The Inverted Jenny. The most valuable U.S. postage stamp ever created, featuring a JN-4 World War I training plane. With a face value of twenty-four cents and a measly print count of just one hundred stamps in 1918, its value, like most valuable stamps, comes from a misprint; a vignette of the JN-4 — Jenny, for short — erroneously featured in strikingly inadvertent rebellion to the postal world, upside down. Slightly rectangular and no larger than an average postage stamp, even the mere whereabouts of this elusive treasure have evaded collectors’ knowledge. Of the stamps whose locations are known, it is almost unheard of for a collector to own more than one. In truth, someone in possession of a single Inverted Jenny is sitting on close to one and a half million dollars.

Gordon Hoofmeat owned an untouched block of thirty of them.

Although he didn’t consider himself an avid collector, Gordon did own an assortment of old stamps, coins, and baseball cards that he’d inherited from an uncle a few generations back. He’d taken time over the years to have some of the old stuff appraised, which helped show him that the bulk of his baseball cards were mass-produced and worthless. The coins? Well, according to the coin-men, unless they had some odd feature, like the material used to make the coin or a rare misprint, the coins wouldn’t hold much value based on age alone.

The stamps were never appraised, solely because Gordon wasn’t keen on paying the rising appraisal fees. Instead, he did his own research. Once more, he learned that the vast majority of the stamps were worthless. No one was in the market for a two-cent panting Dachshund from the dog-of-the-year line when there were twenty million others just like it in circulation. But when he came upon a dusty shadowbox, everything changed.

Gordon had a nose that looked just like an old sprouting red potato webbed with disgusting veins. He scratched something from it and immediately began rolling something between his fingers while he thought through the best way to approach the shadowbox that was so dusty that its contents weren’t visible. He considered a washrag, but didn’t want to risk compromising the quality of what might be inside. He decided instead to blow the dust away, creating a cloud of brown around him and making it difficult to breathe.

Gordon’s reaction was less dramatic than one would expect when someone stumbles upon such a large sum of money. The reason was simple: he was undeniably wealthy, but he didn’t know it. To him, the block of stamps were unremarkable. Less than that, actually. An upside down plane in blue, he observed. “U.S. postage, twenty-four cents,” he read to himself boringly. He looked toward his hearth and considered tossing them into the fire like he’d done with the others. “Looks like a mistake,” he said of the stamps and concluded that they were probably worth less than the other stamps he’d perused in his collection. But it was protected in a case, unlike any of the other stamps, so he figured they were worth researching.

He hurriedly did a search for red stamp upside down plane. The results immediately gave him the known name of the stamp as well as it’s valuable qualities; namely that it’s considered to be the most famous misprint in U.S. philately. Of course, he also learned that the last known Inverted Jenny to be sold was auctioned for over one million dollars. That got Gordon’s attention.

Studying everything he could about the stamp, he concluded that what he had was authentic. After learning the potential monetary value of his discovery, there was certainly joy, but also pain, as seeing that many zeros in a number had caused something to pop in his left eye, leaving it permanently blood-red.

Not knowing what to do, and growing increasingly overwhelmed, he tabled the idea of bringing his stamps to an appraiser. A find like this was sure to bring much notoriety, which was the last thing Gordon wanted. Instead, he took the shadowbox and placed it on the hearth beside a pile of decorative pinecones and pictures of his family. He needed time to think of the correct course of action, if indeed, any action was necessary. He scratched his big spongy nose, pocked with acne scars, and phoned his daughter who came in an instant.

The first thing Gordon’s daughter did was ask why his nose was so bad. “It can’t be genetic, dad. No one else in the family has a nose like yours. I can barely see your eyes!”

She said nothing of his popped eye.

“I know, honey. I’m sorry, I’m trying,” Gordon replied sincerely. “But hey, if you can find it in your heart to move past my ugliness, I have something I’d like to show you.”

It was difficult, but the Hoofmeat Daughter managed it, looking only at his knees as they spoke.

