The Moth - Cents and Sensibility: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: April 7, 2026

In this hour, money talks. Stories of finances—coin collecting, running grifts, and determining the value of "stuff." This episode is hosted by Moth Senior Curatorial Producer Suzanne Rust. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Steve Zimmer and his father search for a rare penny.  Stacey Curry finds some monetary discrepancies at her new job. Dannie Olguin grows up worrying that she will never have enough.  Taji Torrilhon does not place great importance on "stuff," but her wife does. Charles Caracciolo finds a financial incentive to being an altar boy.  Christian Garland, a preacher's kid, steals collection plate money from his grandfather. Podcast # 971 To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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A special four-part event, streaming April 10th on Hulu on Disney Plus. This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. I admire and envy the financially savvy. In most aspects of my life, I feel like a fairly well-adjusted, well-informed adult, but there's something about talking finances, budgets, investments, 401Ks, long-term goals, that shuts me down. My New Year's resolutions almost always include a promise to get better with managing money. And while I did fulfill that promise last year with a financial consultant, which was really helpful, by the way,

I still have a way to go before I feel as confident as I would like. I think all of this is what drew me to the theme of sense, as in coins, and sensibility, because I'm curious to see how others navigate those sometimes murky waters. This hour is about money, but also about the things we value beyond it, like a sense of security, love, respect, and knowing when what we have is enough. Our first story was told by Steve Zimmer at Islam in Chicago, where we partner with public radio station WBEZ. Here's Steve, live at the moth.

1973, I'm 10 years old, and my dad works at a tool in die company, which doesn't pay much money, but he's also an inventor, which pays negative money. So every night after dinner, he goes down to his basement workshop, and I never follow him.

I'm very similar to, to my father's father, and they really never got along. And that might be okay, except that my parents fight a lot, and I get kind of pulled over to my mother's side, and that, which just widens the rift between me and my father. Now, my big new hobby is coin collecting. And mostly I read books about coins. But one night, my dad comes home with a bag of $40

of pennies and pennies from the bank in paper rolls. And he lays him out on the kitchen table and it doesn't say anything, just starts sorting through him. So I join them and it's probably our first father son activity. Now, when you're sorting Lincoln Pennies, the first thing you do is look for weedies. Penny's predating 1959 with weed ears on the reverse. So now all of a sudden, every night my dad and I are there after dinner sorting through pennies in complete silence. except for the periodic discovery of a weedy, which causes the finder to say,

Weedy. So it's like Green Man with two Dustin Hoffman's. So, now, one night I find a weedy from 1943. Now, due to wartime copper shortages, 43 pennies were made of zinc. They're gray, but the penny I found is brown. Now, there are 25 known specimens of 1943 copper pennies. A mint employee at the time illegally snuck them out.

In the vast global world of coin collecting, no one is more universally beloved than the unscrupulous mint employee. So this penny is worth triple the value of her house if it's genuine. Now, the easiest way to counterfeit a 43 copper penny is to copper plate the zinc version. But the zincs are lighter, so all we need is a good micro scale. And my dad decides that he's going to build one. Since, as my mother observes, why I spend $20 on a scale when you can build one for $38? So now for the first time ever, I follow my dad down into the basement after dinner.

And, you know, his workshops got all this array of tools and all the, you know, like switches and hinges and compassers and screws and all presided over by this little plastic statue of St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes and long shots. And so, and, you know, he goes all out on a scale and it's like two-sided, like justice, and super accurate. But we don't try it until we're sure it's perfect because a false positive

would be heartbreaking. So the big night comes and we try our penny against a 1952 copper penny with similar wear and they balance perfectly. It's copper. And we're like, oh this could solve all our financial problems. I'll probably get my

picture in numismatic news. For my idea, this is a long shot picture he never got from his inventions. So we set aside a day to go to coin stores and you know we dress up and you know we have part of blue sport coats, short sleeve collared shirts and ties. And we visit GS coins first and the manager, there's Rudy, he has no interest in our coin. So next up is Kedzi coins. It's a huge dealer and and we actually get to sit down with the owner. He's an expert on Lincoln Pennies and he says, well you know the easiest test is just to hold, you know, if it's

