck in?”
The man nodded.
“How much was it?”
“Seventy-six dollars.” What difference does it make? He thought. It’s all in there laying on that pile.
“Do you have your pay stub?”
He wordlessly dropped the sweaty, crumpled pay stub into the stranger’s hand.
“Come with me.”
Why? He thought. Did I commit a crime? How could I commit a crime bigger than what I already did to my family?
(7:52)
They were standing in the manager’s office. The manager dropped the sweaty paystub onto the desk, opened a drawer, and counted out seven tens, a five, and a one. Turning, he placed it in the man’s trembling hand.
He was crying again, then sobbing. “Thank you! Thank you!” he gasped. “You saved me!” He stood staring at his benefactor, tears streaming down his face.
“Listen,” the stranger said, staring into the man’s face. “I’m saving you this one time. Some men come in here and drop a few nickels in. They have fun. It’s a little game to them. Some men, like you, are gamblers. You can’t handle this. I’m warning you now, this once. Don’t. Let. Me. Ever. See. You. Standing. In. Front. Of. That. Machine. Again . . . Understood?”
The man hiccupped and nodded, then nodded again.
“Now go. Go home to your wife, little son, and baby. Go now.”
Ohio, present day
The man sat on the edge of the couch, head down, eyes glued to the screen, his jacket unzipped but his work boots still on.
“Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad.” The little boy tugged at his arm. The man moved his thumb across the screen, seemingly unaware of the chubby faced boy tugging at his coat sleeve. He moved his thumb on the screen and blinked.
“Dad . . . Daddy?” His little girl toddled over to him and slapped his knee with a Little Golden Book. He moved the phone to one side, his eyes never leaving the screen as he absentmindedly pulled her up onto his lap. “Read . . . read,” she lisped. He slid his thumb, scrolling down to a fresh screen.
“Read,” she lisped, “read.” She banged the Little Golden Book on his arm and he, never taking his eyes from the screen, shifted his arm to the side.
His wife, sitting across the room, watched, biting her lip till she tasted blood.
“Read.” The little girl’s voice was plaintive, almost wailing. “Read!” Slap! She lunged savagely, slapping the book down on the glowing screen, her enemy. The phone flipped away, spinning down to fall into a half-empty tub of Legos, where it lay blinking its blue light among the multicolored bricks.
Yes, the mother thought, watching. Blood. I’m tasting blood.
****
The man sat at the table, staring off into space, the salad bowl his child was trying to hand him wavering by his unmoving arm. He sat staring straight ahead, slowly rubbing one rough hand over the other. Eyes focused on something out there, something not in the home.
“Daddy?” The salad bowl wavered. “Daddy, do you want salad?”
“Honey,” his wife said. “Samuel is trying to pass to you.”
“Oh . . . oh yeah,” he started and took the heavy bowl, the gravitational pull having taken it almost to the tabletop in the tiny hand. “Oh . . . yeah,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”
“Is something the matter? You’re just . . . just not with us.”
“Oh . . . yeah,” he mumbled, running a hand across his three days of stubble. “Yeah. Sorry,” he mumbled again.
“Is something wrong?” she asked again, her voice plaintive as if scared to ask but willing herself to.
“Um . . . I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Not really. Got a lot on my mind. Orders are tapering off and I’m just not sure how we’re going to keep the crews busy. I guess I’m just trying to figure all that out, that’s all.”
“But Mary has been trying to tell you about her art project and I . . . I don’t think you were listening,” she said, her voice hesitant, uncertain.
“Uh, yeah . . . yeah, Mary . . . your art project. Yeah, what were you saying? Go ahead.”
Mary brightened, “Well first we took this popsicle stick and we glued it like this, and then we had to take the pinecone and put glue on the bottom like this.” She held it, her face shining, “And then we cut a circle out of white construction paper, like this, and then . . . then . . .” her voice trailed off. She was looking at her daddy and he was looking off into space again . . . his eyes vacant. Gone.
****
Recently I was reading a book recommended to me by a friend and ran across this quote which struck me as profound. He is writing about attention and states . . .attention is of value only insofar as it is paid in the proper discharge of an obligation . . . We speak of paying attention because of a correct perception that attention is owed—that without our attention and our attending, our subjects, including ourselves, are endangered.[2]
This cuts to the heart of it. Attention is owed. It is owed and is spendable. This gives rise to the possibility of a man spending all his attention somewhere it is not owed and creating a debt crisis where it is owed. Just like the father who spent his week’s wages on the machine, and then had nothing to take home to his family, so we can spend our attention on the “machine”, attention that is owed and desperately needed at home. Unlike the gambling man, there is no way to open the “machine” and recover it. If we spend it, we leave the family destitute of a precious and limited resource they need to thrive, or even develop normally. Deprive them of that most limited and necessary resource, that of our attention, and in doing so, our subjects, including ourselves, are endangered.
If we keep this up, we’ll create an attentional famine, and where there is famine, there will soon be starvation . . . and worse.
Darryl Derstine lives in Holmes County Ohio with his wife and
8 children. If you have questions about stewardship and gifting,
or to request a copy of this article, you can reach Darryl or one
of the CAM Foundation team at bss@camoh.org or 330-893-4915.
Read more articles on our website at www.camf.org.
[1] Based on a true story.
[2] The World Ending Fire, by Wendell Berry. Counterpoint Press.
