The penny scale stood in the drugstore or the subway station or the lobby of the hotel and it had a platform for your feet and a dial behind glass and a slot for a penny. You put the penny in and you stood on the platform and the needle moved and the machine told you how much you weighed. The penny scale was the cheapest doctor in the city.

The penny scale also gave you your fortune. A little card came out of a slot with your weight on one side and your fortune on the other. YOUR LUCKY NUMBER IS SEVEN. A TALL STRANGER WILL ENTER YOUR LIFE. The fortune had nothing to do with your weight. The fortune was the bonus. The weight was the service. Nobody went to the penny scale for the fortune but everybody read it.

I weighed myself on the penny scale in the subway station at Astor Place every morning for a year. One hundred and thirty-two pounds. Every morning. The same weight. I was not checking my weight. I was performing a ritual. The penny scale was my morning prayer. One cent. One number. One fortune. The day could begin.

The penny scale was honest. The penny scale did not care if you liked the number. The penny scale did not adjust for your feelings. The penny scale showed you what you weighed and you could accept it or you could walk away but the number did not change. The bathroom scale lies to you. The bathroom scale has a setting. The penny scale had no setting. The penny scale had a spring and the spring did not negotiate.

The penny scale is gone. The drugstore does not have one. The subway does not have one. The hotel lobby has a digital screen that shows you the weather. Nobody knows what they weigh anymore because nobody puts a penny in a machine anymore. The penny scale cost one cent and it told you the truth. The gym membership costs sixty dollars a month and the mirror lies.

See also: Parking Meter, Cigarette Machine