If it sticks to a magnet, it's a fake. And we'd assume that zinc pennies were zinc. They're actually zinc-coated steel. So if our penny sticks to the magnet, it's fake. So he holds it to the magnet, and it doesn't stick. And the guy's like, huh. You know, we tell them about our weight test. And so he looks at it for a long time under high magnification,

and he says, this penny is real copper. Fortunately, it's from 1948. Someone had professionally ground off the left side of the eight and he showed us blow-up pictures and you could see like the real three versus a cut eight

and he said, well, you know, this is actually a pretty good fake. You know, people collect these that's probably worth, you know, at least $10. So, you know, back in the car, my dad just sits in the seat for a long time before turning the ignition and, you know, we'd get home and clip our ties and my dad

my dad goes straight to the basement and I go up to my room and ponder why I feel like yelling at my mother and after dinner I start sorting through the remaining rolls of pennies and surprisingly my dad joins in and

we probably aren't going to find a penny that changes our life and I'm probably not going to understand my dad any better than he understood his dad, but you never know. Thank you. That was Steve Zimmer, a multiple Moth Grand Slam winner. Steve lives in New York where he works in finance and still occasionally looks at coins on eBay. He particularly likes U.S. coins from 1916 to 1932, such as the Mercury Dime, the Standing Liberty Quarter, the Peace Dollar, the Walkie, Liberty Half, the Buffalo Nickel, and the $10 and $20 St. Godin's gold coins.

He says that the flat presidential coins that are on the market these days pale in comparison. Those first jobs we have as a teenager can shape how we view work and money. Our next story was told by Stacey Bader Curry at a New York City Slam, where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth. Here's Stacey. When I was 14, my greatest joy in life was my job at CVS. It calmed me to align boxes of Excedrin and to make change in my head. But when I was 16 and I started remembering, memorizing skew numbers for fun,

I thought maybe it's time to move on. So I interviewed with Mr. Hazel, the manager of the coolest movie theater in town. He was very formal and he wore this natty three-piece suit. And he introduced me to Doug, his driver. And I thought, wow, this movie theater is really nice. So I got hired, and I worked behind the candy stand. And right away, this place was very strange. You know, CBS was like a Jane Austen novel.

It was very orderly. And there was this lovely atmosphere of gloom in isolation. And the movie theater was like Lord of the Flies. Mr. Hazel was never there. The teenagers were always conspiring and laughing, and I was completely left out. But what really bothered me was our popcorn inventory system. It just didn't add up.

It was really simple. All we had to do was count the popcorn tubs before our shift and then count the tubs again after the shift. And the difference was what we sold. But the whole shift, I was mentally tantal. Pallying our sales, and it never added up to what we had on the inventory sheet. The money was correct in the cash drawer, but I knew we were selling more. So I expressed my concerns to my co-worker, Marie.

And she snapped her gum in my face and said, you better talk to Mike. Now, Mike was the head usher. He was a little intimidating. And that afternoon, he grabbed me. And he said, so, I hear you want in. And what? He said, listen, kid, what we do here is we sell refurbished popcorn cups.

I had no idea what he was talking about. So he laid it out for me. What you got to do is you come with me and clean out the theater. You look for popcorn cups in the garbage on the floor. You meet me back in the break room and we wipe them out and as long as there's no visible

butter stains or tears, you put them back behind the counter and you take the corresponding cash out of the drawer. So I was appalled, but a little intrigued. And so I said, well, what do you do with the cash? And he just smiled broadly. And he said, well, we all go to dinner every night at Charlie Browns. And then after work, I buy a case of beer.

And not only did I join their organization, I elevated it. I brought my strong quant skills and my analytical reasoning. I said, guys, we are not allocating resources properly. We don't need three people to clean up after dirty dancing. That is all teenage girls. They eat twizzlers. We need to focus upstairs theater number three, where we were showing the untouchables.

Now, if you don't know, this is uncanny. The Untouchables is the true life story of Elliot Ness's takedown of And you know who came to see the untouchables in the summer of 1987? Senior citizens. They never put butter on their popcorn. That theater was littered with pristine cups. So we were flush with cash, and we would roll into Charlie Browns like we owned the place. We passed Mr. Hazel at the bar, and he was nursing his eighth scotch.

