With the help of friends and a heavy-duty dolly, Otha wrestled the fifteen plastic monoliths—some of which had been sealed and untouched for decades—out of his house and into the vehicle. As he drove toward the Ruston Origin Bank in Louisiana, the truck groaned under the weight, the suspension compressed to its limit, carrying a cargo that was technically worth very little per unit, but collectively represented a lifetime of discipline that was about to be unveiled to the world.
When Otha rolled the first dolly loaded with jugs into the bank lobby, the atmosphere shifted instantly from the hushed, sterile quiet of financial transactions to a scene of bewilderment and awe. The bank staff, accustomed to digital transfers and stacks of paper bills, stared in disbelief at the sheer volume of metal before them; the manager, Jennie, initially worried that their equipment wouldn’t be able to handle the load, but she quickly recognized the unique humanity behind the deposit.
This wasn’t just a transaction; it was a local event. The coin-counting machine, a device usually tasked with sorting handfuls of pocket change, roared to life with a mechanical ferocity, beginning a marathon process that would last for over five hours. The lobby filled with the deafening, rhythmic clatter of thousands of coins tumbling through the sorter, a metallic cacophony that drew customers from the street to watch as the plastic jugs were inverted one by one, pouring a waterfall of tarnished history into the hopper.
The machine had to be stopped and emptied repeatedly, its internal bags replaced every twenty minutes as they filled with heavy copper, while Otha stood by, watching the digital counter tick upward with the stoic pride of a farmer watching his harvest come in.
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