“This is incredible, dad!” she said after inspecting the box of stamps from behind its shadowbox glass. “Who else knows about this?”

“Just you,” Gordon said as he added another log to his fire.

Hoofmeat Daughter’s eyes widened in surprise. “And you just have it sitting here — nearly fifty million dollars — above a roaring fire? These stamps are just waiting to get licked up by flames.”

Gordon shrugged, the firelight casting evil shadows of his nose across the walls. His daughter grimaced and resolved to look at the ground for the remainder of her stay.

“You need to keep the box more secure than this, dad. All it takes is one small ember, and…” her voice trailed off.

“I know, I know. I’ll find a place for it tonight. So what do you think I should do? Should I tell anyone else about it?”

“I think you should sell it. It’s not even a question, really.” Her concern was beginning to turn to her own interests. “What are you going to do with a collection of old stamps? Use them?” she joked. “But fifty million bucks? Now that’s something you could use. Hell, you could spread that across the whole family,” she added testily, “and still have more than you’ll ever need.”

Gordon considered her for a moment, then nodded. “I think you’re right. I have been simplifying my belongings, after all. I’ll get the collection valued, maybe next weekend.”

“Why not tomorrow? What could possibly be more important?”

“Busy,” Gordon said curtly.

“…alright. Look, I need to get going. I appreciate you telling me about this, dad. I really do. This kind of thing is…” her eyes bulged, “…life-changing!”

But Gordon had already made his way to the kitchen to heat his leftovers for dinner.

“I’ll talk to you later, yeah? And hey, next time I see you, maybe cover that nose of yours? Or get it, I don’t know, trimmed down or something.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll let you know how the appraisal goes. Love you, honey.”

Hoofmeat Daughter made for the door, but couldn’t get herself to leave knowing that the stamps were so exposed. She had a stake in the collection now. A financial interest, she said to herself pretentiously. So before she left, she snatched the box of stamps from the hearth and put them into another bigger box; one that she knew her dad held onto for sentimental purposes. A hope chest kind of thing, sitting by the couch. Although Gordon had told his daughter that he’d move them himself, he didn’t actually intend to. In fact, he’d made it a point to ignore the stamps as best he could, lest he be consumed by them, their potential influence on his life.

The day of the appraisal finally came. Hoofmeat Daughter knocked on Gordon’s door at sunrise. Gordon called her, sleepily, into the house. She’d roused him from his slumber by arriving many hours too early, to which she replied that she didn’t want to miss the experience or the look on the appraiser’s face when he saw the collection. Additionally, since she was already there, she suggested that they head for the appraiser right then.

“But you need to cover that nose up, dad. How many times do I need to tell you? You want to get hit with that new Nose Tax they just passed? Cover it up now, or I’ll cover it for you, and it’ll hurt.”

“Right, ok,” Gordon agreed, but as he passed the fireless hearth, he saw that the stamps were missing. He panicked. “Where are the stamps? Where are the stamps? WHERE ARE THE STAMPS!” he screamed, growing louder each time. His overripe strawberry nose throbbed.

“Relax! Relax. It was too risky for them to be so close to the fire, and I had a feeling you weren’t going to move them. So I moved them for you,” she shrugged. “They’re right here in — “

Her breath was stolen by the vacant space where the hope chest used to be. She burned red, her mouth gone dry, her tongue grown thick. She looked around the house in a frenzy. There were many things missing from the house, things that she didn’t notice were missing from her last visit. It was strangely relieving to learn that the chest wasn’t the only thing gone. Perhaps her dad had rearranged the house. Taking a relaxed breath, Hoofmeat Daughter asked, “Uh, dad? Where’s your hope chest?”

“Sold it, in a garage sale. That’s why I was busy last weekend. You know, simplifying, and whatnot. Why?”

Hoofmeat Daughter shook as she asked, calmly, but through gritted teeth, “Did you check the inside before selling it?”

It took a few moments for Gordon to catch on. He stared at his daughter for a long time with his remaining eye. When the reality finally hit him, that eye, too, burst.