And it was like this portal to an ultimate. to an alternate reality open for me. It was like this world where people didn't care about being proper and they didn't have the same complicated relationship with money that I had. You know, I grew up in a coupon-clipping generic toilet paper household. And here I am at Charlie Browns, a restaurant where they bring you sour cream with your baked potato, and you don't even have to ask for it.

And I'm ordering shrimp cocktail and prime rib. prime rib. It was exhilarating. So fall came and we got rid of dirty dancing and we got fatal attraction. And everyone in their grandmother wanted to see that bunny in the pot. We were mad, busy, and quality control really slipped. One day, I'm serving a small popcorn to a woman and as I put it in her hand, I see all too late

a lipstick imprint on the cup. It's just the bottom, and it's underneath the rim, but she took it and she went into the theater. And as that door shut, I imagined a life in prison. And I realized I like my complicated relationship with money. I find great comfort in that. So even we didn't get caught, but I quit the theater. And I started waiting tables.

And I waited tables all through high school, through four years of college. and I self-finance my own education by waiting tables. And thank you, thank you. And I still have a complicated relationship with money, but that's fine. And I'm still thrifty, but I do occasionally go to the movies, and I always order popcorn because they don't sell it in tubs anymore. They sell it in disposable paper bags now. Thank you.

That was Stacey Bader Curry. Curry. After nearly 30 years of living in New York City, Stacy and her family moved to Maine in 2020. She says that in New York, frugality was survival, but in Maine, it's practically a competitive sport. She now finds herself gleefully refurbishing everything, containers, clothes, food, like she's training for the Olympics of Thrift. I was curious to know how those scamming days affected her, and she said that after that close call at the movie theater, she became hypervisual. about avoiding even the hint of impropriety at work.

After college, Stacey landed on Wall Street, just as pioneering internet companies were going public. She admits that she could have bought those stocks on day one, but didn't. Her fear of crossing the line cost her the windfall that could have changed her life. These days, as a mom who is three-quarters of the way to being an empty nester, she says that time spent with her four children, her husband, and their two dogs is the thing she values most. To see a photo of a teenage Stacy, head to the moth.org.

You can share these stories or others from the moth archive and buy tickets to moth storytelling events in your area through our website, the moth.org. There are moth events all year round. Find a show near you and come out to tell a story. And you can find us on social media too. We're on Facebook and X at The Moth and on Instagram and TikTok at Moth stories.

Coming up, a story about what it means to have enough. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Uh, where are my gloves? Come on, heat. Any day now? Winter is hard, but your groceries don't have to be. This winter, stay warm.

Tap the banner to order your groceries online at walla.ca. Enjoy in-store prices without leaving your home. You'll find the same regular prices online as in-store. Many promotions are available both in-store and online, though some may vary. This episode is brought to you by FedEx. These days, the power move isn't having a big metallic credit card to drop on the check at a corporate lunch. The real power move is leveling up your business with FedEx intelligence. and accessing one of the biggest data networks powered by one of the biggest delivery networks.

Level up your business with FedEx, the new power move. When WestJat first took flight in 1996, the vibes were a bit different. People thought denim on denim was peak fashion, inline skates were everywhere, and two out of three women rocked, the Rachel. While those things stayed in the 90s, one thing that hasn't is that fuzzy feeling you get when WestJet welcomes you on board. Here's to West Jetting since 96. Travel back in time with us and actually travel with us at westjet.com slash 30 years. This is The Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Suzanne Rust, your host for this finance-focused hour. What does it mean to have enough? Danny M. O'Geen opened up when she told this story at a Phoenix slam, where we partner with public radio station KJZZ. Here's Danny live at the Moff. I'm in the sixth grade. My little brother, Jair, and I are racing home from the school bus.

It's a frigid winter day, and our current rental house doesn't have working heat. A thin layer of ice coats the walls of the bathroom and the uninsulated garage that's our shared bedroom. To keep the roaches and rodents at bay, we keep all of our foods stored in an old steamer trunk on the kitchen floor. Kicking off my shoes, my stomach cramps.

The food stamps are due, and I haven't eaten since. We finished the leftover beans the night before. On good days, I can smell the beans before the bus even pulls away. The other kids make fun of us by pinching their noses or pretending to gag, and shame snakes around my belly creeping up my chest in my neck until my face is bright red. But that shame vanishes the second I walk through the door.

