The Old Man and The Book

You can tell a great deal about a person by listening to them work on a typewriter. The pace and force with which they strike the keys reveals much about their mood, disposition–even their view of the world. One particularly cold night, slow and steady ticks from a weathered Electromatic bounced around in the dark recesses of a cavernous home library, their dying echoes making the large room feel somehow lonelier than if it were empty.

An old man sat in the corner with an oil lamp and a cup of whiskey mixed with maple syrup, punching away as he'd done each night for several weeks. There was a sense of duty in the way he typed–constant and deliberate, like a man marching into a battle from which he knows he will not return.

The old man and the giant house were at odds with one another. He crowded around the typewriter while he worked, as if to prevent the house from looking over his shoulder. And for its part, the house creaked and moaned more than it had in previous years, taunting the parasite that inhabited its bowels. All of the house’s extravagances–once intended to stoke the fires of the man’s glory and distract visitors from his shortcomings–now only served to mock him.

He cranked the final leaf of text out of the machine, and added it with a shaky hand to a stack of others he'd typed on previous nights. He hoisted the papers up close to his chest, hugging them tightly with both arms like a child on the first day of school, and carried them across the room to an ornate table. He set the collection of papers down alongside a handful of other supplies: glue, twine, scissors, needles, two boards, and a sheet of the finest black leather. Then he got to work.

His hands were out of practice, and the strength and dexterity of his fingers were dulled from old age and a privileged life. But while his hands were clumsy, his mind was nimble. For a man who spends a lifetime collecting regrets, there is no greater burden than a healthy memory. But on this night, as he applied the glue like a whisper and sunk the binding knots deep into the gutter of the spine, he was grateful for the memories.

Even the house went quiet as it watched the old master at work.

***

Daniel Begum set off down yet another aisle of books. He limped along as quickly as the perpetual hitch in his leg would allow him, even though he wasn’t in a hurry. In fact, he couldn’t recall a time when he’d been in less of a hurry. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, but he promised his wife Josie he would venture into the city to look for work. Daniel had recently been laid off from his construction job, an early casualty of what history would later brand The Great Depression. Where will you go? she’d asked, doubtful. The Public Library was the only place he could think to tell her, and she didn’t have the heart to ask what work a handicapped stonemason expected to find at the Library. Besides, the baby and toddler were both crying, and there was no sense in the parents joining them. Not again.

As he meandered along the Fs, he saw something strange unfold at the end of the row: an old man pulled a black book from inside his jacket and wedged it into the shelf among the other books. He was too smartly dressed to work for the Library, and made too slow a getaway to be a bandit. Daniel had heard of people stealing books, but he’d never heard of someone surreptitiously bestowing books. Not directly to the shelves, anyway.

Daniel hobbled over to the spot where the man had been.

It was easy enough to spot the book, bound in supple black leather and in pristine condition. He probably could have found it from smell alone. The cover was embossed with the title: Discover Wealth Today. Guaranteed. Inside the front cover, the nameless author included a short foreword–and forewarning.

Whoever has the patience to read this book through, in its entirety, will find the kind of wealth and riches that countless people have spent their lifetimes looking for in vain. This much I promise. But be warned: reading only part of this book is like drinking only part of the antidote to a poison, it will leave a bad taste in your mouth and no comfort in your waning hours.

Daniel looked around and saw that he was alone, so he stashed the little black book in his own jacket and made his way home.

***

The first chapters were the tale of a man’s life, likened to a mountain stream that flowed in reverse. It began in a stagnant swamp in the foothills of an incomprehensible sierra, and with great labor and strife, carved its way upward through unforgiving terrain against the pull of gravity itself. Eventually it reached an idyllic wellspring just above the cloudline. The man did whatever he had to–and quite often what he didn’t–to transcend his station in life.

The next chapters laid out in mundane detail the man's career in publishing, which eventually crescendoed with the starting of The Philadelphia Epitome. It was an influential newspaper in the city, and the writer of the book purported to be its founder.

More chapters of tedious business philosophies followed, and after finishing Chapter 16–My Personal System for Filing Business Receipts for Easy Reference–Daniel was ready to give up. The book was nothing more than a vapid monument to self importance.

But curiosity got the better of him, and he turned the page to read the title of Chapter 17. Instead of seeing a long title and formidable block of text like he expected, there was a map. The map was hand-drawn and impressively precise, and claimed to describe how to find a safe that was buried just outside of the city.

