Mr. Fricker's Debt

Though he consciously tried to always be the more upbeat employee, almost 7 months of working at Goodwill and pricing people’s old junk had ground Justin down into a cynic.

Every day, he’d silently curse his past job-seeking self for believing that working in the back, out of the view of customers, was somehow “better” than comparative minimum wage jobs. Just a few days of listening to his co-pricer sing off-key to every single song on the radio made Justin dream of having to deal with some soccer mom on the sales floor. But, wouldn’t the constant influx of new and interesting donations make the days more bearable? Though he would get to see the odd rare coin or vintage toy set now and then, the mystique of seeing into people’s lives through their old chachkes is quickly tarnished when one has to sort through bag after bag of stained tighty-whiteys. By month 4, the job had just lost its magic.

Though the days spent in the dusty stockroom of that forsaken retail store had become a muddy blur, one particular Sunday on a cold September week was a day Justin would never forget. He was a couple hours into pricing the junk (a descriptor he used only in polite company) when a particular item caught his eye for a second or two longer than usual. Recollecting the moment, he’s not sure why this thing in particular captured his interest. After all, he had seen his fair share of notebooks and diaries, but the worn, black leather bound journal sealed by a button was just, different.

He smelled the frayed old leather seams as childhood memories of Grandma’s old Bible flooded his mind. He recollected her stern readings from Revelations whenever cookies from atop the fridge mysteriously went missing, and being warned of “the lake of fire” for all liars. “What a crock,” he whispered with only the slightest hesitation.

Flipping through the journal, the only writing within its pages was a small penciled blurb inside the front cover. “From Robert Fricker,” it read.

Justin chuckled at the name, but knew that any identifying information meant that the old book had to be “salvaged,” or shredded up and sold for hamster bedding. Normally, he would have already tossed the old thing into the salvage box with no second thoughts, but something stopped him. Something about this little journal, this worn-out old antique seemed too good to just throw away. After a glance at each side, Justin slipped the journal into his pocket and got back to work. “The drop has been made,” he whispered.

En route back to his house, small cracks formed on the edges of Justin’s newly-inflated pride. “Crap, what if they saw that on the cameras? Will I get fired over this? Oh, don’t be ridiculous, they’re gonna fire me over some stupid old book? But then again...”

Warming up over some coffee, Justin began to wonder what exactly his plan of action was for this old thing. Use it as a diary? A mantlepiece? Storage for his God-awful poetry? The thought of being fired for pinching it was made worse by not even having a good excuse. After a moment of silent deliberation, Justin drew a pencil and opened the first page.

“Why, Mr. Fricker?” he wrote.

As if out of some abstract low-brow joke, Justin suddenly felt the toilet calling. He ungraciously placed the journal on a pile of old magazines and rose from his chair. As he walked away, he could faintly hear the sound of papers moving. He turned around just in time to see his coffee mug pushed off the table by the journal, which had slid off its crude perch. With cat-like reflexes, Justin lunged at the mug in midair, but it was too late. A sudden crash sent what was left of the mug in all directions, similar to the profanities Justin sent around the house in response.

After finishing his bathroom appointment, Justin got to work. Even after sweeping the vicinity of the accident, he felt that the pile of shards he collected was too small considering the size of the former cup. Rather than risking a potential barefoot discovery, Justin crouched down and scanned underneath each bit of furniture. He found the lone shard underneath a certain bookcase, but when he reached underneath to grab it, his hand ran into something else.

Pulling away the bookcase to investigate, he discovered a loose floorboard. Though his brain told him to ignore it, his instincts told him to investigate. What started as a tug, then a pull, then finally a wild yank sent Justin flying backward, board in hand. He crept up to the new hole in his floor, thinking of a story for his landlord, when he saw it.

A large, dusty, brown leather bag stared back at him through the opening. He knew the hole was too small to retrieve his newfound treasure, so Justin made a mad rummage through his kitchen to find the next best thing to a crowbar. A steel pot lid seemed to fit between the boards well enough. Little by little, Justin excavated his living room floor, and after what felt like days, he finally pulled the thing up to the surface.