It's funny how a thing can make you feel so ashamed one second, and so joyful the next. On the days that I smell beans, I know Jare and I are going to have dinner for at least a couple of nights, which is the closest thing that my 12-year-old brain can imagine is luxury. Lifting the lid of the heavy trunk,

my heart drops. I had hoped to find some saltine crackers or maybe a jar of peanut butter. Anything to stave off our hunger, But there's nothing except a little bit of leftover rice. I always give my brother half of whatever food I have. Sorry. I always give my brother half of whatever food I have.

And every time, shame wraps me in a dark cloak. I'm perfectly aware I shouldn't have to give half of my food to my brother. But awareness doesn't change my reality of doing without, without warm winter clothes or breakfast or lunch. I take to hiding socks and underwear that no longer fit because the idea of throwing them away makes me feel sick. Every coin I find, I stash away so in an emergency I can buy a loaf of bread. When I'm on free school lunch, which isn't often,

because we move around an awful lot, I smuggle food home so that he can have something. to eat before he goes to bed. When I'm old enough to have a job, I use my paycheck to help pay rent, but I also hide boxes of granola bars all over my room. None of this makes me feel good, and before I know it, shames my albatross.

It's around my neck, always whispering that I'll never have enough because I'll never be enough. Years pass, and a childhood of constantly doing without, out has trapped me in a state of constant hypervigilance for my own family's well-being. I, the only way I know to fight the anxiety and the fear is to stockpile staples. I haven't crossed the line into hoarding, but I absolutely cannot function with fewer than a dozen rolls of toilet paper in the house.

My partner never says anything about my dragon ways. Every once in a while he'll question if we really need another tube of toothpaste, but in the end, he lets it all go because it's not that big of a deal. And honestly, sometimes it turns out to be a good thing that we have a shelf, stable supply of goods. Times when the checks are short or we're dealing with unemployment, it's really comforting to know we don't have to wipe our asses with leaves. So now it's spring 2020, and we're taking our high. high school senior on a out-of-state college tour. It's early March. The WHO hasn't even

declared COVID a pandemic yet, but all of that changes on our trip. The tour our son took was the last in-person tour that school would give for nearly two years. Driving down a deserted snowy highway in the middle of the pandemic, NPR reports on all of the shortages. Toilet paper is gone from all the shelves. There's no rice, there's no food, there's nothing. Panic starts to claw at me, and it just tightens when we pull into a gas station in the middle of the desert. Even there, not one roll of toilet paper or a can of Chef Boyardee is in sight. Sitting in the car, I do a mental inventory of what we have at home.

We have a 25 pound bag of beans. We have black beans, pinto beans, myacobas. We have chicken stock, and I do all of my mental thoughts. And I know that between the pantry and the freezer, we have enough to get us through an entire year. We have plenty of food. And suddenly the shame releases itself, and warm pride,

floods my body as I realize my trauma response to growing up in extreme poverty is actually kind of useful. As dusk turns into night, I lean back in my seat and smile knowing that when the shit hits the fan, I can provide for me and mine. Thank you. That was Danny M. Olguin, an author and Phoenix Story Slam winner currently based in Texas. As a child, Danny wanted to be either a bounty hunter, a tight rope. Walker, or a professional moth catcher. Fortunately, she realized rich people actually don't hire

kids with nets to relocate bothersome moths from garden parties, and she started writing stories instead. Danny's story raised some questions. Specifically, I was curious to know where Danny's parents were at the time of her story. Here's what she shared. I wish I could tell you where my parents were, but I really can't. Starting around kindergarten, my parents would disappear, leaving me to take care of my brother. Sometimes just for a couple of hours during the day, but sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night to discover we were alone in the apartment. One of my nicknames was little mama, and that's exactly how they treated me, as if a five-year-old ever had any business taking care of a three-year-old. As I hid adolescence, their vanishing act got longer.

