The Anti-Midas Touch

By William Musgrove

I couldn’t afford a car, so I walked everywhere. The bottoms of my shoes looked likesanded wood. Each day, I visited the statue in the park. The plaque screwed into the base read: Marigold, Daughter of King Midas. Gold was in her name. As a kid, I loved the parable, envied her father’s god-gifted ability. All I ever transformed into was mediocrity.

I’d never touched the statue, was afraid of leaving behind greasy fingerprints. Instead, I sat on the swear-riddled bench and talked to her like I was speaking into a recorder. I told her about my scratch-off passion, how before you scraped away the silver coating anything could be underneath. I told her how I bought a bundle of them each afternoon but hadn’t won anything yet except for a few bucks, which I converted into more tickets, more luck. Once I hit it big, I told her, I was quitting my retail job and traveling the world.

The day I finally shook her hand I was walking home after purchasing a stack of scratch-offs. I wanted to say thanks for listening. I gripped her fingers and tried not to think about anything but gratitude. Then I felt skin, bones. When I jerked my arm away, she was alive.

She wore a white dress and sandals, had brunette hair. I’d turned gold to flesh.

“Marigold,” I said, fanning out my cardboard dreams, not knowing what else to say or do, “want to help me scratch these?”

I removed a quarter from my pants pocket, sat on the bench, and began scratching. She paced, looking every which way. I thought about giving her a ticket to scratch, but I’d just won five dollars and didn’t want to mess up my rhythm. When I’d gotten through the stack, I was down twenty slammers.

That was when I started thinking maybe I had hit it big after all. Maybe Marigold and I could go on tour, charge people to see the gold woman. Maybe we could sue Midas, the automotive service company, for using her family’s name.

I took her to a coffee shop down the street. Marigold headed to the restroom. I got us a table, where I scribbled money-making ideas on a napkin. A half-hour passed, and Marigold still hadn’t returned. I knocked on the restroom door, asked if she was okay. A middle-aged woman came out, said a woman fitting Marigold’s description had fled through the restroom window.

I ran back to the park, described her to some joggers, who all shook their heads. I went back to where she’d been a statue and flopped onto the bench.

“One day,” I said, wiping silver shavings from my index finger. “One day I’ll get my break. One day I’ll go places.”

When I realized I was alone, I stepped onto the base. I remained still, frozen, until the king himself scratched me into gold dust.

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