He was struck by its weight: ten pounds at least. His heart was racing, and his imagination was faster. Justin struggled with the gummed-up zipper before finally jamming a pen down the middle. He ripped open the bag and laid his eyes upon his treasure.

Cash. Piles and piles of cash, all twenties, all wrapped up into little bundles. Justin turned over the bag and poured the payload onto the floor. One hundred, five hundred, one thousand. Justin counted every bill he could find, and counted it twice. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. In cash, in his house. Right now.

Justin’s stunned silence turned into a bout of giggling. He picked up the old journal and relished it with long, warm kisses, which strangely seemed to restore some of his lucidity. Realizing that he didn’t technically own the house, Justin put the money back where he found it, rushed to his car, and sped off to the library, keeping the journal tucked away in his coat pocket.

Hours of sifting through legal books, case studies, and court rulings proved futile, however, as Justin seemed to be involved in what lawyers call an “unprecedented situation.” While the option of a Swiss bank account seemed tempting, the possibility of prison bars and extradition treaties put a kibosh on that thought train. A period of silent contemplation arose. Every option had some kind of fine print, making this one-of-a-kind discovery seem more like a liability. Justin eyed the journal once again. Out of options, he drew his pencil, writing, “What now?”

The pencil rested, and Justin’s eyes followed the page to the apparent owner: Robert Fricker. He looked across the library, his eyes finally settling on a sign that read “Newspaper Archives.” Out of some strange intuition, Justin made his way over.

Not knowing what to expect, Justin entered Fricker’s name into the database and was met with an answer.

"FUGITIVE BANK ROBBER KILLED IN STANDOFF

June 14, 1967

A Coldwater man was killed outright after an altercation with police Saturday night. Police say that several Branch County sheriff’s deputies had visited a suspected hideout of Robert G. Fricker, 43, who was wanted in connection with the heist of Hayes Bank on June 8th. Sheriff Raymond Potts stated that upon opening the door, Fricker stood in silence for a moment, then drew his pistol, where he was promptly shot dead. 'We’re not aware of what his plan was,' Potts said in a press statement, 'we found that his firearm was unloaded. We haven’t ruled out the possibility of a suicide here.'"

Justin’s heart was pounding. His guts sank, and he began to feel sick. He wanted to leave the journal and the money and forget about all this. But he had no choice.

"Fricker had apparently become suspected of the heist after a witness pinned him to the scene. Upon searching the premises, police only found a personal diary with one entry: 'It’s all for her.' ‘Her’ is thought to be his daughter, Debra, only 3. Police were unable to recover the stolen cash, estimated to exceed $15,000."

Justin thought for a while. He didn’t want it to be true. He wished he never found that journal, that he just left it to be shredded into bits. He didn’t even want the damned money anymore. But he knew why he found it, or rather, why it found him.

He had a job to do, and that was it.

Justin scoured every phone book he could find for counties 100 miles around. After finding his data, he left the library, packed up the money, and got on the highway down to Coldwater. When Justin arrived at his destination, he was stricken. He observed the house’s falling gutters, its flaking paint and its contagious melancholy. The only detail that hinted at any sort of life was an old junker resting in the driveway. He knew this was the place.

Justin considered knocking, but decided against it. Instead, he went around to the backdoor and opened the screen just enough to place the bag in its jam. After depositing his package, he wrote up a note, went to his car and drove off, never to return.

Justin still keeps the old journal in his dresser, and still asks it questions periodically, which he says is, “more out of habit at this point.” When I asked, Justin said that he has no regrets. I pointed out that the money could have been a huge boon for him, that it could have paid for his education or at least for a house with a better landlord. He laughed, but corrected me, saying that the money wasn’t his to give up. I asked for an elaboration, and he replied that the note he left was the only explanation needed:

“To Debra. Your inheritance.”