Dad always came back, but it sometimes took my mom weeks. What I remember about that time and that specific house is Jair and I almost always came home to silence. I especially remember the cold, the quiet, the quiet, and the hunger. On those quiet days, we didn't question where she was, because frankly, she was physically and emotionally abusive, and we were happier when it was just the two of us. I sensed a lot of emotion in Danny's voice when she spoke about her brother, Jair. So I asked her about him. My brother died in 2012, and our relationship at the time was pretty strained. when I left home for college in the mid-90s, he felt I betrayed and abandoned him. His death was unexpected, and we never quite got past his anger at me, though we both tried to

understand the other. Now, I remember him with the same fierce, loyal love I felt for him when we were children. He appears in both large and small ways in every story or novel I've written since his death. I like to think at some point in our middle age, we'd have found a mutual understanding and restored our relationship. That was Danny M. O'Geene. Some people value money, some people value stuff, and then there are people in another category altogether, like our next storyteller, Taji Marie Torrelihan, who told her story at an L.A. Grand Slam, where we partner with public radio station K-C-R-W. Here's Taji. So I am not attached to stuff, which kind of sounds altruistic, but actually means I'm pretty careless with things. I once accidentally donated my very

favorite sweater to Goodwill, to give you an idea. My wife, on the other hand, is fastidious. She is careful and intentional with everything that she has. But I come by my anti-stuff neurosis, a few very good reasons. One, I moved every year of my life until I was 17. Two, I had parents who just didn't parent. And three, I lost everything I owned when I was 10 years old. It was February and it had been raining for a month straight, which was actually not that unusual for the little Northern California town that I'm from. And on that day, though, I woke up to my mom shaking me saying, pack a bag, we're leaving as soon as we can. So I got up, I went to the window, and I I was stunned at what I saw outside.

There was this rushing river of brown sludgy water where our street used to be, and the cars parked on the street were filling up with water while I watched in real time. And so I threw some things in a bag, and I looked back out that window, not even five minutes later, and I couldn't believe how high the water had gotten. The single-story house across the street

that I was looking down on from my second-story window was gone. There was a teeny bit of the roof peeking up, but it was basically underwater. And so the next thing I knew, we were climbing out that window because it was the only safe way out of the house into my neighbor's boat. And there we were, floating down my street,

navigating our way around these big tree branches and floating furniture. And I remember looking back at my house, filling with water, thinking, I wonder if I'm ever going to see my room again. And sure enough, the only things of mine that survived that flood were the few things that I threw in that bag that day. And in the middle of this scary, traumatic event, I was scared and shocked, and I just couldn't process it, really. So I did what a lot of kids do.

I came up with a way to make something scary, not so scary. And my coping mechanism of choice was detachment. I just decided I didn't need that stuff anyway, and I got on with it, which kind of tells you the sort of overly mature 10-year-old that I was. but over time this coping mechanism just sort of settled into my personality and I became someone

who was not precious about stuff and kind of took pride in it it was like if I don't love it then I won't miss it when it's gone which worked great until I met fell in love with and later married

a woman who was beautiful and smart and funny and very attached to her stuff And, you know, just to be clear, my wife is not a materialistic person. She doesn't like shopping. She is a regular in our buy nothing Facebook group.

But this is a woman who still has her favorite red ruler from grade school on her desk. And she just recently got rid of this black fisherman's cap that she was wearing the very first time I saw her 25 years ago. Which is charming and also something I just never understood. until one day we were up in Mendocino walking around the headlands and it was one of those rainy days and we were all bundled up in jackets and scarves and gloves and hats and it was raining on us but I didn't care we were taking pictures had a great day it's one of my favorite places to go and we ended up back in the hotel room kind of peeling off all of our wet layers and I felt something strange on my hand or actually something not on my hand

and I looked down and I realized my wedding ring was gone and I panicked and I tore apart the hotel room. I looked in every pocket. And when I finally got to the gloves I was wearing that day and they were empty, I realized what must have happened is when I took my gloves off to take a picture, my ring must have fallen off at the headlands.

And I felt sick. It was the same sinking feeling I'd felt decades later floating down that street, watching my house fill with water. It was this deep and immediate sense of loss and grief that I hadn't let myself feel for a very long time. And back then, I was wondering, am I ever going to see my room again? But now I was older and wiser,

and I knew that ring was gone forever. And maybe for the first time, I felt ashamed for having lost something because it wasn't just something. It was our ring. My ring, our ring, the one we'd had specially designed and made for our wedding back before it was legal.