Suddenly Daniel understood the book’s promise of discovering wealth today, and the warning against not reading the book in its entirety. He pulled out his own map to cross-reference the one in the book, and it confirmed his suspicions: the safe was buried on a parcel of land adjacent to one of his old job sites. The book went on to describe what to look for: a thicket of conifers, a dried up well–but it was an area Daniel already knew intimately. He grabbed his shovel and set out into the night.

***

“I can’t believe it,” said Josie, as they laid the contents of the safe out on the living room floor in the early hours of the morning. “Twenty thousand dollars worth of stock in The Epitome? We’re rich?”

“I told you I’d find something at the Library,” said Daniel.

“What do we know about running a newspaper?”

“What’s there to know? You write about the news on half the pages, and sell ads on the other half. Y’know Don Porter, who I used to work for? He spent a fortune advertising in The Epitome. And I know newspapers are about the only thing this stock market mess hasn’t put out of business.”

The safe included instructions and documentation to be presented to the author’s attorney, who had been made aware of the unusual situation and was entrusted with making the necessary arrangements once someone came forward with the book and contents of the safe.

Other than the old man’s mysterious disappearance, and the cover story he’d concocted to explain it away (which, for someone who spent his life working in newspapers, was surprisingly flimsy), the transfer of ownership of The Philadelphia Epitome was a surprisingly smooth one. The Begums went from worrying about finding their next meal to worrying about getting lost on the way to finding the kitchen of their enormous new house.

“All of our prayers have been answered,” said Josie, as they began exploring the place.

Daniel eventually found himself in the library, and sat down behind the desk at the typewriter. After some fumbling, he managed to load in a sheet of paper, and with slow, clumsy pecks, typed out: Wherever you are, thanks.

***

Disgraced Former Epitome Owner Daniel Begum Faces New Corruption Charges, read the front page headline of The Philadelphia Epitome.

The article went on: Daniel Begum, who rose to prominence after taking control of The Philadelphia Epitome under suspicious circumstances in the 1930s, and later became notorious for his opulent and scandalous lifestyle, was in court again on Tuesday to face multiple domestic and federal cases. Begum’s decades-long descent into debt and debauchery involves allegations of everything from substance abuse to extortion. Even his estranged children have...

Daniel had read enough. The jeering creaks of the big house’s wooden frame and metal pipes expanding and contracting in the winter cold denied him even a moment of peace. He was old now, and reading bad news about yourself in your own newspaper is a special kind of hell.

He reluctantly turned his attention to the letter sent over from the law firm. The letter advised: Daniel, what follows are updates on multiple court cases involving your family, business, and the government. Please read this letter carefully and in its entirety, as there is important information all the way to the end. We’re trying–

But the odd warning jogged something in his memory. It was something buried beneath layers of half-recollections of ostentatious trips, wild parties, and libertine affairs. Suddenly Daniel remembered the book, the one that had started it all, and its similar warning.

He tore back the area rug in his library and found the notch to the floor safe. He pulled out the little black book and took it to his desk, where he quickly flipped past the map and instructions to Chapter 18.

I hope, dear reader, you did not stop at what you thought was the treasure map. Oh, it leads to a treasure, but not to the treasure.

Daniel’s heart started to beat threateningly, like that of a man marching into a battle. Perhaps this could be the lifeline he so desperately needed.

The real treasure is kept in a large safety deposit box at the Bank of Philadelphia. All you need to access it is my mother’s birthdate: 01-16-25.

Without hesitation Daniel sent for his driver and headed straight to the Bank, where he was quickly ushered into a cold room of marble and steel containing yet another safe. Daniel opened the safe, but what he saw inside offered him no comfort.

Inside were letters the author’s mother had written him throughout his life. There was his father’s tool box he’d used to make a living to support the family. There was his grandmother’s recipe for chicken and dumplings. There were baby shoes his daughter and son had worn, a wooden rocking horse they played on as kids, the wedding ring he’d bought for his wife when he barely had a dollar to his name, a baseball and two gloves he and his brother used when they played catch and dreamed about making it to the big leagues, the collar that belonged to his first dog, and all manner of other family heirlooms. The enormous safe was filled with things that were, to anyone other than the book's author, worthless.

Daniel picked up a yellowed envelope labeled Dear Reader, and opened it.

Dear Reader, this is my treasure. These are the trappings of true wealth. True wealth isn’t something that is valued by everyone, it’s that which has value only in your heart. These are the riches men seek, whether they ever realize it or not.

I myself didn’t realize it until it was too late. I hope the same can’t be said of you.