And then the one that I'd worn for, almost two decades of moves and travel and parenthood and our second wedding when it finally was legal, this ring had seen some things. And it was gone. And I was crushed because it just felt irreplaceable. Well, about a year later, we were in Ohio, celebrating our 20th anniversary. And I still had not replaced that ring because I felt like I just couldn't. But we decided to go hiking with some friends. And so I parked the car and my wife went off to see if they were there. and when I had almost caught up with her, I saw her on the ground in front of me, which was strange. So I kind of picked up my pace.

And when I got there, I realized that she was kneeling and smiling and had something small in her hand. And she said to me, you know, we never really did proposals for our wedding. We just kind of decided to get married for both of them. But I'm going to do it now with this ring. So will you stay married to me? And I said yes. And she put a ring on it. And I am very attached to this ring now because I think allowing myself to feel terrible about that loss of that first ring really helps me understand how special an object can be.

And as you might imagine, I take very good care of this ring now because I have realized that sometimes taking care of our stuff is a way of taking care of our people. With Taji Marie Terillian, a communications consultant, facilitator, and storyteller based in Los Angeles. Taji says that she and her wife talk a lot to their son about what has value. They stress the importance of taking care of your things as a way to be less wasteful. While also not loving your things so much, you forget about what matters most in life, like people, relationships, and experiences. What Taji values most these days is quiet time and says that those moments when she can turn off the noise of the world are a true luxury. To see a photo of Taji, go to the moth.org.

In a moment, heaven's life. Finley Tips and Collection Play Drama, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. The American Dream. We all have a version of it. The notion that where you begin has nothing to do with where you end up, that anything is possible. Run for office, live off the grid, hit a homer, throw robots, teach goat yoga, anything. This spring, the Moth main stage is traveling to cities around the country with some. stories of the American dream. Does it even exist anymore?

For who? What happens when that dream is dashed or deferred? And what happens when the dream is fulfilled? Let's come together and listen to people telling true personal stories of their very own American dreams. Experience the Moth Mainstage Live. Find a city near you at the moth.org slash mainstage. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Suzanne Rust.

In this next story, Charles Caracciolo shares an experience about a job with a surprising perk. He told it at a New York Slam where WNYC is a media partner of the mall. Here's Charles. Hi, everybody. So I'm from Flushing, it's my neighborhood. And thank you. Every neighborhood has a hub or a center point, right, where all the action is. Sometimes it's a building like this, like a town hall.

other places, it's a bar or a cultural hub, like a restaurant or something like that. For me, I grew up Catholic, so for me, it was the church was where almost every significant event in my life and my young life happened at church. Right down the road, it's about a mile down the road here, St. Anne's. And when I was in fifth grade, the pastor sent around a leaflet saying that he needed new altar boys, and I was the first kid to sign up because I needed to be in the show. I wanted to be under the bright lights in the production. And it mostly stemmed.

I wanted to make my classmates jealous. You know, I'd be up there pouring the wine, or the water on the priest's hands, and then handing them the towel like I was just rowdy. And I'd get to ring those bells, those good-humor bells, three times during the mass. It was glorious. And then, you know, what 11-year-old boy

doesn't want to wear a dress, right? To church, had the black-and-white robe combo with a frilly lace. Right? I wanted to wear that, but... I know that sounds like enough perks already, but there was more. There were paydays, and a payday for an altar boy was a funeral or a wedding. You could make serious bank on these... It was crazy. I averaged about 25 bucks at each, but at one really raucous... Not raucous, the wrong word, but a big Italian funeral, I made 50 bucks, and I was ecstatic.

And I know it's... You know, they were so sad, and I was so happy. It felt bad, a little bad, but, you know, it was terrible because, you know, they lost this pillar of the community. It was a loved one, and they were sobbing and carrying on, and the priest had that Aladdin's lamp thing with the incense. And, you know, the incense made it sad, or it smelled sad. But when I smelled incense, when I smell incense today, I think of one thing, cash money.

That's what I think of. Feel terrible. I can go to confession, though. So after about six months, 12 months, I was making, you know, my bank account was bulging with altar boy money. And it went to my head. I got very jaded. You know, the new altar boys would come on, and I wasn't helping them remember prayers or telling

them when to ring the bells or when to bring the wine over. They were in my way. These amateurs were standing in my way, me and these paydays, and I coveted these. So, you know. I think the priests got on to me, though, because they started. One guy withheld, one guy, one priest withheld the tip. I did a funeral, and I'm waiting by the door, like, you know, hey, hit the...

And he didn't tip us. And I was like, what? I was pissed. You know, but what was I going to do, right? There was no local union that I could file a grievance with, right? So I went to a higher power, my own mother, and she gave me the double-barrel truth. Like, what?

You're not there to make money. You're there to make your neighborhood a better place. and make yourself a better person. Think about that. And I said, well, I didn't join just to make money. That's why I'm here now still, but, you know, it wasn't the main reason. So whatever, I blew that off.

And I said, listen, it's not going to happen again. I refuse to get stiffed by a priest again. It's not going to happen. So next Saturday, my mother drops me up a church because I have a wedding and I get robed up. I'm all ready. I'm backstage in the sacristy. And we're waiting to go on.

And the groom and the best man. come back with a big fat envelope of cash, they lay it on the priest, and I, like Norma Ray, right? I'm like, this is my moment. I seize the opportunity, and I stand up and I say to a man of God in front of all these people, I say, Father, are we going to get the tip today,

or are you going to keep it like last week? Yeah, no. More confession, whatever. And so, as soon as the bridal party leaves, this old Irish priest, he's gritting his seat, just like, you, get out! You're finished. Beat it.

Right? And I know I did. I know I'm in trouble. But I'm just, you know, I'm thunderstruck, but not in the good way that they talk about at church. Like, he was thunderstruck, like in the Old Testament. Not like that. But, you know, I was in trouble and I knew it. So, like, I wander out the door, the side door.

And my mother is there. And she's talking with friends. She just dropped me home. She's like, what are you doing out here? And I said, you know, I was busted. So I was like, I should just confess now. And I burst in the tears and I blurted out. I just got fired from the altar boys.

Yeah, so she was laughing. I was blubbering like a baby, and I'm like, all right, maybe Jesus and the church don't call it fired, but it felt very much appropriate right at that moment. All right, so anyway, I don't go to church much anymore, but when I do, I just, I watch the altar boys, that's all I do. And a lot has changed. Their altar service, boys and girls, right?

And they've relaxed the dress code. You can wear sneakers on the altar now. Two years ago, I was at Mass. The kids wearing Air Jordans under his robe. I almost fell out of the pew. Anyway, they don't ring the bells anymore. They don't let you partake in the communion ritual, which I took very seriously.

It was the only thing that I took seriously. You'd have to hold a dish right under people's chins, right at their neck level, to catch... You know, this was a symbolic thing. This was the body of Christ. It can't touch the floor, so you'd get ready to catch it. But there was always some wise-ass who wanted to roll his eyes at me on the line or stick his tongue out to make me laugh.

get me in trouble with the priest. I wasn't having that. So anytime that happened, I would drive the metal edge of this plate right into their Adam's apple, right? Like I was Jesus' own henchman. Right? And tonight, this is my confession. Amen. Thank you very much. That was Charles Coracciolo. Charles is a video editor by day, a drummer on random weekends, a Mets fan for six masochistic months a year, and a dad and husband 24-7. He dreamed of making his own movies since getting an 8-millimeter movie camera

for Christmas at age 13. And finally, at the ripe old age of 53, he made his first film, and since then, he has cranked out two more that he's very proud of. His latest film, Gorilla Warfare, is about his obsession with the planet of the apes. When I asked Charles what he values most these days,

He said that he is pleasantly surprised that he feels more creative in his 60s than he did in his 20s and 30s. He also shared that he recently lost his wife of 32 years to cancer, and he has come to appreciate his two grown sons in a way that he could never have imagined. To see an adorable photo of Charles from his altar boy days, go to the moth.org. Our final story comes from Christian Garland, who told it at a high school grand slam in New York. Here's Christian, live at the moth. I like you too. I like you too. It's good.

So I'm going to let you all know now. I'm a preacher's kid. I grew up in the church. I swear I'm only missed like two Sundays out of my whole 16 years of life. And my grandfather, he was a minister. So, you know, he was my best friend. He was my, he was like the person I could talk to

about anything and everything. So when I was growing up, I'm about 9, 10. I wanted to be the friend that had. anything everybody else had, but I always wanted to have something better than everybody else. I was the friend that like, if you got the new video game, I had that video game and another one that was just about to come out that you ain't know about. So, you know, one day my friend came outside. He had these ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly sneakers on.

I suppose I should mention at the time, my grandfather, he was a big dude. He was like 6-3 to want like a size 13 sneaker. And so I used to walk around in his shoes like it was cool. I thought big feet was cool. So I was like, yo, bro, I got those, man. There ain't nothing. I got those already. He was like, all right, prove it.

I didn't have them. So my grandfather being a minister or whatever, he gets the money out of the collection plate. So I knew where he put the money. It's not what you all think. I lied. It's exactly what you think. So,

I told him I got the sneakers, went upstairs. I took the money. I did. And it was like $200. And I went on 3rd Avenue in the Bronx. I went inside, looked at the guy with a straight face.

I want the biggest size you got. And so, you know, I got the sneakers. And I go home. And my grandfather, He was going off. He found out. He was like, he's screaming at my uncle. He's like, why would you steal my money?

My uncle was like, I didn't touch your money. I don't know what you're talking about. And I walk in and I froze. I was like, oh, he mad. And he was like, Christian, come in. I was like, huh? He was like, where'd you get them sneakers?

Funny story. I went in the briefcase, got the money, yeah. He was like, how much money you take? I set up on $200. Oh. What? About $200. Boy, you crazy? Boy! He was screaming, and he said some very hard words.

He was like, I would never be able to trust you again, but one day you're going to repay me for the money you took. I don't know how, I don't know when, but you're going to repay me. I cried. It was terrible. Fast forward a couple of years, about like two, three years ago. I started, I'm a drummer. I played the drums on the radio for Al Sharpton on the radio 9 o'clock.

And so, he paid me good. And so I'm like, you ever had that thought where you start thinking about something and then your mind goes somewhere else? That's where I was like, I remember a grandpa said I'm going to repay him. So me, I didn't get McDonald's for two weeks in a row. So I had got the money to pay him back. So I put it in the envelope. And so I take him out to dinner at his favorite place,

Crown Donut on 161st Street, next to the little of his food. At first he was skeptical, he said, You got somebody pregnant? I was only 13. I don't know he was talking about it. I was like, no, of course not. That would be absurd. So we got out food.

And I took the, I had on a coat. It was cold. It was like, damn. October, early November. I took it on my side pocket inside, you know the little pocket inside. Took it out, put it on the table. And he looked in, he was like, what's this? I said, you said I was gonna repay you.

And you didn't know how, but I just repaid you. And we started crying, hugging. Oh, I love you. I love you too, Grandad. The waitress came, she started crying because she thought it was her tip. And, you know, I just, I'm just glad that I got a chance I got a chance to fulfill what my grandfather said and got to pay him back and earn his trust back from him because he said, you know what?

You surprised me. I'm proud of you. I trust you again. And that was the last thing he told me because two weeks after that, he died. And I did the same thing y'all did. Ah. Until I found out he ain't get to spend the money.

I was mad. I was mad at my grandma because I knew she had the money. I didn't know what she did with it. And so a couple of late days go by, I made the funeral arrangements. I still ain't know where the money went. I got up and I went to go view the body and my grandma, she stopped me. She said, you see that suit in them shoes he got on? I'm like, yeah, she said, your money paid for that.

I was so proud that, number one, I got my trust back from my grandfather and he was stunting in the suit and shoes I bought him. Thank you. That was Christian Garland, a father, musician, activist, and a proud Bronx, New York native. To see a photo of Christian at the time he told his story, head to the moth.org. While you're there, think about sharing a story of your own. Do you have stories about money? Or is there a moment in your life that changed you?

If so, you can pitch us a story right on our site, or call 877-799 Moth. That's 877-799 Moth. But no cliffhangers, please. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. we'd like to thank our storytellers for opening up to us with their stories, and to all of you for taking the time to listen. We appreciate you and hope you'll join us next time.

And that's the story from The Moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Suzanne Rust, who also hosted the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer, Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Michaela Bly and Catherine McCarthy, with additional Grand Slam coaching by Michelle Jalowski and Chloe Salmon. The Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Clucce, Sarah Austin Janice, Jennifer Hickson, Jordanale, Kate Tellers, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Urania. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound. podcast music production support from Davy Sumner. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, and to learn more about The Moth, go to our website, the moth.org.